Idyll Threats

by Stephanie Gayle

  I radioed for help, tripping over the words. Rick’s right hand clenched closed, then opened. “Tommy?” he said.

  “Easy, easy.” I palmed his skull and lifted it so he could see me. His red hair was dry in my hands. His eyes greener than ever. My leprechaun partner. Sirens tore the air into pieces. I’d never been so happy to hear them.

  “Rick, hang tight. They’re coming. Hear them?”

  But he didn’t hear them. He never heard them. His heartbeat was gone and the EMTs couldn’t get it back, no matter how I yelled at them. And after they declared him dead, over my protests of, “Can’t you try again? Just wait! He isn’t dead!” I wondered. Wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t turned to look at the license plate. What if I’d been thinking more about the present and less about a future without Rick? Because that’s what I got. A future without Rick.

  That night I called it in on the police radio. “Station to Number 891.” Rick’s badge number. I heard nothing but static. “Station to Number 891.” The static spiked. “Station to Number 891.” No answer. “Detective Richard Coughlin is 10-7. Gone but never forgotten.”

  10-7 is the code for retired equipment. It’s also the code for officers killed in the line of duty. You call their badge number once, twice, three times, and then declare them 10-7. Because they never answer.

  “Chief Lynch,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “Chief, the applicant will be here soon.”

  Her words were cold water, abrupt and stinging. I blinked. “We’re going to have to reschedule,” I said.

  Her granny glasses slid. She pushed them up and demanded to know why.

  “I’ve got a lead on a suspect,” I lied. “I can’t meet the applicant.”

  She said, “But we’ve already rescheduled Mr. Kelly once.”

  I grabbed a notepad. “Can’t be helped. Maybe someone else can interview him.” There was no way I could. Not today. Not on Rick’s anniversary.

  My next-door neighbor, Mr. Sands, asked if I had plans to put in some lettuce. He pointed with his newspaper at the weedy plot under my bedroom window.

  Lettuce? Why would I stick a head of lettuce there?

  “Got yourself a bit of a project there.” He waved at my lawn. “We always thought a dogwood would look nice near the road, by your mailbox.” He’d been mentally landscaping my lawn? “Maybe some hostas by the front porch where it’s a little bare. Hostas don’t take much work.”

  “I’ll consider it,” I said. Anything to get this guy away from my lawn.

  “Great!” He grinned. “I told the others you were busy getting settled, and what with the murder, you hadn’t had time to work out a lawn plan.”

  The others? The neighborhood was talking smack about my lawn? And what the fuck was a lawn plan? “Yeah, it’s been very busy for such a small town.”

  He didn’t notice the way I threw the last two words like rocks. He said, “How is the murder coming? Any leads? The missus was saying perhaps the state police ought to be brought in. You know, because of their experience with these sorts of crimes.”

  I looked to the house I’d wanted to escape this morning. I regretted that impulse now. “We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry. And we have a state police detective assisting us with our efforts.”

  He saluted me with his newspaper. “Great. That’s great. Well, have a wonderful day, Chief Lynch. And if you need any help with your lawn plan…”

  “You’ll be the first person I call.”

  He walked toward his lush lawn, cut to regulation length. There was a garden gnome near his mailbox. Now, why would I take advice from a man who liked gnomes?

  Mrs. Dunsmore handed me a fresh pile of bureaucracy before I’d completed my lap around the station. One of the folders was marked “Idyll Days.” Hands full, I detoured to the pen and stared at the crime board. It hadn’t changed much. The Browning gun theft had led nowhere. No new connections found between Browning Senior or Junior to our victim. The Meriden crime similar to ours had no other links we could uncover. We were treading water.

  Wright came and stood near my left shoulder. “I got a line.” His breath smelled of stale coffee. “Anthony Fergus wasn’t home watching telly when our vic died.”

  “You’re still on Anthony Fergus?” I turned.

  Wright puffer-fished his cheeks, then said, “Yes. He’s scum. He likes hurting women.”

  “One woman. His wife. Drop it.”

  His phone rang. He didn’t look at me. Just answered the phone with, “Idyll Police. Detective Wright.” His wary face relaxed as soon as his caller spoke. “Oh, yeah. Sure, hon. When?” He extended his wrist and jangled his watch loose from his shirt’s cuff. “I think so. How’s he feeling? Good. See you later.”

  “My wife,” he said. “I need to drop by the elementary school later.”

  “You catch the baby burglars?” I said, offering a joke.

  “Nah. We finally got our kids in Idyll schools.” He sounded proud. “Much better than where they are now.”

  “I thought you lived in Bloomfield.” I’d heard him bitch about his commute.

  “Moving next week. Finally found a place I can afford on what you pay me.” He looked at his family photo.

  I didn’t say what I was thinking. Bloomfield was one of the few black towns in the state. I’d met exactly seven black people, including Wright, since I’d been living in Idyll. This town was whiter than Wonder Bread. His kids were going to be as exotic as giraffes in their new school. It’s not wonderful being the odd kid out.

  I cleared my throat. “Anything more on our case?”

  “I have a witness who says Anthony Fergus was at Suds an hour before our victim died.” He stood and walked toward the board.

  “I’m sure there were plenty of people at Suds on Saturday night. Anthony Fergus isn’t our guy. He had no known links to our victim. His gun is a Colt. And he isn’t—” Shit. I’d almost said “the man from the cabin.”

  “Isn’t what?” He rested his hand on Finnegan’s desk. Cursed and pulled it away. Something sticky remained on the desk. He grabbed a tissue and scrubbed at his fingers.

  “He isn’t our guy.”

  “What makes you so sure? You know something we don’t?”

  “Wright—”

  “You’re not holding out on us, are you?”

  He couldn’t know about the cabin. He didn’t. Still, I felt clammy.

  “If I find out you’ve talked to Anthony Fergus, or so much as looked in his direction, I’ll discipline you. Focus on this case, not the one you couldn’t nail before.”

  He picked bits of tissue from his hand. “‘Discipline,’ huh?” He sat at his desk and straightened his family photo. “Don’t remember hearing any discipline threats when your lapdog Billy danced around the crime scene. Or when that faggot ME conducted ballistics checks without authorization.”

  “Billy is a fucking rookie. You’re not. Now get your goddamn head in the game or you’re off the case.”

  Finnegan walked in, catching the last of my words. “Problem?” he said. He looked at me as he said it. Making his loyalties clear.

  “Not anymore.” I walked away. And under his breath I heard Wright mutter, “Racist asshole.”

  “What did you say?” I stomped back to his desk.

  “Nothing.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes wide.

  “Don’t you ever excuse your poor performance with an accusation of racism. Got it? I don’t care what your skin color is or how many gods you believe in or what you like to wear at home. But I do care that you do the job and do it well.”

  He looked scared. Maybe because I’d gotten close while I laid it all out for him. Maybe because he could see the vein throbbing near my temple. I could feel it, threatening to pop like an overinflated balloon. I got out of there before I forgot my parents’ advice about violence not being the answer to my problems.

  I stayed in my office, reading the folders Mrs. Dunsmore had given me. Not that I absorbed any of the words. I was losin
g my grip. I’d nearly hit Wright, and before that I’d nearly told him about the cabin. I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them nothing had changed. Maybe I’d just stay here, silent, unresponsive. How long until they sent someone inside to check on me? Hours? Days?

  Someone knocked on my door. Loudly.

  “Come in.”

  Billy and Hopkins walked in, smiling like they’d won the lottery. “We caught ’em,” Hopkins said. “The baby burglars. They’re getting processed now.”

  “Nice work,” I said. “Let’s have a look-see.”

  I followed them to the fingerprint area. Two men on the wrong side of twenty were having their fingers rolled in ink. Hopkins said, “We caught them coming out of 119 Elm, arms full of things that didn’t belong to them.”

  “Says you,” one of the men said. His bare arms were a mosaic of bad tattoos. He even had a dancing hula girl. Her lips were crooked. When I looked closer, I saw that all of her was crooked. He deserved a refund for that tat.

  “Says the owner of the house,” Hopkins said.

  Billy said, “You were right, Chief. About them working at the houses. These guys did landscaping. They cased the homes, learned the owners’ schedules, and then robbed them.”

  Days ago, I’d suggested they check into workers who’d had access to the robbed houses over the past year. Seems like I was capable of detective work, after all.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work. By the way, did you find the videotape?” The Petersons were quite anxious that their sex tape remain private.

  “No,” Billy said. “But these guys have a storage unit. Hasn’t been searched yet.”

  Hopkins stayed with the suspects. Billy followed me. “Now that I helped solve the robberies…” he said.

  I could continue punishing him for offending me. Or I could let it go. He was young. Stupid. Maybe he’d learn. Probably not. I said, “Process them, and go home and shower. Eat something. Come back at seven.”

  “I can help?” he asked.

  I nodded. Christ knew I could use more manpower. Revere and Wright could deal with having him underfoot. Finnegan didn’t seem to mind him much.

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “And I mean it about the shower. Mrs. Dunsmore is complaining about our smell.” Which was surprising, given her heavy-handed application of lavender perfume.

  So the burglaries were closed. Now if only I could clear our homicide. I picked up the Idyll Days folder. The first page was the poster I’d seen hanging in every local business window. A picture of a family: parents with two blond, blue-eyed kids, picking apples. The title, “Idyll Days,” printed in big, white letters. “September 12–14, 1997. Hay Rides! Apple Picking! Pony Rides! Crafts Fair! Bake Sale!” Everything deserved an exclamation point, including free parking. The blond family reminded me of Wright’s accusation. Confronted by this poster every step, working in a station with no other minorities, was it any wonder he felt threatened? But he didn’t need to lay that at my door.

  My phone was blinking. Messages. I sighed. So much for Dunsmore doing her job. I hit the button.

  “Chief Lynch, Doug Martin here.” Revere’s boss. Or his boss’s boss. “Seems you’re having some trouble with the girl’s murder.”

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I said. I pulled out my lower desk drawer.

  “We pride ourselves on having one of the highest murder-solve rates in the country.”

  I rooted below a pile of papers. My hand found the crinkly cellophane package. I tugged it up.

  “Revere’s a sharp detective. I hope you’re putting him to good use. Please call me and give me an update. We’d like this one closed, stat.”

  I shook a cigarette free from the pack and said, “What the fuck do you think I want? A pony? Shit heel.” I rummaged in the drawer for a lighter and lit the cigarette.

  I smoked when I first joined the force. Everyone did. But after a few months I found it harder to breathe and, the truth was, I never took to it. So I stopped. But I still keep a pack on me. I say it’s for suspects. You’d be amazed what you can get out of a guy when you offer a ciggie. But the truth is some days I need one. I feel the pull of longing under my skin. It must be something like what Rick had felt, only his need had been a thousand times worse.

  I inhaled deeply, and then coughed. Shit. I sounded like Finnegan. I smacked my chest and took a shallow hit from the cigarette. The tar and nicotine and rat poison and whatever else they put in cigarettes made me feel lightheaded. But calm. Calm for the first time in weeks. Maybe I should take up smoking again. Maybe then the boys here would accept me as one of their own. And maybe the moon was made of cheese.

  I walked over to the window. Looked at the little plant, still struggling bravely to live. I tapped some ash onto it.

  A trip of raps on my door. I heaved up the window sash and exhaled a stream of smoke into the muggy summer air. Shit. She’d smell it. I crushed out the cigarette and tossed it below. It hit some schmuck’s car. Not mine.

  “Just a second!” I said. I waved armfuls of air into the room. Then I walked to my desk, hid my cigarettes, and said, “Come in.”

  Mrs. Dunsmore entered, carrying a folder and a cup. She sniffed. “Have you been smoking?” My anti-smoking policy was the one thing we agreed on.

  “What?” I said. “No.”

  She handed me the folder. “This is last year’s Idyll Days roster. You’ll need it for planning purposes.” She brought her cup to the sill and said, “This plant looks dreadful.” I waited for her to find the ash on it. She tipped the cup over the plant and said, “Maybe less direct sun.” And moved the pot a few inches.

  I exhaled. My stupid chest betrayed me, and I was racked by a series of coughs.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You ought to see a doctor. You sound like Finnegan.”

  I nodded. She left. I wiped my hand across my mouth and vowed never to smoke again. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

  Determined to salvage this dog of a day, I’d check in with the detectives. Tell them we’d solved the burglaries. Maybe mend a fence post with Wright. Then we’d get on the gun. Surely we could find it. When I got near the pen, I heard Wright say my name. He said it low, like you do when you’re talking shit. I stopped.

  “Why’d he come here then? No way some big-city detective packs it in for this place unless he’s dirty.”

  Finnegan said, “My money’s on drugs.”

  More murmuring, but I couldn’t pick apart the sentences. Yankowitz approached. His eyes widened when he saw me, but he held his ground. “Afternoon, Chief,” he said. “Need help?”

  I lurked near a file cabinet. “No, thanks.” Luckily, the cabinet had a calendar featuring half-naked women. “Wrong month,” I said. I flipped the pages over from May to August.

  “Oh,” he said. “We know. But we like Miss May best.”

  “I see.” I let the pages fall back to Miss May, who was washing a sports car with more enthusiasm than accuracy. The suds were all over her red bikini, not the car.

  Yankowitz moved on, and I took half a step closer.

  “He think he’s going to get some sort of medal for solving this case?” Wright asked.

  Finnegan said, “Dunno. Hasn’t solved it so far.”

  And then they started to rip into city cops. How we thought we were tougher, smarter, and better than everyone else. I pushed away from the cabinet, ready to go.

  Wright said, “How many drug tests does a cop have to fail to be sent here?” Like he was setting up a joke.

  Finnegan said, “How many?”

  “All of them.”

  They laughed until Finnegan went into tubercular-attack mode. I made a beeline for the exit.

  “Chief, you got a call from DPW,” the desk sergeant said. “Someone’s been messing with their trucks.”

  “I’ll get back to them.” I didn’t break stride. I walked out the door and headed for my car, away from whispers and speculation. I’d run before, from New York to here. Tired of th
e guesses about what had happened that awful day between Apollo and Rick and me. Of regretting what Rick and I had talked about the prior week. My request for a transfer, away from the station and his habit.

  “I heard you requested a transfer.” Rick laced his shoes and double-knotted them. Just as he did each night before we left the station. He claimed his father told him a story of a cop who tripped over his laces and discharged his weapon into a Sunday church crowd. So he always double-knotted his laces. Superstitious to the last.

  “Closer to home,” I said. I zipped the lower half of my jacket, checked that my gun wasn’t bulging. It’s harder to dress a gun than it looks.

  He said nothing. Just put on his sunglasses and said, “So it’s the location?”

  “Yup.”

  “Not the company?” His voice peaked. I couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored shades. Only saw myself keeping to myself.

  “Company?” I said, as if the thought had just occurred. “Of course not, Leprechaun. Don’t be crazy.”

  He adjusted his loose belt. “Right,” he said. He scratched his nose and clapped his hands, fast and hard. The noise made me jump, but I covered it by slamming my locker closed.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Always.”

  When we got outside, I realized why his gesture had bothered me. Rick scratched his nose when suspects told him lies. “I’ll drive,” he said. And he drove us to talk to Vince Reginald, the man who would lead us to Apollo St. James.

  Cecilia North’s sister, Renee, didn’t want to meet at the police station. I let her propose a spot. She picked Dunkin’ Donuts. When I pulled into the lot, she was in her car, staring through the windshield at nothing. She didn’t see me, so I knocked on the driver’s window. She jumped. Then she opened the door. “Sorry. I must have zoned out.”

  We walked inside. Two customers stood in line. A couple in the corner bickered about rent payment, and the mother of two small kids wiped their faces free of sugar with thin napkins.