by Tracy Clark
Men’s clothes. I pawed through the bag, feeling along the lining for hiding places, upsetting the sweaters, turtlenecks, and such. Winter clothes, brand-new with the tags still on them. Nestled into a side pocket someone had placed a pocket Bible, a small laminated prayer card slipped between the pages. I turned the card over in my hands. ST. BENEDICT JOSEPH LABRE.
It meant nothing to me. I was a lapsed Catholic in good standing, and had long ago lost the ability to identify obscure saints. Fluttering the Bible’s pages yielded nothing else.
I thought I heard a noise downstairs and froze, waiting to be caught, my hand in the bag. When the noise didn’t repeat, I resumed my search, mindful of the time I was taking.
These clothes were all for someone twice Pop’s size. Who? Beside the duffle sat a new pair of boots, size eleven and a half wide. Also, not Pop’s. I shoved everything back inside the bag, pushed it back inside the closet and stood, brushing the dust off my pants. If the contents of the bag were meant as donations, since when did people give away brand-new clothes? And why were they all the same size, as though meant for someone specific? Heavy sweaters, warm socks, all the things someone would need to get through a cold winter outdoors. Were they for Old Sarge? The man Cleopatra said wore the magic boots?
I quickly checked the hall, then raced for the stairs, then stopped. Maybe Father Pascoe had helped himself to Pop’s book? Thea, maybe? But I quickly dismissed her. She wouldn’t have. I eyed Father Pascoe’s bedroom door and for a second contemplated searching it, too, but that would be pushing my luck. Reluctantly, I let it go. Instead, I trotted down the stairs, through the entry hall and back out the front door, pulling it closed behind me. I stood there for a second, my back to the courtyard, breathing a sigh of sweet relief until a man chortled behind me. Startled, I whipped around to find Detective Weber standing at the foot of the rectory steps, his arms folded across his chest. He had me dead to rights for unlawful entry, illegal picklocks in my pocket. I would be the easiest arrest he’d ever make in his entire career. I sighed, slowly raised both arms high, the universal sign of surrender, and wondered how long they’d make me wait before I could make my one phone call.
Chapter 21
“Father Pascoe inside?” Weber asked.
I shook my head.
“The housekeeper?”
I squinted at him. “Are we really going to play this game?”
Weber removed his sunglasses and hooked them onto his belt. “This is the part when folks start bargaining and coming up with fantastical tales. Some people even start to cry or offer to make generous donations to the Policemen’s Fund. You want to give any of that a shot?”
I stiffened, affronted by the very idea of stooping so low. Never in a million years, I thought. Two million even. Our eyes locked. I stood tall, defiant. In that moment, I was Rosa Parks on that Montgomery bus, Norma Rae atop that factory table, a stubborn two-year-old refusing to eat her peas and carrots. “Absolutely not.”
He grinned. “Aw, go on. It might be fun.”
I held my wrists out for the cuffs. “Look, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it. I’ve got things to do. If I can get processed by noon, I can arrange bail and be out in time to sleep in my own bed tonight. Chop, chop.”
He chuckled. “Man, you’re something else.”
He was having way too much fun with this, which was beginning to irritate me. “I assume I can put my hands down now?”
He nodded. “Your idea to put them up.”
“Yeah, well, it’s usually safer that way.”
He motioned for me to lower my arms. “I’m not taking you in. You wore the star. Far as I’m concerned, you still do.”
“Heh, don’t let Farraday hear you say that.” I lowered my arms, grateful for the professional courtesy. “Thanks.”
Weber’s eyes swept over me. “Besides, I don’t see the rectory’s TV under your jacket. Also don’t see a door key. Do I want to know how you got in?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Takes a lot of nerve to break into a holy place.”
I flicked a thumb toward the church. “The holy place is over there. This is just a house. You’re not Catholic, I take it.”
“Methodist. When I feel the urge to be anything. Did you at least get what you came for?”
I shook my head. “I was looking for Father Heaton’s datebook. He always carried it.”
“And it’s not inside?”
“No.”
Weber smiled. “Took a big chance going for it, though.”
I shrugged. “No guts, no glory.”
“What’s so important about a datebook?”
“It should verify that he knew Cesar Luna. It might identify Cesar’s girlfriend and the homeless man who almost choked me to death. The fact that I can’t find it anywhere, I believe, is significant, don’t you?”
“I heard about that guy. He popped out of the closet.” Weber’s eyes traveled to my neck. “You’re working up some nice bruises there. Hope you gave as good as you got.”
I shrugged. “I walked away. That’s good enough.”
Weber scanned the rectory. “But you came back.... I’m liking the initiative. But if I were a different kind of cop, you’d be on your way to jail right now, and that would be a real shame.”
I narrowed my eyes. I’d been a little slow on the uptake, but was quickly catching on. “What kind of cop are you?”
“I could tell you over coffee.” He stood there, an amused grin on his face. I blinked and stared back. He really wasn’t bad looking for a cop. I liked the eyes, the intensity of his gaze, the way he met you head on, calmly, assuredly. My eyes traveled to the ring finger of his left hand, and that’s when the wheels of possibility screeched to an abrupt stop. The finger sported a narrow band of skin a few shades lighter than the rest of his hand, which bore witness to his having recently removed a ring. And I had a pretty good idea what kind. I hadn’t thought to look the first time we met. I blame Farraday. He distracted me.
“Separated,” he said when he caught me looking. “The job’s tough on marriages.”
“Newly separated.”
“Almost a year. The papers are filed. It’s over.”
I scanned the courtyard. No Farraday. He was probably out there stomping on a litter of puppies with his big cop feet. “Farraday’s not crouching under a bush waiting to Taser me, is he?”
“He’s working another angle, and he’s working it hard, determined to show you up. I had a couple more questions for Father Pascoe, so I thought I’d stop by and ask them. It keeps us out of the same car.”
“The bloom fell off that rose pretty quick.” I smiled, feeling vindicated. It wasn’t just me who found Farraday a repugnant little toad. Besides, Weber would be far safer away from Farraday than he would be closer to him. I just wasn’t sure yet why that even mattered to me. “What do you want with Father Pascoe?” Weber looked a question. “I told you why I’m here, in the spirit of full cooperation. It’s your turn.”
“I came across some additional information. I want to talk to him about it.”
I paused, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “Seriously?”
“That’s all I can say at this time,” Weber said. “And you’re one to talk. You’ve been stingy with the facts from your end.”
He was right, I had to admit. Cops were trained to ferret out information and hold it close, not trade it as freely as Pokémon cards at a ten-year-old’s birthday party. Weber’s reluctance to show all of his cards matched mine.
“All right then. What about the surveillance from the McDonald’s that Marisol mentioned? Any movement on that?”
Weber shook his head. “Not yet. It’s slow going. Too much tape, not enough eyes. Good tip, though.”
“What about the guy I chased yesterday? Any leads on him?”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” he said. “Who do you think we are? The Justice League? You have anything besides this datebook?”
>
I held out my empty hands. “Nothing. My best angle is the guy who tried to kill me. I have a contact at one of the shelters. Maybe she can help. Where was Father Pascoe the night of the murders? I know he told Farraday.”
Weber turned to watch cars drive down the narrow street. “His alibi’s solid.”
“That tells me nothing. Are you guys not looking too closely at him because he’s a priest?”
“I’m rethinking the cuffs,” Weber said. “Anybody ever tell you that talking to you is like playing a verbal game of ping-pong?”
“If they did, I wasn’t listening. I told you why I was here.”
Weber’s eyes widened. “You were backing out of a locked door! What choice did you have?”
I bounded down the stairs, headed for the alley gate. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, what about that coffee?”
I turned back. “Why?”
Weber looked confused. “Why do people drink coffee?”
“No, why coffee with me? Farraday must have given you the 411 on me already. Wasn’t that enough to scare you away?”
Weber watched me closely. “Your eyes turn colors when you’re riled up, you know that? I like that you give as good as you get, and you’re easy to look at. I like that you’re giving me a hard time right now about drinking a friendly cup of coffee. You could probably kick my ass, and I don’t even care. I might even learn to like it once I know you better. You’re not typical, and I like that, too. Full of piss and vinegar, as my grandmother used to say, but there’s a soft side, too. People think a lot of you. I’ve asked around. That’s just some of the reasons why you . . . and there they go again.”
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
The whole thing took me by surprise. He held my gaze until I looked away, and then peddled backward. “See you around, Detective Weber.”
Weber let out a frustrated groan. “Really? That’s how it is?”
I smiled, then slipped back into the alley, headed for my car, aware that he was watching me go. The flutter in my stomach told me that Detective Weber could be the right kind of trouble, but he was off limits. Separated was still married, ring or no ring. Besides, Pop came first. Every minute that ticked by, Old Sarge burrowed deeper underground. Coffee would have to wait. I started my car and dialed Bear’s number.
She answered on the half ring, as I expected her to. “Speak,” she barked.
“Cass Raines.” I said. You didn’t waste time with idle pleasantries when talking to Bear. Small talk wasn’t her thing.
“Raines. Long time. Spill it. I’m up to my tits in broccoli florets.” Bear Burgett was a mighty tugboat of a woman, short, stout, able to pull twice her weight and half of yours. She didn’t waste time; she didn’t waste anything. She’d spent way too many years trying to stretch stores of turnips and cheap rump roasts so they’d last until the next donation came in. In the background, I could hear the clattering of steel pots and metal utensils, and over that, the confusion of too many voices attached to bodies in motion confined to too small a space.
“I’m looking for a man—African-American, tall—maybe dealing with some mental issues. He goes around in a field jacket. People call him Old Sarge. He’s been known to cruise around St. Brendan’s Church, but hasn’t been seen there for a while.”
There was a long silence on Bear’s end. “Why’re you asking?”
“You heard what happened there. I think he may know something about that.”
“Hey, hey, hold it. Those potatoes need to be blanched first. Blanch. Blanch! Hold on.” Bear muted me, but quickly returned. “Papers said it was a robbery-suicide thing. Maybe gang-related.”
“I think it was murder,” I said.
“Uh-uh. So, you’re looking at Old Sarge for that?”
“I’m looking at him as a possible witness, that’s all.”
“What’s your stake?”
“Unofficial, and personal,” I said.
There was a long silence.
“I’ve seen a guy in an Army jacket once or twice, but I don’t know the name. I’ll ask around. Get back in touch.”
“Thanks—”
Bear ended the call abruptly, cutting off my thank you. I punched END, though at that point it was merely for formality’s sake. I eased out of the alley, thoughts of broccoli and complicated coffee rolling around in my head.
* * *
My chess set sat forlornly on the side table in my office. It wasn’t half as nice as Pop’s lucky board, but we’d played plenty of lively matches on it. It pained me even to look at it now, knowing Pop wasn’t here to take me on, knowing he never would be. I still hadn’t figured out the notes in his Bible, deciphered the significance of the underlined passage, or learned anything new about the girl in the photograph, and I was exhausted from the effort and from grief. I got up from the chair, padded over to the chessboard, and began removing the pieces, laying each one gently into the chess box. My fingers gripped the last rook tightly before I tossed it in and shut the lid, perhaps for the last time.
I walked over to the window and glanced down at the street watching the cars pass. Deek’s was at the corner, apartment buildings across the street, a bookstore two blocks up. It was just midday, too early for anything truly interesting to happen outside my windows. The missing datebook weighed heavy on my mind, along with the identity of the black girl and the whereabouts of Old Sarge. I’d heard nothing from Bear yet, but it’d only been a few hours. I had the real sense that time was slipping away from me and that I was failing Pop somehow. What could I do next? What had I missed? My office door opened and I turned around to see my father standing in the doorway. I would have thought it impossible for my heart to sink any lower, but it did. He’d ditched the suit, opting this time for a casual sweater and slacks. He was the last person in the world I wanted to see, but I was done fighting. It was exhausting dredging up old hurts. “Yellow Pages or Google?” I walked the box over to the closet and slid it onto the top shelf.
He eased farther in, his eyes sweeping over the small room. “What do you mean?”
“You had a good shot at finding where I lived. I mean, that’s where you left me. You’d have had to look up this address.”
He nodded. “Yellow Pages.”
“I’d rather not lace up for round two, if that’s okay with you.” I’d just packed away memories of the father I’d inherited. Now I hoped someone, anyone, would rid me of the father I’d gotten by biology.
His brows furrowed. Was I seeing concern? “What happened to your face, your neck?”
There was nothing I could do about the goose egg on the back of my head, but I’d done my best to cover the cut on my forehead and the bruises around my neck. Still, concealer only went so far. None of this was something I wanted to discuss with Theodore Raines. I sat. “Nothing for twenty-three years, now twice in one week. Lucky me.”
“You don’t have to talk. I’ll talk,” he said in a rush, as though an alarm would sound when his time was up. “Just give me one hour.” I rolled my eyes. “Thirty minutes then.” He straightened defiantly. “I’m not going away, Cassandra. I swear I’ll stand here till I either grow roots or shrivel up and blow away.”
I sat watching him, thinking of chess and loss and, strangely enough, Kipling. I could test his resolve and let him stand till he fell, a satisfying prospect in my current state of mind, or I could settle it as Barb, and Kipling, had advised. Life was all about choices—the ones you made and those you let slip away. “Tomorrow,” I said finally. “Deek’s. It’s at the corner—”
“I know it,” he said, cutting off my words. “Nine? Breakfast?”
“Ten. And I’m not eating with you.”
He frowned, then shot me a slow smile. “I’ll take what I can get.” He took one final look around, then left, easing the door closed behind him. I watched the door for a time, then attended to the overdue paperwork on my desk.
Kipling was beginning to be a pain in my ass.
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* * *
“Cassie, wouldn’t you like to unpack that suitcase?” I sat rigid on the twin bed covered by a spread of circus clowns; my grandmother sat beside me. My hands clasped in my lap, ankles crossed, legs too short for my feet to touch the carpeting. Waiting. “You’re home,” she said, watching. She had my mother’s smile, her kind eyes. The suitcase had stayed packed for weeks. I needed to be ready in case I had it all wrong and my father was actually coming back. We could learn to be a family. “I can help, if you want?” she offered in her quiet way. “Or we can leave it packed for as long as you need it to be.”
I looked up at her, down at the big blue suitcase with the red vinyl handle, a three-year-old sticker from Disneyland plastered on the side, hating it, wishing I could burn it. As long as I needed it to be? I stood, stopped waiting, and grew up. “No, thank you. I can do it myself.” I took a breath, opened the case, and without a fuss put my things away in drawers that were now mine.
* * *
He was sitting in a booth when I got to Deek’s. Thankfully, not the one I preferred. He stood when I reached him. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
I removed my jacket and slid in across from him. “I said I’d be here. I keep my word.”
He said, “Unlike me, you mean.”
I watched, said nothing. He pushed his half-empty coffee cup away. “Coffee?” He raised his arm to signal for Muna, who was across the way dropping off a plate.
“Tea,” I said.
“Tea.” He repeated it, as though it were an insight into my personality, one he needed to file away for future reference. He caught Muna’s attention. “Tea, please. Thank you.”
Neither of us spoke for a time. When Muna walked over with the small pot of hot water and a caddy full of teabags, she found the two of us staring at each other, not talking.
“Nothing to eat?” she asked, a suspicious look on her face. Maybe she could feel the tension, my trepidation.