“He may be a danger to others. To you. Your boys. Or himself—”
“Do you think I’m dumb? You think that runs in the family, too?”
Sam stirs in the wagon. “Mommy?”
“Sammy,” Christina says, her mom voice resetting, and helps him sit up. “You want some Seven Up?” She uses her bare hand to wipe his nose and then she looks at me. “Are we done here?”
“Mommy?” Sammy says again, head wobbling as he grabs the side of the wagon and leans over and throws up.
I step back. I take morgue breaths.
“Oh, Sammy.” Christina gets a kitchen towel and wipes her legs, her son, the wagon, the floor.
I’m about to excuse myself when there’s a knock at the front door.
“Alex, Eric,” Christina yells, “get that!”
“I can let myself out,” I say, but then Alex and Eric come into the kitchen, and they’re escorting Weiss.
“Weiss,” I stretch his name to three syllables: what the fuck.
He ignores me. “Are you Christina Hardy?”
“CeCe,” she says, wiping her hands on the same towel. Her smile is coy—another reason we are nothing alike, despite the fact that apparently, Kay mistakes me for her. “And you are?”
“I’m Ray Weiss.” He points to me. “I’m her partner.”
“Your partner was just leaving.” She sounds like she hopes that’s still happening.
“Mama,” Sammy groans.
Weiss asks, “Is your husband here, by chance?”
Christina picks up Sammy and holds his head against her shoulder. “Matt doesn’t come home Wednesdays. He works two jobs. He’s out in Elgin today, at the Lexington Inn. He does maintenance there. And at the middle school.”
Seems like she has this answer thought through, too, so, to throw her off, I ask the boy, “Hey, Sam, did you get to see your grandma yesterday?” because kids don’t rehearse.
Christina glares at me, whatever sweet was there going sour. “Should I be calling my lawyer? Or are you about ready to go ahead and fuck yourself?”
“She’ll be outside,” Weiss says, about me, to me.
I go.
On the way to the door, Alex or Eric says, “So long, sucker!”
I’d like to think he’s talking to the game.
I’m getting in my car when Weiss skips out of the house.
“You want to take a ride to Elgin?”
I stand behind the car door. “I don’t see Mr. Hardy being any more forthcoming.”
“You think Christina’s hiding something?”
“Something, yes.” I look at him. Then I don’t. I ask, “Why did you follow me?”
“Earlier, in the caf? I wanted to ask how you were, but you blew me off. Then I saw you again in the parking lot, and I tried to catch up. You took off. I got the idea you were avoiding me. So, yes: I was curious, and I followed you. I lost you on the Ike. At the merge. You drive— It’s impressive, how fast you drive.”
“If you lost me, how did you know to find me here?”
“It’s my case!”
And just like that, I’m on defense. “I only came out here because St. Claire asked me to talk to Christina.” The lie sounds obvious to me, but it’s all I’ve got.
Weiss does a double take. “St. Claire knows her?”
Is he joking? “Are you joking?”
“Are you laughing?”
“Kay is her mother. You didn’t know that?”
“I don’t need to know that. I’m looking for Johnny Marble. It’s a fairly straightforward assignment.”
“Then why do you keep finding me?”
“Good question.” His smile feels like an indictment. “I don’t think you’re being forthcoming, either. About what happened with Marble.”
“Please,” I say. “It was a fairly straightforward assault.” I get in the car and I should close the door but I feel the need to say, “Next time you wonder if I’m avoiding you, don’t.”
I close the door. Start the car. Drive. But I wonder. And check the rearview.
Weiss is gone.
10
I go back to the office and spend the rest of the afternoon at my desk and I do exactly what I’m supposed to do and when there’s nothing to do I try not to think about Weiss. The way he looked at me, the way he said I wasn’t being forthcoming—he made me feel exactly the way I did the first time Tom took my hand: cornered in my own trap.
With Tom, it was shortly after he’d agreed to testify in the case I was investigating. We were having coffee under the guise of discussing the crime. When I said it was brave of him to come forward with information—which seemed appropriate, as the crook we hoped would get convicted was a longtime felon who’d souped up the space next to Cloverleaf for the purposes of torture, murder, and disposal of a body—Tom must’ve heard me say he should move forward. When he reached for my hand, I saw the dopey look in his eyes. I didn’t stop him, though I knew I was in trouble.
With Weiss, too, the context is also confusing, and it’s real clear I’m in trouble. The thing is, I don’t know how to stop him.
I’m filing my nails when Andy sneaks up and puts his hands on my shoulders. I know it’s him because he always smells like peppermint candy and hand sanitizer and, despite those, cigarettes.
“Boo,” I say.
“Did they belt you into that chair?”
“It’s comfortable.”
“How about a cigarette?” That means he made the trip here to talk at least ten feet from anybody else.
“Let me log out.”
Outside, we get ten feet from the building and twenty more from the dick who’s out there smoking alone.
Andy lights up and then he says, “Sanchez is out. She won’t testify.”
“Okay,” I say, “but you’ve still got St. Claire.”
“And you.”
“And me.” I wonder if I sound reluctant.
“You know, I’m starting to think this thing boils down to nothing more than a family dispute. These people, they’re—”
“These people? What’s that mean?”
“It means the apple doesn’t fall far from the crooked tree. No state’s attorney is going to want to take this to court. St. Claire isn’t going to convince a judge of anything but her insanity.”
I don’t say anything; I’m thinking.
“Gina, why won’t you let this go? How come you want to find Marble?”
I don’t say anything; I’m afraid of what he’s thinking.
“Gina. Why can’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you. He tried to kill me. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
This time he doesn’t say anything.
So I say what I was thinking: “A lawyer would take this, if he could make a connection. Marble tried to kill me and Sanchez and St. Claire. I chased my way into the case, but how are Sanchez and St. Claire connected?”
“They aren’t.”
“I wonder,” I say. I don’t, really, and I don’t think there is a connection either, but pretending does provide me the opportunity to ask, “Did St. Claire mention anything to you about stolen money?”
“What?” Andy looks at me sideways. “No.”
I meet his look, sideways. “Duppstadt told me the caregiver said Johnny wanted money, and St. Claire refused, and that’s why he beat her up. So maybe Johnny stole from her. It could be how this whole thing started. If you can get Kay to talk about the money—”
“You’ve been talking to Weiss.”
I straighten up and raise my numb right hand. “No. Swear to god.”
“Then how is it that he called this afternoon just to give me the exact same advice?”
“Maybe he talked to St. Claire.” I’m certain I don’t sound convincing.
“Gina.” He steps back and points to the ground with his cigarette. “Look at your feet.”
“Why?” I get scared, thinking the left one has actually become visibly deformed, but they both look like plain
old feet.
“You think Weiss is going to sweep you off of them when he wants to take them out from under you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to admit it. I probably wouldn’t, either, especially when the son of a bitch is so charming. But he’s got you thinking that you both want Marble. What he wants?” Andy studies the end of his cigarette.
I feel gut sick. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know, but it’s more than Marble. And I’m pretty sure he’s using you to get it.”
I take the cigarette. I smoke the rest of it.
“Gina, what’s he got on you?”
“I don’t know.” I realize saying so is a confession.
He lights another smoke and we stand there for a while, neither one of us enjoying ourselves. He says, “When Weiss called me today—well, I guess it was the second time he called—he wanted to know about you. I say what the hell does Gina have to do with anything, she’s off the case, all that. But he says relax, he just wants to know if you’re feeling okay.”
That son of a bitch. “He knows I’m fine. I told him so when he showed up at my house the night before last.”
“I think he was asking me to see if I’d defend you or not. Which I did. And you’re welcome. But when I say, enough about Gina, what do you have on Marble? He says he went to Marble’s sister’s today. He said he thinks she was covering for him; that Marble had been there. And that maybe they’re in it together, stealing from St. Claire.”
“Marble was at Christina Hardy’s?” I’m floored. Why didn’t Weiss tell me?
“Jesus, Gina,” Andy says, because I guess I just admitted that I was there, too. He fishes his phone out of his front pants pocket, scrolls, and hands it to me. “Read the latest text he sent.”
Today 2:17 PM
Marble is on foot. Backtracking to check his apt.
“Did he go back to the apartment?”
“I don’t know, Gina. What I want to know is why a guy whose specialty is supposed to be finding people hasn’t got Marble by the neck already. I mean, if the suspect is on foot you call K9. If he’s on a train you work with the CTA. If he’s got old haunts, you get a team and stake them out. But not Weiss; he wants to go around all by himself, jerking chains to see which ones come loose.”
“You think I’ve come loose.”
“I think you’re getting jerked.” He puts his phone away. “Do you know where Weiss was before he transferred to Fugitives?”
“When I knew him, he was splitting time between the bar and his beat car.”
“Sounds about right. Until he disappeared for a while last year. When he surfaced, so did the case that took out that west side heroin trafficker and his whole crew. Five of the local guys pinched were cops. Nobody will admit Weiss was undercover, but he was part of the crew, and he’s one of only two who are still the police.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I still go to the bar, baby.”
I want to throw up. I stamp out the smoke.
Andy looks at me. “Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to talk to Iverson. I’m going explain about Sanchez. And St. Claire. I’m going to tell her it’s a no-win, if it’s even a case. But you, Gina? You need to get away from this. As far away as you can.”
“What about Weiss? You think Iverson will call him off Marble?”
“No. Marble is a wild card she’s afraid the press will pick up and play as a race card. She’s actually glad he’s got your gun. Evens the score—otherwise, you know, white cop, black man—that would never work out in your favor.”
God damn. “I don’t see how any of this is going to work out in my favor.”
“Yeah, well, the way this all looks, now? I think I can convince Iverson to bury the whole thing. That’d do us all a favor.”
A band of squads gather in the parking lot across the way, a signal for the pending shift change. I tell Andy, “I have to go pick up Isabel.”
He tucks his cigarette and gives me a one-arm hug. “I’m going to save your ass, G. Though I don’t know from what.”
“Thanks for the bad news.”
“Don’t let it get worse.”
* * *
I get Isabel from daycare and I’m so happy to see her and so anxious that I won’t get to see her anymore that I have to hold her tight until I can get the tears back in my eyes.
“Mabicabi?” she asks once I pull myself together and strap her into the backseat. The way her voice warps the question into an exclamation bothers me, because it sounds like she wouldn’t mind at all, being with Maricarmen instead.
I dial Mari to preemptively cancel her visit. I’ve got plenty of stuff to talk to her about but before that, I just want some time with my girl. While the phone rings I say, “It’s you and me tonight, Spaghet.”
And then I remember George.
I hang up, because if George actually does show up, I’d like a trusted ally there.
When we get home, I prop a kitchen chair at the counter so Isabel can help me start the meat sauce. I make one hell of a meat sauce. I don’t measure. I use ground beef, all the mushrooms. Too much garlic. As much oregano. A little red wine. I drink more than I use. I’m nervous, I’m paranoid. I’ll be better on a buzz.
Isabel gets insistent about helping me stir and when I take the slotted spoon away, we both wind up having a tantrum: she’s not in the mood for my instructions, and I’m not in the mood for her help. When she gives me a pouty lip I find Meatball and put them in front of the TV. I need to think.
When George does show up, I’m going to have to tell him about Tom. The truth, yes, but only in part. I’ll say he’s away on business; I’ll leave out the last phone call, that demeaning ‘baby and a wife in a wheelchair’ argument. I’ll confess to George that I don’t think it’s working out; I will never admit I knew it from day one. I will say Tom is coming back; I won’t say he isn’t coming back here.
I’m also going to have to tell George about Marble. In part. I’ll say I chased a suspect. I won’t say I didn’t catch him. I’ll say we’re safe; I won’t say I lie awake at night hoping I’m right. And I certainly won’t say I’m afraid I’ll lose my job because of him.
The sauce is simmering when Lidia arrives.
“It smells delicious,” she says.
“Maricarmen isn’t the only one who can cook around here. I hope you’ll take some with you.” I made too much; I couldn’t help it. George looked so hungry yesterday. And I haven’t had a reason to make anything more complicated than cereal in at least a month.
When we sit down I say, “I actually have a terrible headache,” so we don’t have to talk. Or at least so I don’t have to.
“It’s common,” Lidia says as she gets the IV going. “Steroids tend to make patients feel so good that they overdo it. It’s typical on a day like today.”
I don’t know how she knows what today was like. I won’t admit she’s right.
“Most drugs I administer are palliative,” she says, “meant to take feeling away. This one? It seems to hit every last nerve.”
“I’m amped.” I have to admit that. I can’t sit still. I want to scream.
“Better than the alternatives, I promise. Morphine is the worst. Confidentially? Some days I have to give doses that send patients into respiratory depression. I spend the whole session watching them to make sure they’re still breathing.”
“Isn’t that illegal? For you to give that much?”
“I’ve yet to meet someone dealing with terminal cancer who’s worried about the law. Anybody in pain—or anybody watching someone in pain—is going to want me to do my job.”
“Must be hard on you.”
“I just have to believe I’m doing what’s best.”
“I want to throw up,” I say, because that line—doing what’s best—that was my mom’s line, when she divorced my dad.
“Oh, dear,” Lidia says, “can I help you to the bathroom?”
I was a senior. George was a freshman. They sat us down one day and said they were separating. She said love was easy; marriage was not. She said she was doing what’s best. My dad didn’t say anything. He never argued.
I knew what was best, and that she was about to ruin it, but nobody wanted my opinion—these were grown-up things that had to be worked out over time. Time was a key word, and she kept buying it—just by doing what was best.
In the meantime, there was no place for us, so George and I finished out the school year at the Metzler’s. Rick and Janine came through on their role as godparents, saintlike in their willingness to provide us a local address and a normal life so we could remain at our school. My dad got an apartment. He came for dinner most nights. My mom called every night, but she never had much to say.
I didn’t know time was up until I met the boyfriend. Mom asked George and me to the house one summer Sunday and there he was, this totally regular guy, a totally regular smile. Jim. A regular name. No warning he’d be there, no way to talk about what he was doing there. I saw his toothbrush in the bathroom. I saw the same old bedspread on the bed. And then I knew that home, as certain an idea as I had about anything, was gone.
I knew my dad was clueless so I asked her: didn’t she feel guilty? She said guilt was a useless emotion. Then she asked me if I thought Jim was cute.
I left George there. I never went back.
Six years later, she called my dad. I was there; it was Christmas. I could tell by his face that it wasn’t good news. He hung up the phone, packed a bag, kissed his then-girlfriend goodbye, and moved back to the house. My mom was sick, and so he stayed with her, and he helped her die.
I couldn’t understand. How could he give in, after all those years? He said he wasn’t giving in. He was forgiving.
When she was dying—her last days—my dad asked me to come. She died before I got up the nerve to go.
“Are you okay?” Lidia asks.
“I’m fine.”
When the IV is done, I send Lidia off with some spaghetti sauce and join Isabel to watch the rest of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, a stark contrast to my mood.
At ten to seven, I take Isabel out front, so we’ll greet George.
The Lies We Tell Page 12