by Blake Banner
Maria said, “This girl wasn’t pretty.” The girl with the glasses said, “Hmmmm…” like she didn’t agree. “Could have been. Lovely eyes.” The guy said, “She just didn’t look after herself. She looked drawn and tired all the time, but she was quite cute. Lovely body. She was married. I remember she was married.”
“Hence Browne.”
“There you have it. Hence the Browne.”
I interrupted. “Is there any way I can find out what happened to her? When she graduated, did she go on to further study, did she go into clinical practice…”
Maria picked up the phone. “Tania, it’s Maria Chandler. Can you look up something for me and call me straight back? Mary Browne, graduated from here probably in 2012. I need to contact her.”
They looked at me while we waited, and the guy said suddenly, “So that kind of thing really happens, huh?”
“Yeah, it happens.” I smiled. “I never yet arrested anybody for being a Communist, but I lost count of the people I arrested for homicide.”
That caused an uncomfortable silence which I smiled through until the phone rang. I figured Dehan would have been proud of me. Maria scrawled something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“We are not all left-wing hippies, Detective. And we don’t all think you are pigs. Mary Browne graduated with honors in 2012. She then went into training as a clinical psychologist, specializing in child psychology and PTSD. The contact information here is nothing more than you could have got from the Yellow Pages, so I am not giving you any private information.”
I thanked them and left. I found my way back to my car and sat in the sun thinking about what I had learned. Her practice was on Market Street, back where I had come from, a stone’s throw from my hotel. Was it her? Was it Maria Garcia, now Mary Browne, clinical psychologist from Berkeley, originally from Hunts Point in the Bronx? Or was she a completely different person, originally from Michigan?
I fired up the Mustang and cruised back across the bay, watching the sun explode in a trillion manic shards of light across the water, while I drummed on the steering wheel and asked myself, what now, John Stone, what now?
Twenty-Six
I parked outside Westfield on Market Street and dodged across the road. Her building was one of those nice old stone buildings from the turn of the nineteenth century. Her clinic was on the fifth floor. There was a comfortable waiting room with black leather armchairs and lots of magazines, and a comfortable woman with a comfortable smile sitting behind a reception desk.
I was trying to look neurotic. That’s supposed to be easy for New Yorkers. But I wasn’t sure what to do so, so I just acted naturally and it seemed to work.
“I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Mary Browne.”
She tapped into her computer and said, “When would you like to see her?”
“As soon as possible. Can it be today?”
She looked at me like I was magic. Maybe she thought I was using Jungian synchronicity. I smiled. She said, “Well, if you don’t mind waiting, she has a cancellation in half an hour! May I have your name?”
“That’s superb. John Stone.”
“Have you insurance?”
“No.”
“Then that will be seventy dollars for the hour.”
I almost told her that it was cheaper, and healthier, than a Bronx hooker, but decided against it. I sat and read an article about the Larsen Ice Shelf in the Antarctic, and just as I was coming to the good bit, I heard my name being called.
I stepped into her room and closed the door behind me. There was a window that looked out over Market Street. I could see my car outside Westfield. The carpet was gray, and she had a beige calico sofa and two beige calico armchairs arranged around a coffee table. She didn’t get up. She sat and watched me.
I was aware of a strange thrill of excitement but tried to ignore it.
She was lovely. Not beautiful—she was also beautiful—but more than that she was lovely. She was about thirty-one or two. Her hair was dark and cut to shoulder-length in a rather old-fashioned style. Her eyes were large and a deep brown. She was smiling. Her expression was humorous but above all kind.
“Are you Dr. Mary Browne?”
“Yes. And you are John Stone.” I sat down. “What seems to be the problem, John? Marylyn said you wanted to see me as soon as possible.”
I stared at her. I had somehow imagined that once I saw her I would know. But I had no idea whether this was her or not. I said, “Your accent.” I smiled. “I’m a New Yorker, from the Bronx. Do I detect a trace of New York there?”
Her eyes glistened. “That’s what we call evasion. You have an hour, John, and we want to use it. Time is precious. You didn’t want to see me about my accent. So, what’s troubling you?”
“I’m a cop. But I have developed a real fear of violence. I can’t watch it on TV or on the news, and if there’s a chance of encountering it on the job, I start shaking, my palms go sweaty, I feel sick…”
She looked serious and made a note in her pad.
“When did you start getting these reactions?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Can you think of anything that happened two weeks ago that might have triggered these reactions?”
I was making it up as I went along, and I know the cardinal rule when lying is stick to the truth in every detail you possibly can. So I said, “Only thing I can think of is I was assigned to head up a cold cases team. Just me and one other detective.”
“Have you had any violent experiences since you started?”
I watched her carefully. “I witnessed a murder. An ex-cop called Kirk.”
She looked up at me and met my eye. She had absolutely no expression on her face. “Kirk. What happened?”
“It was a UPS deliveryman. He went up to his front door and shot him.”
She waited. I wasn’t sure what else to say. “To you, John. What happened to you?”
For a moment I wasn’t sure what she meant. Then I said, “Oh! Well, like I said, I started shaking and sweating. Luckily my partner was there, and she was able to catch the guy and make the arrest.”
“And since then?”
“Nothing really.”
“This is a new partner?”
“Yeah. She was assigned to me for the cold cases.”
“You get on well?” She looked up and smiled as she asked it. I smiled back.
“Yeah. Nobody else can stand her, but we get on really well.”
She grinned and pointed at me with her pen. “I can see it on your face. You really light up when you think of her.”
I waved a hand at her. “Nah! She’s a smart cookie. An intelligent woman. I know she’s got my back.”
She grinned and made a few notes.
“How long have you had feelings for her?”
“Come on!” I laughed. “She’s my partner. She’s like a pal. Could be a guy. Got a mouth on her you could grow mushrooms in. No way.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? It’s an issue you should address, John.”
I made a “Pfff!” sound.
“So there have been no other violent incidents?”
“Well, just the one. We made an arrest. It was a drugs bust at… Well, doesn’t matter where. It was a drugs bust. Two Mexican guys got shot. We arrested another two…” The memory was coming back real vivid. “I saw Carlitos was aiming his gun right at her. And his pal was aiming at me. And it was weird because I disarmed Carlitos, and she kind of dodged behind my back and disarmed the guy who was going to shoot me…”
She was staring hard at me. Again she had no expression at all on her face. After a moment she said, “And how did that affect you?”
For a moment, I faltered. “I…uh… It shook me up.”
“Thinking that she risked her life for you?”
“I guess…”
“Or thinking that you risked your life for her?”
“Um, I hadn’t thought about it.”
>
“I’m aware of that, John. That’s why I am suggesting you should think about it.” She checked her notes. “So, in the last two weeks these are the only times when you have confronted violence. How long ago were they?”
“They were both within a day of each other, right back in the beginning.”
She nodded a while, then said, “So, what I’m a bit confused about, John, is how do you know you are having these bad reactions, if those are the only times you have been exposed to violence?”
I made a mental note. Next time I was going to bullshit a psychologist, I should prepare my story. I made up something about my dreams, and she wanted to know if I had been dreaming about Dehan. I told her I hadn’t. The hour was really dragging. In the end I said to her, “You know, Doc, for cops it’s really important to be able to rely on your partner without having weird, romantic, sexual kind of shit going on.”
“Why do you call it shit? Is that how you see it?” I was spared having to answer because she looked at the clock on the wall and said, “It is also very important for human being to be able to acknowledge their true feelings.”
On my way out, I asked Marylyn the receptionist, for future reference, what their latest slot was. She said it was from five to six p.m.
I drove back to the hotel, had some lunch, and threw myself on my bed to stare at the ceiling for a while. I had four hours to kill. My phone pinged. It was a WhatsApp message from Dehan.
How’s it hangin’ partner?
I typed,
I just told a psychoanalyst I am in love with you.
Fuck you
Thank you. I hoped you would say that
At five thirty I went down, drove back to Market Street, and parked once more outside Westfield. I put the soft top up, closed the windows, and waited.
Twenty-SEVEN
She came out at about six fifteen and stood on the sidewalk, peering up to her right, like she was waiting for somebody. I watched her for about five minutes, wondering if it was her, if she was that Maria Garcia that Nelson and Mick and Sam had all fallen for in their own, peculiar ways. If she was, I could see why. She wasn’t my style, but there was something enchanting and captivating about her—a mix of vulnerability, intelligence and strength that was rare and beautiful.
I saw her smile, and a moment later a burgundy Range Rover pulled up with its hazards on. She skipped around to the passenger door and climbed in, saying something and laughing. I caught a glimpse of the driver, but it was hard to make anything out.
They pulled away. I let them get ahead of me and began to follow. Whoever it was drove assertively, bordering on aggressive. He weaved his way through the traffic, not so much settling into its flow as driving through it to get where he wanted to be. He led me back to the Dwight Eisenhower Highway and across the bay again. I followed him onto the I-80 along the coast, then onto Ashby Avenue and into South Berkeley. Next thing we were driving down quiet, leafy streets among cute, detached houses with front and back gardens that probably came with a price tag of between one and a half and two million bucks.
They turned into Blake Street, and I slowed right down to give them a chance to park and get out. After thirty seconds or a minute, I turned in after them and drove slowly past. It was a double-fronted, gabled affair that looked as though it might have been built in the thirties. It had a cute wooden arch with a rose bush growing over it that led to the front door. I just caught a glimpse of her bending down to hug a couple of kids as he held the door open. The kids were about four or five. He was about thirty-two and dark.
I drove on by.
I drove slowly, drumming a tattoo on the steering wheel as I chewed my lip and thought. The roads were empty, and dusk was creeping across the sky. I noticed absently in my mirror that there was a dark blue Audi 8 some distance behind me. Some people play with worry beads, some people have a special pen for signing contracts, others have a St. Christopher in their car. I have a stupid notion that bad guys always drive black or dark blue Audis. It is my thing. So I turned right into McGee Avenue at the end of the road and waited for him at the junction with Dwight Way, like I wasn’t sure which way to go. He came up behind me, but I couldn’t see his face because his windows were tinted. I turned right into Dwight, and he followed. So I turned right again into Grant, and as he followed again, I turned right once more into Blake again and stopped. I got out and walked back toward him as he turned in behind me. I made a motion he should wind down his window. Instead he pulled out past me and drove away at speed.
I got back in my car and returned to my hotel.
I had a light supper. While I was eating, my mind was racing. It was obvious to me who was in the Audi. What was troubling me was, when did they pick me up? Had they been with me when I went into Mary Browne’s clinic? Did they know who I’d been tailing? I probed back with my mind. I was pretty sure that I would have noticed a dark Audi tailing me.
Also, logic suggested they had not been with me very long—or at least they did not know who I had been tailing, because they had continued past her house, following me, not who I was following.
That night I slept fitfully. By six a.m. I had to get up, though I felt more tired than when I’d gone to bed. I had a shower and called room service for coffee and croissants. I was out by eight. It was a bright, fresh morning with the first hints of autumn in the air. I stood in the doorway of the hotel scanning the road left and right. Everybody seemed to be moving. There was nobody staring in a shop window, loitering reading the morning paper or waiting on the corner for a cab. So I moved into the crowd and took a long, winding, circuitous route to Market Street. I was pretty sure by the time I got there, I had not been followed.
I went up to the fifth floor and pushed into the clinic. Marylyn looked surprised to see me but forced herself to smile.
“Mr. Stone, back so soon? I didn’t think we’d made an appointment…”
I shook my head. “We didn’t, but this is an emergency. I am having a crisis, and I need to see the doctor right away. Or I might do something crazy.”
“But she isn’t in yet…”
“I’ll wait.”
“But she has a nine o’clock, Mr. Stone…”
I shook my head again, more insistently, “I’m telling you. I need to see her now, or I’m going to jump out of a window or do something crazy. I mean it.”
She stared at me. I tried to look crazy. She picked up the phone. After a moment, she said, “Mary? It’s Mr. Stone from yesterday. He is very insistent that he must see you straight away…”
“Tell her I’ll do something crazy.”
She listened for a moment, then hung up.
“She is just arriving. You can have fifteen minutes. After that you must make an appointment.”
As she was speaking, the door opened behind me and Mary Browne came in. She gave me a look like I was a naughty boy and said, “Come on in.”
I followed her into the consulting room and closed the door. I dropped into a chair while she took off her coat and hung it up.
“What is all this about, John?”
“I have this recurring nightmare.”
“We have fifteen minutes.”
“I know, so don’t interrupt me. This could be important for you.” I pointed at her chair. “Sit down. It goes like this. I’m in the Bronx. You know the Bronx?”
She shook her head and sat, holding a notepad and a pen. I shrugged.
“I’m in the Bronx. It’s nighttime. Maybe two in the morning. I am like a ghost. I have no substance. You know what I mean? Like an invisible eye floating in the air. And there are two scenes being played out. And I can see them both happening simultaneously. You still with me?”
She nodded. She hadn’t written anything down yet.
“One scene is in the street. There’s a young kid, maybe twenty, twenty-one. He’s Jewish. He’s kind of lost, but he’s lost in a rage. He has a revolver. It’s a pearl-handled revolver that his father had.”
I paused, w
atching her. There was no reaction, no expression. I went on.
“So this boy is about to do something very bad. He is about to kill somebody. Meanwhile, I am also aware of a girl, a very pretty young Mexican girl. Her name is Maria—Maria Garcia.”
I stared at her a long time, waiting for some kind of reaction. There was nothing. Nothing at all.
“Maria is at a party. More than a party, really, it’s a poker game. There are five guys there. I even know their names. Nelson Hernandez, Dickson Rodriguez, Evandro Perez, José Perez, and Geronimo Peralta. They are drinking beer, whiskey, eating potato chips and peanuts. They are all very cruel to Maria. They abuse her, they prostitute her. Especially, they prostitute her to one man. An Irishman. He’s a bent cop. His name is Mick. Mick Harragan.”
Still she stared at me, like she was in a trance.
“That night, at almost exactly the same time, this young Jewish kid will shoot a young Latino kid in the head, and Nelson and his four cousins will get murdered. This is my recurring nightmare, Dr. Browne. What can you tell me about that?”
She blinked and took a deep breath. She laid her pad and her pen down on the table in front of her and said, “What do you want, Mr. Stone? You are not neurotic, you do not suffer panic attacks, and you do not have recurring nightmares. So why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
I took out my badge and slid it across the table. She looked at it, but she didn’t touch it. “I know it’s you, Maria. I am not here in an official capacity. I’m here as a friend. I want to help you. Pro is looking for you. I don’t know why. I know most of it, but I don’t know why Pro wants you. But if you level with me, I can help you.
“José needs you. He misses you, and so does your mother.”
At the mention of José, her face changed, but not in any way you could put your finger on. Maybe it froze a bit; maybe her eyes lost focus a bit. She didn’t answer for a few moments, and then she sighed deeply and said, “I am sorry, Mr. Stone. You have made a mistake. I have nothing to say to you, and you are wasting your time. I have no idea what you are talking about.”