Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  I narrowed my eyes. “I get plenty of sand, thank you.”

  “Because I know a guy.”

  I balled up a napkin and tossed it at him. “Stop talking!”

  Our orders arrived quickly. Thanks, no doubt, to Muna’s desire to get back to Whip in a hurry. He had the Plowman’s Special—eggs, bacon, hash browns, grits, and biscuits. I was presented that, plus a bowl of Wheaties, a glass of milk, OJ, and three chocolate doughnuts. Muna had to haul it all in on a big, round tray that looked like an oversized pizza pan.

  I looked up at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She glared at me, unbowed. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

  Whip rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation of an artery-clogging feast. I sat quietly watching Muna unload everything.

  “Now eat,” she commanded, tucking the tray under her arm and moving away quickly on rubber-soled shoes.

  “Man, this looks good,” Whip said. He leaned over and took a whiff. “Smells good, too.”

  Reluctantly, I picked up my fork, speared scrambled eggs in its tines, and pushed the eggs around planks of bacon on my plate, managing one small bite per lap, my progress monitored by Muna’s watchful gaze from across the room. This went on for a time with Muna’s eyes narrowing whenever my fork stopped moving. Hopefully, the rectory window would be wide enough for me to shimmy through.

  Chapter 17

  When I got home, nearly every parking spot on my block had a car in it, which wasn’t unusual. Free street parking in Hyde Park was hard to come by without a residential permit, and even if you had one it wasn’t easy. I parked a half-block up from my building and walked back, taking my time, jangling the keys in my jacket pocket, replaying my encounters with Marisol and Father Pascoe and wondering what I was going to do about slimy Anton Bolek. I was slow to spot the unmarked cop car with the two detectives inside, double-parked at the curb. By the time I did, it was too late to turn around and fast-walk in the opposite direction.

  I turned briskly into my yard, head down, and barreled on, knowing that it was futile. The familiar crackle of the police radio and the ominous thwack of car doors opening and closing behind me stopped me in my tracks. I sighed, giving in to the inevitable, and turned to watch Farraday and his partner amble toward me as though time meant nothing and they had oodles of it to burn. Already, I was impatient with their intrusion. I needed time to think and wanted a hot shower and a long nap, thanks to Muna’s food orgy. I didn’t want cops, especially these cops, on my doorstep.

  Farraday barely rated a second glance, but his partner was a new experience, so I watched him closely as he walked up to meet me. Black, mid-forties, gym-fit, tall. Battle veteran, I decided, as he drew close enough for me to see the years of filthy streets etched on his face. Both were dressed like you’d expect—trousers, button-down shirts, ties, and blazers—everything rumpled from sitting in the car too long. I glanced surreptitiously downward, sure of what I’d find—two pairs of dusty, hard-soled cop shoes.

  Ben had told me the partner’s name was Weber, and I watched with great interest as he flashed his ID, and then tucked it back into his pocket. He wasn’t bad looking. I recalled Whip’s crack about dipping my toe in the sandbox, then reeled it back in. “Sand” was a complication I didn’t have time for at the moment. Farraday didn’t bother flashing anything. I knew him, he knew me. No smile, no nod, nothing. Weber wore dark sunglasses, hiding his eyes.

  Farraday glared down at me, ego personified, with his eyes fixed intently on me as though he expected a challenge. “I ought to arrest you right here and now. I say mind your own business, you ignore that and go about leaving your PI prints all over my case. Would you mind telling me, just for the hell of it, what your problem is?” The question was blunt, instantly off-putting. I stared at him for a moment, taking in the disdainful look on his face and the remnants of the uneven shave he’d given himself that morning, deciding instantly that I wasn’t going to play along. I stood silently. “Or maybe you’d rather take this inside and we can talk about it in there,” Farraday said, more order than suggestion. I imagined his brusqueness got him pretty far with dodgy suspects and witnesses prone to shading half-truths, intimidated by the possibility of jail time. For me, it did squat.

  I managed an icy smile. “Here’s fine.”

  I didn’t want Farraday in my house. I didn’t want him in my yard, either, but better here than there. Farraday stretched his body to its full height and width, which reminded me of an animal that puffed up and out to scare off anything big enough to eat it. There was a button missing on his shirt. I glanced again at Weber. Still stoic, still not bad looking. I wondered what was going on behind the sunglasses.

  “We went by Irma Luna’s,” Farraday said. “Name ring any bells?”

  “One name,” I said. “One bell.”

  Farraday’s thin lips curled into a flat smile. “You two hit it off real good, apparently. For us she’s got zero, but you she likes. You’re the only one who gives a rat’s ass what happened to her kid, a goddamn champion of the people.” He grinned, amused by his own cleverness. He was enjoying himself, which made me dislike him even more. “We’re on this case full swing, and I know what went down. That’s me telling you three times now. But what I want to know is—what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  I tightened my grip around the keys in my hand, pressing tender flesh to jagged metal until the impulse to be indelicate subsided. Farraday was a bully; bullies made lousy cops, and I’d had my fill. I eased out a breath, took my time pulling it back. “I offered my condolences to Mrs. Luna. We talked. Talking’s legal. I think you know why I have an interest.” I unloosed my grip on the keys. “And I know where the lines are. I used to walk them, remember?”

  Farraday glared. “I remember lots of things.” He took a step closer to me, leaned in. “This is what you’re going to do; you’re going to knock it the hell off. You’re going to step so far back off of this that they’ll need to send out a search party to find you.”

  Our eyes locked. “This is the third time you’ve threatened me. I’m beginning to take it personally.”

  “I didn’t hear a threat.” He turned to Weber. “You hear a threat?” Weber stared at his partner, but said nothing. His face never changed. “What’s the matter, Raines? Do you have nothing better to do than prowl the streets looking for fresh bodies to poach? Is business that slow?”

  I smiled at Farraday. “That the best you can do?”

  Farraday looked as though he might implode. “You always did think you were better than the rest of us, the ace detective, smarter than the average.”

  I pulled a face, feigning empathy. “I never knew you had an inferiority complex. It explains a lot, though.”

  He bristled, his hand traveling down to tap the star clipped to his belt, almost as though he were reassuring himself that it was still there.

  I said, “If there’s a point to this, and I seriously hope there is, I wish you’d hurry up and get to it.”

  The veins in Farraday’s neck danced as he bit down on his lower lip hard enough to blanch. It was impressive, really. I flicked a look at Weber. Still nothing. The man could have been made of marble for all the animation he showed. No one spoke for a time.

  “Well, as pleasant as this has all been . . .” I turned for the door.

  “Did I say we were done?” Farraday barked.

  I felt my composure slipping, but quickly pictured myself making my one measly phone call from the women’s lockup, and instead internally skipped on along to my happy place. “No, I’m saying it.” I kept my voice low, calm. I had neighbors. It was bad enough I had cops in my yard; I didn’t need to elevate the situation by causing a scene. “Either arrest me for talking or get out of my yard.”

  It looked like Farraday didn’t know whether to arrest me for nothing or pummel me with the butt of his gun.

  “Why don’t I jump in,” Weber said, breaking his silence. “Give me a minute
while you call in and check on that report?”

  Without another word, Farraday broke off and stormed back to the car, slamming the driver’s door behind him, as though he were a petulant child denied a candy bar at the grocery store. He sat there, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes trained straight ahead. I wondered if he was in there stomping his feet against the floorboard.

  Weber reached into his pocket and pulled out his card, handing it to me. “That was interesting.”

  I read the card. “By all means, jump right in, Detective Eli Weber.”

  He smiled, slipped off his glasses. Nice eyes, I thought. The color of almonds, with flecks of yellow. “I’ve heard stories about you. I wanted to see for myself. You hold your own, that’s for sure.”

  “Stories? From who?” I didn’t know if I liked the idea of stories about me floating around the cop houses. Weber grinned, but didn’t respond. He just stood there looking at me. Finally, tired of the staring game, I picked my door key out of the jumble on my key ring and headed for my front door. I was done. I didn’t have time to waste on a silent cop and an imbecile having a hissy fit.

  “You started out at the Fifteenth under John Bergen,” he said, calling after me. I stopped, turned, and eyed him warily. Bergen had trained me. “I worked a task force with him a few years back. Real old-school cop—but sharp. I heard about the lymphoma, hoped he’d beat it.” He read my look, then shot me a smile that seemed to twinkle like diamonds. “Relax, I’m not working you. Bergen was one of the good ones.” Weber’s eyes tracked a mufflerless car as it sped down the street. “You don’t always get to pick your partner. Maybe this sticks, maybe it doesn’t. Farraday’s not an easy one to latch onto. You took that a lot better than I would have.”

  “Only a dumb fish rises to slow-moving bait.”

  Weber nodded, slipped his glasses back on. “Well, if you come across anything else while you’re out there ‘talking,’ I’d appreciate the heads-up. I’m all about teamwork.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He frowned. “That didn’t sound too promising.”

  I glanced at the cop car to make sure Farraday was still in it. He was. “How perceptive of you.”

  “I know there’s something. You trained with Bergen, and he didn’t pull dead weight along behind him. He sure as hell didn’t, suffer fools gladly.” I narrowed my eyes, certain he was shining me on. “No bull. Just fact.”

  “Sounds like bull,” I said.

  “If you went to Luna’s, you had a reason. I don’t think you came out empty-handed, either. In fact, I’d bet good money on it.” His eyes held mine. “Teamwork works, if you work it.”

  “I’ve had Farraday on my team,” I said. “It didn’t work out so well for me.” I took a step toward him. “I want this case solved. It’s important to me. I can’t depend on Farraday to follow through.”

  “So give me what you’ve got,” he said simply.

  I hesitated. I didn’t know Weber, or what kind of cop he was. Pop was mine, not his. Nobody would care more about him than I did. But CPD had resources I didn’t have, manpower I didn’t have. I studied Weber’s body language, searched his face for evidence of deception. Could I trust that he’d stand for Pop, even if Farraday wouldn’t?

  “About Bergen?” he said. “He recruited me for that task force. You knew him. You know what that says.”

  He was right. I did know. It said John trusted Weber. It meant Weber was good police. A nod from John Bergen was all the endorsement any cop would ever need. I slid my hands into my pockets. “All right. I’ll give you this. Cesar Luna knew that church. He’d been there before. That means he knew Father Heaton. He didn’t just happen by looking for things to steal. The night he died? He’d been jumped out of the Scorpions. That explains the bruises.”

  “Most times quitting a gang is fatal,” Weber said.

  “Maybe it was this time, too. Hector Perez and the others weren’t too happy with Cesar. Try rousting some of them. I also found out that Cesar had a girl, someone not from the neighborhood. A black girl who a witness saw wearing a St. Brendan’s hat. She and Cesar were seen at the McDonald’s downtown on State in early January, on a Friday. Maybe security cameras picked them up. She might hold a piece to this.”

  Weber looked satisfied. “Anything else?”

  I thought of the girl’s photo, Pop’s Bible, but decided to keep them to myself for now. I’d see how Weber held up his end first, then decide how much I’d share. “Just this tip. You’d do well to watch your back. Farraday never learned how to cover anything but his own ass.”

  Weber thought about it for a moment, and I could tell from the pensive look on his face that he heard and understood me. “I’ll do that, Ms. Raines.” He then doffed an imaginary hat and walked away.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, the sun pulled me out into the yard, where I spent some quiet time hand tilling the soil in my grandmother’s flowerbeds as though it were my life’s passion. I didn’t much like gardening. It had been her thing, not mine, but I wanted to preserve the beds. It helped that the air was crisp, the sky cloudless, and somewhere, the early birds were chirping their little heads off, though that was bad news for anyone trying to sleep in on their day off.

  Pop’s memorial was a day away, and while I knelt in the moist earth working my fingers through dirt that felt clean, I was busy formulating a plan to ruin Father Pascoe’s day, and lift Pop’s datebook from what I hoped would be an empty rectory. I would get in and out as quietly as the proverbial church mouse, or I would spend the night in jail. I’d have to be ready for either scenario.

  “Morning.”

  I turned to see a man of about sixty dressed in a dark suit and tie standing just inside the yard. I returned the greeting and watched as he stood there grinning like an idiot. “You looking for someone?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. I glanced at the suit. It was a nice suit—well cut, business appropriate. “You missed the bank by a couple blocks. Up a block, right at the corner.” He chuckled, and my blood froze. I’d heard the laugh before.

  “You look so much like your mother.” As recognition dawned, I slowly got to my feet, and stepped away from him. “Theodore Raines,” he said gently. “Your father.”

  In an instant, nearly all the air seemed to whoosh out of my lungs, leaving me next to zip to draw on. He moved forward to shorten the distance between us; I backed away again to lengthen it.

  He stopped, mindful of my retreat. “I took a chance you’d still live here. Grace and Frank left you the building, I see?” He eyed the flowerbed. “She loved those flowers. I’m glad you’re keeping them up.” He looked disappointed, as though he’d had his heart set on something other than stunned silence. “This is a surprise, I know, but I couldn’t think of an easier way to do this other than to just do it. Pull the Band-Aid off, so to speak?”

  I stared at him, but didn’t say anything. It’d been over two decades—a lifetime—since I’d seen him last, and now here he was again, older, grayer, a stranger, but not. What did you say to someone you’d let go of and never expected to see again?

  “I’d like to talk.” He said it plainly, as though he’d just returned from the corner store, not from Lord knows where after twenty-three years. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Of course, I saw it now—the hazel eyes, more green than brown, his face the color of warm caramel. My eyes. My face. The very same doorstep he’d left me on was just a few feet behind me. I turned to look at it, seeing it now as it was then, me on the step holding my suitcase, listening to the lie.

  “It’s only for a little bit,” he said, crouching down to my level. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I turned back to face him now, mystified by his presence.

  “I need to explain myself,” he offered tentatively.

  “No, you don’t.” The calmness in my voice surprised me. I didn’t feel calm. I didn’t exactly know what I felt, not
yet. “You don’t get to do this. I’d like you to go.”

  He drew back. “I realize I’m the last person you want to hear from. I get that, but if you would just give me a minute.”

  My mind clicked rapidly through half a lifetime of missed Christmases, birthdays, and childhood traumas, which left a void my grandparents and Pop had tried their best to fill. I hadn’t believed he’d come back, but a part of me still hoped. I was a kid, that’s what kids do. I’d waited dutifully before finally letting him go. I watched as he wiped sweat from his brow, almost too ashamed to look at me.

  “I made a terrible mistake, one I’d like to try and make up for.”

  I said nothing. What was there to say? It could have been worse, a lot worse. I might not have had grandparents to raise me; I might not have had Pop. I was lucky, luckier than others. I turned out all right. I turned out just fine.

  “I’ve moved around all over, lately it’s St. Louis,” he began hurriedly. “This is not the best way to do this, I realize.” He moved to take another step toward me, seemed to think better of it, and stopped. “If we could just go inside, maybe? Talk?”

  Somewhere down the block someone started a mower. Slowly, I let out the breath I’d been holding. The sound was reassuring, a reminder of the normal, a confirmation that the Earth still turned and the bottom hadn’t dropped out of my life again like it had the last time the two of us stood here. I shook my head. “I don’t think we need to.” I eyed the suit. “What are you? A banker, or something?”

  He brightened at the question. “Insurance adjuster, actually. It’s not very exciting, but I’m good at it.”

  My entire body trembled, but it wasn’t anger. It’d been too long for that, the break too complete. What was it? He tried a smile, but didn’t pull it off. He managed instead just a pained grimace. “Maybe you could tell me a little something about yourself?”

  I took a step toward him. I no longer needed the distance. I’d discovered, standing by my grandmother’s flowers in front of the home I owned, that I was okay, solid, and that he’d long ago lost the power to hurt me. The shock was over. That’s what it was, I thought, the trembling. Not anger, shock, like seeing a ghost in a dark room, like suddenly turning a corner and bumping into someone coming the other way, a startle, a surprise. “If people knew better, they’d do better,” I said. “That’s how they explained you to me.”