What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m telling you to go.”

  “Most assuredly.” Jarsdel stood and put on his sport coat. All the while Baba kept the bent metal tip of the spatula handle aimed toward his son’s face. “This is extremely strange behavior. Am I supposed to feel threatened by that thing?”

  “Why? What if you were? Would you shoot me?”

  Jarsdel gave him a look of purest contempt and left without answering.

  He hadn’t been sure how they’d get past that night. He was absolutely resolved not to be the one to break the silence between them, and he was certain Baba’s stubbornness matched his own. If anyone was going to try to make peace, it would be Dad, but Baba might try to talk him out of it.

  Jarsdel had been wrong, however. It was Baba’s name that showed up on his caller ID as he drove home from work. He did a double take, then accepted the call as he passed through the security gate and into Park La Brea.

  “Hey.”

  There was a sigh on the other end—relief, perhaps, that Jarsdel had answered. “Hey,” said Baba. “You have a minute to talk?”

  “Sure, I’m just looking for a parking spot.”

  “You’re driving? You shouldn’t be on the phone while you drive.”

  Jarsdel rolled his eyes. “It’s on speaker.”

  “What?”

  “I said it’s on speaker. It’s hands-free. Forget about it. Anyway, what’s up?”

  Another sigh, then, “Your dad and I have been talking.”

  “Okay. That’s fantastic.”

  “We’ve done a lot of thinking, and we feel we owe you an apology.”

  Jarsdel would’ve been less surprised if Baba had called to tell him he was considering joining the Foreign Legion. He tried not to let it show in his voice. “An apology.”

  “Yes.”

  He spotted an open space he could probably fit into, but it would require some concentration. “Hang on a sec,” he said. It took him a few tries, but he eventually parked and cut the engine. “You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “An apology for what, exactly?”

  “I need to spell it out?”

  “I think so, yes. There are any number of things we could be talking about.”

  “I didn’t have to call, you know.”

  “And I didn’t ask you to. But since you did call, I want to know exactly what’s being discussed. I’m not—”

  “You’re punishing me. You get to punish me now, right?”

  Jarsdel wanted to slam his forehead against the steering wheel. “Can you chill out, please? I was going to say that I’m not punishing you, actually. I want to talk, and I’m being absolutely genuine. That’s not even my thing, by the way. I don’t do that. That sneaky double language and stuff.”

  “So by implication, that’s my thing? Manipulative?”

  “If you’re legitimately asking, then yes, I think both you and Dad have a tendency toward a passive-aggressive style of argument. And I think you delight in laying little logic traps for me. But I really don’t want to get into a whole new fight right now. If you’re honestly calling to apologize for something, I want to… I want to honor that.”

  There was no response for a while, and Jarsdel thought Baba might have hung up. He was about to hang up himself when the man finally spoke. “This is all very sad for us. We love you on a level you can’t conceive. You don’t have any children of your own, but maybe one day you will, and you’ll see what I mean. And when your son has this explosive talent, this intellect, and you know he could be a legend, and he goes off and… Well, it’s—it’s heartbreaking.”

  “Uh-huh. This doesn’t really sound like we’re breaking any new ground here. So now I feel like you’re pulling a bait and switch on me. Saying you’re calling to apologize just so you can—”

  “No. No. You’re right. It’s… I have trouble letting go of something. That’s me. Always been that way. Hard for me to see things end, you know. Definitively end. I think there’s actually a word for that.”

  “Finifugal.”

  “What?”

  “Finifugal.”

  “Right, that’s it. Well. There you go. That’s me.” Baba let out a shaky breath. “How about joining us for dinner?”

  “When, tonight?”

  “Sure, unless you’ve got plans.”

  Jarsdel only considered for a moment before shaking his head. “I just got home. Very long day. I’d be in traffic two hours getting over to your end of town.”

  “Actually we’re already over here.”

  “What do you mean? In my apartment?”

  “Across the street. At the Farmers Market. We have reservations in a half hour at Monsieur Marcel. Table for three, in case you could make it. We hope you do. Even if it’s just to say hello.”

  Jarsdel didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.”

  “You will?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s good, Tully. Thank you.”

  After he hung up, Jarsdel went inside to change. He lived in one of Park La Brea’s garden apartment units—a two-story townhouse of painted brick. Its patio opened onto a sprawling communal lawn, and Jarsdel had put up a sturdy privacy screen so he could enjoy his evening wine without interference from dogs or errant Frisbees.

  He put his badge and cuffs on a curio shelf to the left of the door, below a portrait of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. It wasn’t a print; he’d commissioned it from a Cal Arts student in a self-indulgent fugue after his last girlfriend had left him, and at a cost of $2,400. It still stank of oils, but he didn’t care. Every time he came home, the eighteenth-century beauty and autodidact was there to greet him. He’d read all of Lady Mary’s diaries and letters, and concluded with the firmest of certainties that had they been contemporaries, they would have fallen deeply in love.

  Jarsdel put his weapon in his closet’s floor safe and changed into a cream-colored aloha shirt, on which tawny mermaids strummed ukuleles beneath coconut palms. After locking up, he left the Park La Brea complex and crossed Third toward the Farmers Market.

  Monsieur Marcel was a small outdoor bistro with a good wine list and a jambon-brie sandwich that was worth crossing the city for. His parents were already seated, Dad’s hand resting on his husband’s, the bottle of Bordeaux between them nearly empty. Baba said something that made him laugh, and he looked up, catching sight of Jarsdel.

  Dad waved, and Baba turned to watch his son approach. Both men smiled, but guardedly. Jarsdel gave each a hug before sitting. Dad’s arms felt thin, even bony, and something must have shone on his face because Robert asked him if everything was all right.

  “Fine. Just a hell of a day.” Jarsdel sat at the place setting next to Baba.

  “You want to talk about it?” Dad asked.

  “No. It’s nothing serious. Just a lot of paperwork.”

  Jarsdel thought his parents looked relieved he didn’t want to discuss his job. Baba put a hand on his shoulder. “It means a lot to us that you came.”

  “Guys…”

  “No, we…we’ve been challenging. Very challenging.”

  “You’re passionate. That’s something I understand.”

  “We know you do,” said Dad. “But all the same. We haven’t given you any support, none at all, since you started your new job.”

  That statement annoyed Jarsdel, and he was tempted to say so. His “new job” had been a successful career for more than six years. He’d become a homicide detective in one of the most competitive and prestigious departments in the world. And why couldn’t either of his parents for once actually say what he did out loud?

  But he restrained himself. They’d come to make peace—so they said—and he was going to give them the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate you saying that. You sho
uld also know that it’s not as if I’m squandering my intellect. I really feel I’m giving my full self to my work.”

  A waiter appeared, filled Jarsdel’s wineglass, and took their orders. Once he’d gone, Baba spoke up.

  “You were saying you’re feeling fulfilled. By that I take it you don’t miss academia.”

  “I don’t,” said Jarsdel. “I don’t miss it. Because I’m applying everything I learned to my work.”

  “In what way?” Dad asked.

  Jarsdel studied his father, then decided the man was genuinely curious. “I get to use my brain, the brain I built. You and Baba think there’s a divide between all those years of study I put in and my detective work. It’s funny because out of everyone, you’re the guys I shouldn’t have to explain that to. You’re the ones who told me, from as early as I can remember, that to be a student of history is the noblest and most intimate pursuit, that nothing else brings you closer to humankind. Remember qui bono?”

  Baba nodded.

  “You told me virtually anything could be framed through that question—who benefits. It’s the central theme behind every act our species commits. Motive. And motives can be lofty or they can be absurd and petty, but they beat underneath it all. You taught me that when I was in kindergarten. Qui bono. I loved that.”

  Dad signaled the waiter, pointed at the empty bottle, and mouthed “Another, please.” Jarsdel looked from one father to the other, trying to discern how they felt about what he’d said. “Interesting argument,” said Baba. “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you part of that case? The Creeper?”

  A chill passed over Jarsdel at the mention of the name, and the ebullient chatter of nearby conversations, the bustle of the market, seemed at once muted, distant. “A small part. He’s hit three other areas besides Hollywood. And actually I found out today it all got turned over to RHD. Sorry—that’s Robbery-Homicide Division. So except for occasionally giving my expertise, such as it is, I’m pretty much off it now.”

  “Are you glad of that?”

  “No. I don’t want to get into the details because we’re about to have dinner, but it’s one of those cases that grabs on to you.”

  “So what happens if you apply that old question—qui bono?”

  “In regards to the Creeper? Who benefits?”

  “Right.”

  Jarsdel was puzzled. “He does. He benefits. Serial homicide is a purely selfish act.”

  “Then how does an understanding of motive help draw you any closer to catching him?”

  “Well, it’s not a panacea. It’s a starting point. Creeper’s an outlier—not really the sort of case I was referring to. I meant the kind of situations when you don’t have a suspect. In this case, we do know who it is. I mean, not his identity, but we know that it’s one guy and why he’s doing it.”

  “No need to get defensive, Tully.”

  “I’m not. It just seems like right away you’re trying to chip away at my thesis. But the Creeper’s not your typical criminal. Thank God.”

  Baba held up a hand. “I apologize. He’s just been on our minds a lot. That Santiago one was in San Marino. Pretty close.”

  “I know. Yeah it’s…it’s rough.”

  “The papers don’t say what he does. Somehow that makes it worse. They’ll say beaten to death or stabbed or strangled, but you can tell they’re leaving a lot out.”

  “Please, Dary.” Dad grimaced. “Please no more. Let’s talk about something nice. We haven’t seen our boy in a long time.”

  From somewhere nearby came a crash, followed by an angry shout and a woman’s scream. Jarsdel and his dads turned to see a man wearing a gas mask vault over the railing separating one food stand from another. In one hand he gripped a stack of red flyers, in the other, a plastic spray bottle. He slammed into a middle-aged couple, and all three went to the ground. There were more screams, along with howls of pain and fear.

  Dad gasped. Baba reached across the table and gripped Jarsdel’s arm.

  “Outta the way! Stop!” A West Hollywood sheriff’s deputy bolted from around the corner, fists pumping. The gas-mask man had barely made it to his feet when the officer hit him. It was a perfect tackle—shoulders, elbows, and knees working together to drive the opponent flush with the cement.

  The flyers scattered, one of them close enough for Jarsdel to see what they said. Across the top in a thick, blocky font were the words, “VALLEY FEVER A LIE! GOVT’S MOJAVE BIO/NUKE LAB MELTDOWN!” Below that was a single long paragraph, crammed margin to margin in tiny print and extending to the bottom of the page.

  “Don’t move!” the deputy commanded, whipping out his cuffs and snapping a bracelet over the gas-mask man’s wrist. But he must’ve had tunnel vision from the adrenaline, because he hadn’t yet noticed the man was still holding onto the spray bottle.

  “Hey—look out!” Jarsdel shot to his feet, jerking his arm free of Baba’s grip and running to assist the deputy. He wasn’t fast enough. The gas-mask man pointed the nozzle of the spray bottle over his shoulder and began squeezing the trigger. The deputy flinched, then knocked the bottle away and slammed the man’s face against the ground. Something in the housing cracked, and he let out a groan.

  Jarsdel arrived just as the deputy let go of the suspect and began rubbing his eyes.

  “LAPD,” said Jarsdel. He wrenched the suspect’s right arm back and finished cuffing him.

  “Ach, fuck! What he hit me with?”

  The gas-mask man began bucking. Jarsdel pinned him with his body weight and held him still. He turned to the deputy. “I’m off duty. You call for backup?”

  “Yeah…shit. Sprayed me with something.”

  “Hey!” Jarsdel called out to anyone who’d listen. “I need some water over here. Lots of fresh water. Help us out.”

  “Shit burns.”

  “C’mon, people, water!”

  A few mostly empty bottles of water rolled their way. No one wanted to get close.

  Jarsdel grabbed one of the bottles, uncapped it, and thrust it toward the deputy. “Here, you got it? Rinse out your eyes. Pour it all over.”

  From the parking lot came the whoop of a siren and the squeal of brakes. While the cop shook the water onto his face, Jarsdel bent low toward the suspect’s ear. “What’d you spray him with?” The man didn’t answer. “You just assaulted a police officer. That’s already a year in jail. Any real damage and it’s aggravated battery. Four years. What’s in the bottle?”

  The man murmured something. A shriek sounded from a few yards away. It was the woman who’d been knocked down. “Ooh, Jesus—my hip! I think it’s broken! Peter!”

  Jarsdel bent closer to Gas Mask. “What? Say again.”

  “The fuck off me.”

  “What’s in the bottle?”

  The woman screamed once again. “Peter, no! Don’t touch it! Don’t touch it!”

  If the suspect had replied, Jarsdel hadn’t heard. “What’s in the bottle?”

  “Acetone! Fucking acetone.”

  Jarsdel turned to the deputy, who’d finished dousing himself with water and was now blinking rapidly. “Feels a little better,” he said.

  “It’s acetone,” said Jarsdel.

  “It burns like shit. I’m gonna…” He paused, noticing the dozens of phone cameras recording them. “I’m gonna need medical. Man.” He seized the handcuff chain binding the prisoner. “I got it from here, thanks.”

  Jarsdel gave him a nod and stood. Other officers were approaching fast. Nothing else made that sound, not all at once—the urgent footfalls of big men, the rattle and jangle of equipment, the bursts of radio chatter.

  He looked back toward the restaurant. His dads were still at the table, watching him. He waved to show he was okay.

  Four deputies charged in, breaking off from each other wi
th choreographed precision. One went to check on the injured, another helped with the gas-mask man, and the last two secured witnesses before they could scatter. Some applauded, as if this were the final act in an eclectic piece of street theater.

  Jarsdel made his way back to Monsieur Marcel through the gathering crowd. As soon as he sat, the waiter appeared.

  “Excuse me, but we just wanted to let you know that your dinner is on the house tonight.”

  “Oh. Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

  “We’d really appreciate treating you and your friends.”

  “That’s a very kind offer, but I’m not allowed to receive gifts.”

  The waiter looked uncertain. “Okay. Well. Thank you, though, for your service. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  When he’d gone, Jarsdel finished the wine in his glass and poured himself some more. His parents watched him in silence.

  “What is it?”

  Dad and Baba glanced at each other. “That was”—Baba considered—“very hard to watch.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t a lot of fun to do.”

  “Does that sort of thing happen often? You just run into a situation?”

  “Not as much anymore. Haven’t been in a real fight since patrol.”

  “A fight?”

  Jarsdel put down his glass. “Hey. Guys. Let’s just hang on a sec. I was really happy with the way the evening was going. I think we were making some actual progress in understanding each other. Let’s not undo that now.”

  “Excuse me—sir?” One of the deputies had approached their table. “Blake said you helped him out with the suspect. Appreciate that.”

  “Sure, of course,” said Jarsdel.

  “And you’re LAPD?”

  “Yeah. Homicide, out of Hollywood Station.”

  “HH2?”

  Jarsdel blinked, both surprised and a little flattered. “Yes.”

  “Well, we hate to mess up your dinner and everything, but we’ll need you to talk to us about what happened and what you saw.”

  Jarsdel wanted to protest, but he knew it was useless. He’d be lucky if this was the extent of his involvement with the gas-mask man. More likely, there’d be a subpoena and a court date in his future. He got to his feet. “I won’t be long,” he told his parents.