The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  Teddy’s eyebrows pinched together. “Dead?”

  “I was halfway hoping you’d seen it go down. Could ID who did it.”

  When the IBEW got left holding the bag in bankruptcy, Bauserman developed a special hate for Verrazzo. Phony, gasbag, user. Led everybody down the primrose path, then pushed them over a cliff. Bauserman’s membership especially. Worse, while everybody else slashed and burned their budgets, let guys go, cut back hours, Mighty Mike scooted out the back, found himself another trough of money in Visalia.

  Bauserman knew about the hookers, figured it was even worse than the talk going around. Ron’s kid, Teddy here, he’d started the apprentice program with the local but then got the same news as the others. Not enough work for the guys with twenty years in, let alone the youngbloods. He was shut out just as his dad was facing chemo, and Donny could tell from the way the kid carried himself, from the things that came out of him at meetings, he was pissed off too. Like a wasp in a jar, this kid.

  So Donny put him to good use, had him tail Verrazzo—paid him a little, not much, cash out of pocket. Turned out the kid was a natural—kept a log of the corner hookups, the motel stops, Verrazzo going at it in the car with some tramp in a white wig at the back of the Rumpus Room parking lot. Teddy snapped pictures with his iPhone. Bauserman had a dream. He was gonna ruin Mike Verrazzo, cut him down to size, slam the door on that golden getaway. Make him face what he did to every worker in this city.

  “I had a call this morning,” Teddy said, “job over in Morning Crest, fix the sink. Nice little Spanish bungalow, but the pipes are shot. Brass is flaking away. Owner thought it was dirt. Like a tree trunk had punctured the main.”

  The waitress showed up with Bauserman’s coffee, then tried to grab Teddy’s plate—why make a second trip?—and the look on his face, like he might stab her in the neck with his fork. He still had his rashers and two bites of short stack.

  She huffed away. The kid stared a hole in her back.

  “So you didn’t see anything?”

  “Donny, listen to me, I wasn’t there.”

  “Okay, okay. Cool off. Finish your food.”

  Bauserman fiddled with his cup, gazed into his coffee. The one time the kid might’ve seen something big, he was someplace else, head under somebody’s sink.

  I can live with that, he thought.

  Teddy said, “You afraid somebody’s gonna think you had something to do with it? Whole world knows you had a hard-on for the guy.”

  “Hypothetical hard-on.” Bauserman sipped his coffee. It tasted like liquefied charcoal. “I wanted to humiliate him.”

  “You wanted to destroy him.”

  “Not kill him.”

  “Big diff.”

  Bauserman looked out the window at the knotted freeways, watching traffic speed west on 37 or north and south on 80. Highways always gave him the itch to go somewhere, all by his solo, no Maureen, no kids, pack up the car and head off late at night, nobody on the road but you.

  “Verrazzo was a murder waiting to happen,” he said. “Know what’s ironic? Stop stuffing your piehole for a second and listen. What’s ironic? Murder’s too good for the guy. Gonna get played up like some martyr and, boy, there’s a turd to swallow. I wanted him jobless and broke, wife on the warpath, blackballed, no fucking port in the storm. Wanted him to feel for himself the pain he caused everybody else.”

  “Little-known fact: they call that motive.”

  “Don’t fucking say that. Yeah, I had motive. But I lacked opportunity. I watch Law & Order reruns too, smart-ass. I wasn’t there. Had a meeting with Code Enforcement. Got witnesses who can testify.”

  Teddy pushed his plate away, wiped his lips, downed what remained of his juice. A clot of syrup clung to the front of the goofy sweater. He looked like he’d just stuffed it all down not even thinking, fill up some hole inside.

  “Well, bottom line, Donny? I wasn’t there neither. So I can’t get dragged into this thing. And I can’t drag you in with me. We good?”

  22

  Her appearance—business suit, silk blouse, cameo at the collar, black hair parted just so—made Skellenger think of something trapped in amber. “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” he said. “I thought it best we talk about this in person.”

  They were in a café down the road from Todo’s, Pete Navarette’s place. Nina Garza, not glancing up, hypnotically stirred a cup of tea.

  “I realize your daughter’s been a handful the past few years,” he said, “but this morning she really outdid herself.” He laid the thing out, from Jacqi’s being in the car when the murder went down to his chat with her at the hospital. “She says she didn’t get a good look at anybody, but even if that’s true, and I tend to think otherwise given what I saw on the video, it’s not gonna keep her out of this.”

  The mother said nothing for a moment, just continuing slowly to circle her spoon through the dark tea cooling in her cup. Finally, she said, “I appreciate you coming to tell me all this.”

  “When she walked off the reservation over at Winchinchala,” he said, “that made her an abscond. It’s open season. She gets picked up for loitering, caught in a squat raid, she’s back inside and I run out of options. Once she’s processed the system takes over. Anybody can get to her—press, defense lawyers. Only gets worse if the DA decides she’s a material witness, and you can pretty much bet that’s gonna happen. She says she’s been clean six months and I hope that’s true. But she’s obviously back on the street. Temptation’s just gonna get worse. She starts using—”

  “Is there a reward?”

  Give the woman her due, he thought. She sees the whole board, thinks several moves ahead. “Not yet.”

  “But you assume there will be.”

  “Depends how quick we can wrap it up. We’re not talking criminal masterminds here. But yeah, the city, victim’s family, the local, the labor council, any one of them or all of them together could pony up. Then again, there were a lot of kids at the scene. They didn’t do jack when the man was getting killed but wave some cash their direction? Even if Jacqi steps up, she’ll be sharing the pot with God knows how many others. And nobody’ll get paid quick.”

  The woman nodded thoughtfully, taking her time. “There’s something else in this situation to consider.”

  Oh you bet there is, he thought. “Yeah?”

  “The chance to be the center of everything again.”

  A tick of acid crawled up his throat.

  “You’re assuming,” she said, “Jacquelina will think it through. That’s not who she is. I love my daughter, Detective. But she’s a seriously troubled girl.”

  She lifted the cup to her lips and Skellenger found it impossible not to watch—the clockwork movement, the glimmer and chime of bracelet, the pulse in her throat as she swallowed. A ghost of lipstick darkened the rim as she set the cup back down.

  “What I mean,” she said, “is that Jacquelina is impulsive. To a fault. And, as I mentioned, she craves attention. She misses being the person everyone is talking about.”

  Then do something, he thought. “I doubt the attention she’s going to get in this is the kind she’ll like.”

  “You really, truly do not understand my daughter.”

  He felt a sudden awkward pity for the girl. “Maybe not, but like I said, we spoke. She didn’t seem too eager to step to the front of the class. I let her know if she took a breather, got out of town for a while, might be the best thing. She didn’t disagree.”

  Finally Nina Garza lifted her gaze. Their eyes met. “Really.”

  “One reason I’m here, I was hoping you might help out on that end. I don’t mean another halfway house. She’ll have to register, and once her name pops up it’s just a matter of time. But if she just gets tucked away. Someplace safe. For all concerned.”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” She glanced away, fist to her
lips, clearing her throat. “There’s a private school we’ve been looking into upstate.”

  How quaint, he thought, imagining the ivy and brick. Mistress Meany’s Academy of Discipline and Deportment. “Victor Cope’s upstate. Not exactly in school. Still, I’d hate to see him graduate.”

  “That’s not a subject we need to discuss.”

  Actually it is, he thought, but we never will. A retrial. C’mon, kids, let’s put on a show. Everything back on the table. Including my tin, my vestment, my pension.

  “You do your part,” he said, “I’ll do mine. If I can keep her out of this, I will. But this thing’s not just a nasty storm that’ll blow over sometime soon. It’s got its own climate. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  She wasn’t listening. Digging through her purse instead. “One more thing.” She withdrew a business card, slid it across the table. “This man, he’s bothering me, my family. Says he’s a tutor at that place you mentioned—the Bachmann woman’s center—he apparently worked with Jacquelina. Says he’s concerned that she left but I get the impression he’s after something else. He went to see my son. He asked questions.”

  Skellenger read the card, nothing but the name, a box, a phone number. Phelan Tierney. Sounded like one of those stuffed shirts on NPR. “What is it you want?”

  “I met with the Bachmann woman, let her know I’d go after her license. Sue her. Ruin her. But it’s unclear she has any sway over the man.”

  “He’s a civilian. Questions aren’t a crime.”

  “He has no right to the answers. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Yes, he did, more or less. He rather wished he didn’t. “Has he made any threats, asked for money?”

  She looked incredulous. “I told him to leave us alone.”

  Skellenger batted at the card with his index finger. Looking past her through the window, he saw someone in the parking lot lighting up a smoke. For the slightest instant he envied the match.

  23

  Face hidden deep inside the hood of her jacket, Jacqi returned to her seat in the cafeteria with a fresh pot of tea and a packet of rye crisps, some blueberry yogurt. Despite an utter lack of appetite she felt light-headed, and though she knew it was risky staying here with the news crews trolling the halls, she couldn’t figure out where else to go. She lacked the oomph to move regardless. It took absolutely every ounce of strength she had to peel back the foil lid, dip her spoon into the bluish creamy muck and have a taste, tear open the packet of crackers and take one out, munch the rough dry tip.

  It’s okay to be scared, she thought. Scared is normal.

  As though summoned by those words, Verrazzo’s face swarmed up in her mind’s eye—that empty dread in his eyes, blood on his teeth—and she pressed her hand to her mouth, feeling sick, clenching her eyes shut, telling herself: Don’t think. Don’t think. Just be still. Breathe.

  She set the spoon down carefully, afraid she might drop it, draw attention.

  Her phone thrummed inside her coat pocket. Ignore it, she thought, counting the murmuring pulses, five, six, seven . . . then still.

  Just be still.

  She wasn’t sure how long it took—three seconds or forever, time had turned to soup—but gradually the follow-up hum brought her back, the nagging alert: the call had gone to voice mail. Digging the phone from her pocket she read the display: Mother.

  She pressed her thumb to the throbbing red panel and lifted the device to her ear.

  Jacquelina, mi niña. I’ve learned what happened this morning. Of course I’m disappointed. I had hoped you’d put all that behind you. But that doesn’t matter now. It’s time to put everything that’s come between us aside. Everything. You can’t bear this alone, the weight is too heavy, and no one can hide forever. I know you are afraid. Come home. I will take care of this. Te amo, mi amor.

  An almost dreamlike loneliness descended, and she tucked herself so deep inside it she barely felt the hand on her shoulder or heard the birdlike voice—same attendant as before, the Sikh in his turban, those bottomless eyes—asking if she was okay.

  Wipe your face. Pick up the napkin, blow your nose.

  Whisper your thanks and tell him you’re fine. Don’t draw attention.

  24

  The daylight filtering in through the Gothic-arched windows in the Winchinchala office had a grayish cast. The sconces were lit, two per wall, but they weren’t much help dispelling the shadows either.

  Lonnie Bachmann sat forward at her massive desk, elbows on the blotter, head in her hands. “Phelan, please, you’re being impossibly stubborn.”

  “They can’t yank your license, Lonnie. Not over this.”

  Middle of the day, the center felt empty. A few of the residents busied themselves elsewhere in the big house, chores or schoolwork, the rest were off campus attending interviews: job counselors, custody mediators, parole officers.

  “They can pull my certification,” she said, “and then I’m just another name on an endless list. Money gets ten times harder to raise. Besides, it’s not Health Care Services I’m worried about. Not compared to the family. That woman.”

  “Her name’s Garza, Lonnie, not Borgia.”

  “Phelan, please, listen to me. I mean it. You weren’t here. She came in like she already owned the place. And planned to burn it down.”

  He glanced at the clock—ten minutes more, he’d be late for his lunch date with Cass. “There’s no chain of liability. I’m not your employee, I’m not your agent. I’m not even acting on your behalf, really.”

  “Like that’s the issue.”

  “They can’t realistically sue you because of anything I’ve done. That’s the issue.”

  “Phelan—”

  “Or me, for that matter.”

  “Stop thinking like a lawyer. It doesn’t matter whether the family can win. They can make it damn near impossible for me to function. One call and next thing I know DHCS is here, turning the place upside down.”

  “You didn’t kick the girl out on the street. She left.”

  “I have a duty to keep her safe.”

  “Physically safe. On the premises. Once she leaves, it’s out of your hands.”

  “You’re missing the point. This place exists on the good graces of people willing to grant me funding.”

  A siren howled past outside, third in five minutes, one more patrol car screaming down Bufflehead Avenue. Secretly he welcomed the distraction. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “You didn’t hear?” She sat back, tugging her skirt primly as she crossed her legs. “Mike Verrazzo’s dead.”

  It took him a second to place the name. “Really.”

  “Murdered. On the street, bunch of kids. Been on the news all morning.”

  “I had the radio off.” Tierney harbored an aversion to the so-called information industry that bordered on malice. He preferred the Latino stations with their operatic cumbias and rancheras or just the silence of his thoughts. “Did you know him?”

  Lonnie took a second before nodding. “IAFF sponsored a couple fund-raisers for us.” She sounded more reflective than sad. “It was a little awkward, to be honest. There were rumors he cruised—couple girls actually knew him, or said they did. Anyway the local made us a lot of money and it’s, you know, that kind of town.”

  It brought to mind some graffiti he’d seen a week or so back, scrawled across the side of a shuttered firehouse, ironically: Rio Mirada—If You’ve Got the Lipstick, We’ve Got the Pig.

  That kind of town.

  “Getting back to the matter at hand,” he said, but then a reedy Latina with spaniel eyes—Angelica, the one with the nuclear crush, per Jacqi—appeared at the office door and timidly knocked.

  “Miz Bachmann? Sorry to butt in like this but you got a man at the door. He’s asking for Mr. Tierney.”

  The man was wiry like a m
iddleweight and ash blond. Sunken eyes in a drawn face, hands stuffed in his pockets. A well-worn suit that looked at least one size too big, rain freckling the thinly padded shoulders.

  He said, “Phelan Tierney?”

  “That’s me.” Worried that Navarette’s two humps had come around to complete what they’d left unfinished in the Sanitation Department parking lot, Tierney had convinced Lonnie to stay put in her office. Vaguely relieved he’d been mistaken, he extended his hand. “Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Jordan Skellenger.” His hands stayed put in his pockets. “I’m with the Rio Mirada police department.” He gave up two inches and maybe as much as twenty pounds to Tierney, rocking back a little on his heels, that cop sense of owning the room. “We’ve received a complaint from the Garza family. They say you’ve been badgering them. They want to be left alone.”

  First the dogs, Tierney thought. Now the cavalry. “Sorry, your name again?”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “I did. But I’d like to be sure I have your name right. Spillinger?”

  “Skellenger.”

  “And that was Sergeant—”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective Morgan—”

  “Jordan.” A pissed-off sigh. “Jordan. Skellenger.”

  “Good. Sorry. Thanks. You were saying—”

  “We take harassment accusations seriously, Mr. Tierney.”

  “Then you’re probably aware of the legal standard. There needs to be a credible threat of serious harm.”

  “Mr. Tierney—”

  “There’s also a standard of reasonableness, and no reasonable person would think that anything I’ve done seriously alarms, torments, or terrorizes anybody. That’s the statutory language. And the behavior in question has to serve no legitimate purpose. Not true here. I’m trying to find Jacqi Garza. You know who that is, I’d guess.”

  It took the man a moment to answer. No expression. “I do. Yes.”