The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “I’m glad.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She reached out and grabbed the hair at his nape and pulled him toward her. The kiss was long and warm and greedy and she bit him twice and never let go of his hair until the end. “I’d kill you if I didn’t love you so much.”

  Sitting back in her chair again, Cass studied him, like a drawing she wasn’t quite sure was finished. “So what’s your big idea?”

  “These.” He nodded toward the yearbooks. “Forty to fifty kids were there when Verrazzo got killed. I figure if she can give me ten, twenty, however many names, I can make somebody else step up.”

  “None of them have. Not one. Listen to the news.”

  “I’ll go find them.” He reached across to tuck a curlicue of hair behind her ear and she nuzzled her cheek into his palm. “I’m good with people,” he said. “Remember?”

  “You guys are talking about me.”

  She stood in the doorway, still miniaturized in the gargantuan sweats. Noble, tail swaying lazily, trooped up behind.

  “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Cass said.

  “Like you?”

  “Come on.” Tierney dragged a chair away from the table. “Have a seat.”

  Skidding a little in the thick white socks, she made way to the chair and scooted into it. Noble nudged his way beneath the table, found a spot between the two women, and thudded to the floor.

  Jacqi, glancing under the table’s edge, reached out with her foot and nudged his hip. “Really like your dog.”

  Cass smiled appreciatively and reached out with her own foot. “If California would let me, I’d marry Mr. Noble.”

  “Make an honest animal out of him,” Tierney said. To Jacqi: “You want anything? Tea, juice, some cereal?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the dog. “So what were you guys talking about? I just kinda caught the last part.”

  Tierney and Cass glanced at each other.

  “Phelan here’s thinking of ways you won’t have to hassle with court.”

  “I’m okay with court.”

  “Cass thinks you’ve been through enough. I tend to agree. Like I told you at the restaurant, I can find you a lawyer who will keep you out of all this. That said, I’ve got a duty to Damarlo.”

  “I get it.” Jacqi flipped open one of the yearbooks. “That what these are for?”

  “I was hoping you could maybe pick out some of the kids who were at the scene. Saw what happened. In particular, watched this Teddy Buker character walk up.”

  For the merest instant, Jacqi stopped. Her eyes drifted.

  “You don’t have to,” Tierney said. “If—”

  “Sure,” she said, snapping back. “This is St. Cat’s, though. The kids at the scene were all from Stallworth. From what I could tell anyway.”

  “I’ve got those here.” He slid the yearbooks toward her. “Most recent on top.”

  The tip of her tongue appeared and she absently stroked it against her upper lip as she flipped open the topmost yearbook. “By the way, I gave a few names to Skellenger. At the hospital, when he told me to take off.”

  “Yeah. I need to hear more about that. His telling you to leave town.”

  “Two of the names I gave him were made up.”

  Tierney cocked his head. “They weren’t really there?”

  “They don’t exist. I just kinda pulled the names outta my sweet spot.”

  “Okay.” Tierney nodded, taking that in. “Try not to do that with me, okay?”

  “Gotcha.”

  She turned back to the yearbook. Tierney reached into his briefcase for a tablet and pen. Cass stuck out her hand.

  “Whoa. Stop. I’ve got a real problem with this.” She looked across the table at Jacqi. “I think it’s way too soon for you to be doing this. All you’ve been through, not just the past ten years and not even yesterday but here, tonight, what you said. My God. Broke my heart to hear it, made me furious, made me want to kill somebody—your mother’d be a good start, the cops, Cope, everybody—and I can only imagine what’s going on with you right now. You need some time to get your head around it. Need to think through the consequences, all of them, need to be honest with yourself about what you can handle and what you can’t. What you want. What you want no part of.” She waved a hand at the yearbooks. “All this, it just feels, I dunno, wrong. You need to know you’ve got a choice. You’ve been boxed in to way too much already. You need time.”

  No one spoke. No one looked at each other. Then Tierney cleared his throat. “She’s right. And yet—”

  “I don’t want Damarlo to suffer,” Jacqi said, “because I punked out.”

  “You let Phelan worry about Damarlo,” Cass said. “You let Damarlo worry about Damarlo.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever done.” Jacqi picked at the nail polish on her thumb. “Past ten years anyway. Me, me, and hey, while we’re at it: me.”

  “From what I heard,” Cass said, “it’s exactly the opposite. You’ve been hauling everybody else’s burden, on top of your own.”

  “Honestly? I feel like I just got outta jail. I wanna help somebody, help Damarlo.”

  “You can,” Tierney said. “You will, it’s just—”

  “The point?” Cass tapped a fingernail against the tabletop. “You don’t have to do it at all. Sure as hell not now. You need to know that. Feel that. Own that.”

  “I do. You’re right, I’m kinda confused. And scared.” Faintly, her chest shook, a pent-up jolt of old business. She closed her eyes. Bit her lip. In the tiniest voice: “I don’t want to die.”

  Cass reached across the table, took Jacqi’s hand. They sat like that for a moment, leaning toward each other, then Cass said, “You’re in luck. We don’t want to kill you.”

  Jacqi—sputtering, sniffing—laughed. Her free hand rose to her face and she wiped at her eyes, using the big cuffed sweatshirt sleeve. “This is gonna sound dumb, but I always kinda wondered what it might be like. You know, a sister. Big sister.”

  Cass cocked an eyebrow. “I have a sister. Take it from me. As experiences go, it’s vastly overrated.”

  Tierney reached for the yearbook under Jacqi’s hand and gently tugged. “I think we’ve agreed this can wait.”

  “No.” Jacqi clapped her hand down on the open page. “I meant what I said. I don’t know how to say it, really, but I’ve gotta get out of my own head. It’s driving me a little nuts. And yeah, not later. Now. I’m tired of disappearing, I want to help somebody. For the right reason. I want to help Damarlo, help Richie, help Eastwood maybe. Christ, help ol’ Fireman Mike, not that he needs it at this point. Tell the truth about what happened to him. Including me, what I was doing there, why.” She reached up with her free hand and stroked her breastbone gently with her fingertips. A dull gaze and a shrug.

  “I’m, I dunno, ready.”

  PART VII

  71

  Daddeo’s son answered the door, dressed in jeans and an old ragged T-shirt from his D-line days at Santa Rosa CC: “Play Physical—Play Hard—Play with Violent Hands.”

  “Hey,” Skellenger said. “Old man around?”

  Vince Jr.—what was he, twenty-four or something? Stocky in the chest and arms like his dad. One tour in Iraq, a second in Kandahar, he had that Klonopin stare.

  Licking his lips, dry mouth. Finally: “Yeah. Sure. Come on in.”

  The back of the T-shirt read “You Can’t Play Scared.” Skellenger followed it through the tricked-out two-story Craftsman—living room, dining room, all original maple and leaded glass—to the remodeled breakfast nook just off the sunroom.

  Daddeo, with a better nose for such things than most other guys on the force, had opted for retirement as the bankruptcy loomed—making sure first he’d bulletproofed his exit package. Worked for Nordstrom now, battling “sh
rinkage”—shoplifting, employee theft, embezzlement—the house his monument to getting out smart.

  Junior stopped at the kitchen doorway, offering a stalwart nod—“Nice seeing you again,” his voice a ghost of what Skellenger remembered—then drifted off toward the rumbling TV in the den.

  Daddeo wore black-and-red plaid, a hunting shirt, and sat at the corner banquette in the breakfast nook, scooping up the last of a bacon scramble with a wedge of rye toast, reading glasses perched on his nose, newspaper folded beside his plate. Once upon a time the greasy aroma from the frying pan, still on the stove, would’ve made Skellenger want to pick the thing up and lick it. Now he felt like a dozen fists were strangling his colon.

  “Jordie. Surprise, surprise.” Over the rim of his reading glasses, Daddeo eyed him warily, but smiled. “Snag a cup from the cabinet, you want coffee.”

  “Thanks, but I gotta make this quick.” He slid in across the table. The backyard looked like a putting green rimmed with thorn stalks—roses cut back for the winter. “Not too early?”

  “You kidding? We’re the dogs of dawn around here.”

  The last time they’d spoken, months ago, Daddeo had described Junior’s homecoming horrors. They’d pumped the marines full of Adderall at the forward bases, all those sleepless stretches of unmarked time—hunter-killer patrols, perimeter probes, recon, roadblocks—and the drug’s after-traces made memory viciously clear, creating nightmares so hi-def that sleep became torture. Better to ride out the darkness with the wide-screen, watching ex-jocks and wannabes belabor minutiae on ESPN, then catnap during the day. His old man looked no less ragged, a big man going heavy, private-sector paunch, with tea-bag eyes, desk-jockey jowls.

  “A situation’s come up,” Skellenger began.

  “Lemme guess.” Daddeo reached for his coffee. “Verrazzo.”

  “You’ve seen the news.”

  “You’re primary, right?”

  “Jacqi Garza’s in the middle of this thing.”

  Daddeo nodded, plucked off his readers, dropped them gently onto his paper. “Lucky her.”

  Skellenger ran it down, all the way to the fire out in Homewood early that morning that killed three men, two clearly connected to her, the third wait-and-see.

  “Bottom line is I was hoping to keep her out of this—Christ, even the chief was on board with that—but this thing just keeps eating its tail. I don’t know where she is and I don’t know what she’ll say, but she’s bitter as ever and no less loose on deck. I thought I should plug you in.”

  Daddeo sat back in his seat, brow creased with thought, then he folded his thick arms across his chest with a look of studied confusion. “I’m not following.”

  It took a second for Skellenger to register the voice. Like a stranger’s. “Vince—”

  “She was stellar in the Cope thing, on the stand two full days, weathered cross like a pro—what was she, eight, nine?—and we put that shitbag away. Couldn’t nail him for murder on Marina Bacay but he’s not coming out again. A predator, Jordie. Raping kids. Killing kids. He’s gone, because of us.” He reached for his coffee, drained the cup, then set it back down slowly, like he was rooking his king. “But yeah, the Garza kid, she’s been skiing straight downhill ever since. Pissy little witch—can’t blame her, given what she’s been through—but why bring that here?”

  “Like I said, I had some face time with her. She’s got an ax to grind. Thinks there’s an angle in how we handled her down at the hospital in Santa Cruz.”

  “Jordie, again, not to seem dense, but—”

  “Don’t do this, Vince. She’s gonna say we suborned perjury.”

  Daddeo stood up, collected his plate. “Sure you don’t want some coffee?” Not waiting for an answer, he went to the sink, rinsed off the plate and silverware, racked them in the dishwasher, then freshened his coffee and ambled back, dropping down into his seat again with all that neglected muscle, the contented girth.

  “Look, Jordie, I don’t mean to make things difficult, but I’ve got no fucking clue what you’re talking about. I’ll admit, I’m getting old, memory’s not what it used to be. I destroyed all my notes so I’ll have to rely on my reports, but I gotta tell ya, perjury?”

  Skellenger glanced out again at the immaculate yard, the stubby, dismembered roses. He leaned in over the table. “Vince, you prick, you think I’m wearing a wire?”

  Daddeo lifted his cup. “Why would I think that, Jordie? By the way, are you?”

  “I came here as a goddamn favor.”

  “Jesus. What’s got you wound so fucking tight?”

  “She goes off half-cocked, Cope files a motion for a retrial, how’s retirement gonna look then?”

  “Okay.” Daddeo put the cup down, leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I’m gonna say this just once more. I don’t know what you’re talking about. If the Garza kid wants to change her story now, that means she’s a liar. Either she was lying then or she’s lying now. Same with you. You got any problem with how things went down, you want to go back and revise your testimony, I gotta ask—and I won’t be alone—why didn’t you bring it up back then? Memory makes liars of us all, Jordie, that’s why I’m sticking to what I said back then. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s true. Most recent recollection, best recollection.”

  “I can’t afford this, Vince. I can’t afford the risk, can’t afford the lawyers.”

  “You’re still on the force. City has a duty to defend. Other than that, if money’s tight, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “She’s gonna be the centerpiece wit again, Vince. I can’t help it, and she’s not the kind that can handle that. Not even the mother—you remember her, no doubt, Christ, eats tarantulas for breakfast—not even she’s got a grip on the kid anymore. Pete Navarette’s apparently got his mutts hunting her down and now one of them’s dead too, same fire as the pimp up in Homewood, all of which just makes for more drama and she’s loving it is my guess. She’ll think it’s her shot at stardom. American Idol, Special Victims Unit.”

  “Jesus, Jordie, whoa—”

  “She’ll play the fucking pity card, Vince, play it for all it’s worth and you know the media, they’ll jump on that like cats on a cricket. She’ll milk it. She’ll screw us.”

  Daddeo leaned back in his seat again, as though trying to discern who this was, this supposed ex-partner, this cop with the face of a man he once knew. “I hear what you’re trying to say. I can tell you’re upset. But I just don’t see the problem. Not just because I’ve got nothing to hide.” He nodded toward the den. “When it comes to kids worth giving a shit about, I’ve kinda got my hands full already. Jane’s out of her mind with worry but she doesn’t know what to do, so it falls on me, and that’s fine. He’s my son. But you think I’m gonna waste two seconds worrying about what Jacqi Garza feels or what she thinks or what she might say, you clearly don’t know where my head is at. You ought to hear his stories, ought to hear about the guys with their legs ripped off from IEDs and Vince holding an artery in his bare hands so his buddy doesn’t bleed out. You ought to hear about the kids the ragheads used as bombers and the women buried up to their necks and stoned to death—that’s how they’d find them in the villages after the sick fucks fled. You ought to hear the howl, like a gut-shot dog, when he wakes up at night. Forget about a job. Other day, I’m watching one of those morning shows, and this pencil neck in hair gel says, ‘Why have all the jobs gone to China? The Chinese worker is more flexible, more dedicated, better trained.’ Kid puts his life on the line in the middle of hell for four fucking years but he’s not flexible, he’s not dedicated, he can’t be trained. You following me here, Jordie? But I’m supposed to wring my hands over Jacqi Fucking Garza? I put in my twenty, and think what you want but I never, not once, had to back up to the pay window. That skank wants to change her story, she’s the one looking at perjury, not me. I’ve got an imperfec
t memory but a clear conscience. Understand?”

  72

  Skellenger came in through the garage and hooked his keys on the pegboard, hoping he might grab an hour of sleep before heading back into the meat grinder.

  Taking a second, glancing around the kitchen, he felt the full impact of the contrast—Daddeo’s house, this house—like the final insult. Countertop tiles cracked or loose, grouting dark with mildew, curtains an afterthought, linoleum older than the kids. Faucet dripping like depression’s metronome. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. One of those moments when the gun on his hip felt less like a weapon than a way out.

  The folder lay waiting for him on the dining room table, a note pinned to it, Rosellen’s script. You need to look at this. You need to deal with it.

  He took a chair, opened the folder. On top was a letter from the principal at St. Catherine’s Academy, two pages, single-spaced, his eye catching briefly on case citations, but even so he put it aside for the moment. Consider the evidence, he thought, before the argument.

  Beneath the letter were about a dozen pages of coarse white paper ripped from a sketch pad, six inches by four. Each page featured pencil sketches of kids about Ethan’s age, two girls and a boy, classmates maybe. The unsettling nudes.

  Erasure marks smeared a couple, the others were disarmingly clear and, to Skellenger’s mind, not half bad. Simple stuff—one girl on a sofa, ankles crossed. The boy arching his back, looking up, with quite a package. The other girl, chubbier than the first, holding up her hair, full frontal, nice rack. More clinical than erotic, to his eye at least, which made them no less disturbing. And yet that could work in the boy’s defense. They were studies, meant for practice, not passing around.