Wallflower
( Janek - 3 )
William Bayer
William Bayer
Wallflower
1
She Remembered.
Even years before, when it first came to her, she had relished the idea for the sheer cunning of it, treasured and cherished it for its craft and guile.
She remembered: It had been a sour, rainy day, much like this one, in Cleveland, smelly old Cleveland where the air always stank of iron and dust. She'd been sitting in the window seat, the one on the landing that broke the stairs in the gloomy old Tudor-style house-sitting there, knees drawn to her breasts (such as they were), arms wrapped about her legs, looking out at the rain spattering the sidewalk below. Thunder was rumbling in the distance, and an old kindergarten chant was running through her brain: "Rain, rain, go away/Come again another day…
Then, suddenly, lightning struck, a real bolt that zigzagged, crack!crack!crack! across the sky.
She sat up straight, and the singsong chant was forgotten, for she saw something then, something dark and scary she would remember all her life. There was a moment, just a split second really, when the tight gray fabric of the sky was torn. And then she caught a glimpse of the inky black-the other side. She would never forget that shade of black.
A second later the thunder clapped, and the rain poured down furiously as if a huge bladder had broken open and was emptying itself upon the earth. It was before that, just an instant before, between the bolt and the clap, that the idea was born. It was a very simple idea yet most profound. Only later would she come to understand how there was a cosmic view implicit in it. She remembered: She had been fifteen years old when the concept came to her. Every day after that she harbored and nurtured it. And now, many years later, it was about to bear fruition. She smiled as she remembered, smiled at the sheer cunning of it. The cunning. janek in Love There was in Frank Janek a certain imperturbability as the speedboat raced out of the dawn mist, then cut hard across the lagoon. A slapping sound, water against wood, as the boat sliced the tiny waves. A faintly rancid smell, too, seaweed and shellfish, hung on the vapor that rose from the salt marshes just touched by the morning sun.
The shadowy form of an oil tanker loomed on the horizon while ahead an islet fortress, deserted, trash washed against its seawalls, resolved out of the mist. He'd read about the place. He remembered now. It had been a lunatic asylum not too many years before.
The boat turned again, then charged forward faster, its sharp prow high and haughty, its wake a churning river in the smooth expanse of water behind. Then, in an instant, the fog broke, and his destination, pink and gold, was finally revealed. Towers, domes, arches, bridges, sculptures, pilings angled against a sinuous facade. The soft cries of men stroking long boats through the water merged with the muted tolling of church bells in the shimmering baroque city ahead.
She was there, all of her, all at once, suddenly, and as her remarkable presence hit him full force, Janek stood up in the boat and shuddered with rapture. He couldn't help himself. He had arrived, finally, in Venice. It had been a dream to come here, a dream of seduction so long harbored he'd sometimes thought it would be better left unrealized. What if the legendary city, La Serenissima, failed to charm him with her wiles? She had fallen on hard times, he'd heard, was rotting, sinking, choked with tourists in her season, flooded and fetid the remainder of the year. There was a good chance, he knew, that he'd be disappointed. But rather than deter him, that possibility made him eager. If Venice had gone to seed, well then, hadn't he gone a little to seed himself? And if he was going to be disappointed, then perhaps disappointment was something he could savor.
A depressed middle-aged detective with his greatest case behind him-might not a city well past her glory be the perfect place for him just now?
It had been ten years since he'd taken a vacation. And that was deliberate. "I just can't imagine myself doing nothing," he'd told people, "lying in the sun, broiling myself on some damn beach." But there was a lot more to it. Perhaps, as he now suspected, he had been afraid of the feelings of emptiness a real vacation could expose.
He had always considered himself fortunate: He had found his vocation early, had discovered the joys of investigating crimes, probing deeply into the motives of others. But the one kind of probing that was not pleasant for him at all was the examination of his own quite troubled soul.
Lately his despair seemed to have deepened, something he attributed to the Switch Case, which should have been his crowning achievement but which, instead, had left him feeling depressed, at times almost numb.
Every case had its cost-he knew that, had been aware of that for years-but with Switch the price had been very high. No matter the glory, the fame, the adulation of young colleagues, and the respect of contemporaries, in Switch he had come face-to-face with a degree of blackness which haunted him even now, two years after the final trial.
After the book came out and the miniseries was broadcast, they'd tried to take him off cases. "We've got a thousand detectives to work cases, Frank," his chief had told him. "But you, you're something else, you've become a real asset. What do you say we put you on the fast track, get you ready for a field command?"
When he replied that he didn't want to go on the career fast track and that a command position wasn't for him, he saw the same skeptical expression he'd seen on superiors' faces since the day he'd come on the force, the look that told him he was being regarded as a maverick. He didn't care. Without cases to perplex him, taunt him in the night, he would begin to think about himself. And then he would have to deal with his greatest failing, his apparent inability to sustain a relationship with a woman.
For years he and his best friend and partner, Aaron Greenberg, had laughed over his "poor choices," his "bad luck," his weakness for "problem females." But lately the joke had stopped being funny. He had begun to fear the loneliness of middle age. Twice in the last six months he'd driven alone down to Atlantic City, walked into a casino, tanked up at the bar, bet and lost a week's pay at the blackjack tables. Then he'd driven back home in the dark, almost reveling in his loss of self-esteem.
Those episodes had frightened him. He didn't want to end up like so many detectives he had known, men who'd put in their time on the streets, done the job, retired after honorable careers to lead quiet, lonely, orderly lives. Until, usually on the eve of a winter holiday, the family next door would be awakened by a single shot in the middle of the night.
What he needed now was a chance to focus on who he was and where he was going with his life. And to consider, too, what form his redemption should take, redemption from his melancholy and despair. But it would never have occurred to him to combine that quest with his long-held dream of seeing Venice if Kit Kopta hadn't decided to send him to Lugano. **skip**"You need a change, Frank. I've got just the thing for you," she said when he presented himself, obedient to her summons, at her office.
The room, large and square, seemed to dwarf her, for she was a small, lean forty-five-year-old woman with fine, sharp features, a mane of thick black hair, and dusty Mediterranean skin. Her eyes were her most prominent feature: big brown eyes that burned beneath dark Grecian brows. She'd been appointed Chief of Detectives three months earlier, the first woman ever to hold the position, the highest-ranking female cop in NYPD history. Now she was looking after her own.
"There's a detectives' conference coming up in Switzerland. A couple hundred of the top people from a] I over the world. We've been asked to send our best man. That's you, Frank. You're the one they want."
He squirmed in his chair. "Uh-uh, Kit. Please She grinned, then shook her head. "You're not getting out of this one. they asked for you. They'll pay for everything. All you've got to do is give a litt
le talk."
"About the Switch?"
She nodded. "I know you're sick of it. But a whole bunch of European detectives wants to hear how you solved it."
"I got nothing new to tell them. It's all in the goddamn book."
"Doesn't matter. they want to hear it out of your mouth. Face it, Frank-you're a star. So you might as well enjoy it instead of acting like it's a heavy burden you have to carry around." She squinted at him. "Anyway, it's not an option." Janek laughed.
"You're ordering me to go?"
"We take a bad rap here. Murder City. Five to ten fresh homicides a day."
She linked her fingers, then set her hands straight in front of her.
Just like a chief, he thought. 11… so if some big shot foreign cops want to hear what it's like playing detective in New York, we're going to accommodate them." She paused. "I checked your caseload. You've got nothing much going. When you get back, that's going to change. I want you to attend the conference, then take a vacation, two, three weeks, anywhere you like. The point is get some rest, come back here feeling good. A month from now I don't want to see you dragging your ass around. Okay?" "Look, I appreciate-"
"This isn't charity, Frank. I need you in good condition."
"For what?"
"We'll discuss it when you get back."
Janek looked at her. He knew her well. They'd been lovers for two months twenty years before and then had parted bitterly. Five years after they split, they ran into each other at a police banquet, hit a bar together afterward for a drink, discovered they liked each other, and started dining out once a month. What had begun with sex, then soured to dislike had developed into a deep and mellow friendship. Janek thought of Kit Kopta as one of his half dozen closest friends in the department.
"Thinking of making me your special assistant?"
"Maybe something like that."
"People will talk, Kit."
"Let 'em talk. We won't give a shit, will we, Frank?"
Janek smiled. "Still the ballsy broad,"
"I don't define myself that way. I like to think I'm… feline."
"Feline! "
Her eyes burned defiantly. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just that in a Chief of Detectives 'feline' isn't what people expect."
She nodded. "People, as you call them, are going to have a lot of novel experiences now that I'm chief." She stood to signal the interview was over. "So it's settled. You're going to Lugano, then taking leave. Who knows, Frank? You might even enjoy yourself." She smiled. "Wouldn't that be different?"
"It would be," he said. "It sure as hell would."
Kit stepped out from behind her desk. "Give me a hug," she ordered.
Janek hugged her.
"'Ballsy broad'!" She laughed. "You gotta be kidding, Frank."
He didn't much enjoy the conference, even though he was lionized.
British, French, German, Dutch@very detective in Europe seemed to know about Switched Heads. "I'd give my left ball for a case like that," one Australian inspector confided.
His talk was well attended. After he finished, he politely fielded questions for an hour and could have gone on indefinitely except that the hall was needed for a symposium on computer crime. Afterward a mustachioed Spanish police captain, famous for single-handedly tracking down a cell of Basque terrorists, asked Janek to join him for a drink.
The Spaniard, proud of his own achievement said he would have preferred to have solved a great psychological case like the Switch.
"The young ones here, all they talk about is DNA fingerprinting," he said, gesturing at a group of husky young detectives hovering around the busy hotel bar. "they don't understand that the great cases, the only ones that can justify living the best part of your life in the gutter, are crimes of the wounded spirit. And the detectives who solves crimes like that are men like us, men who have wounds of our own…
After dinner Janek walked by himself through the deserted arcade of shops facing Lake Lugano, then crossed the avenue and paused to gaze across the water, seeking out the farther shore. It was lost in mist. The lake's surface was smooth, like an expanse of black glass, and the lamps along the embankment, huge lanterns on bronze pedestals, burned gaseous and yellow in the murky night.
He thought about what the Spanish captain had said: "Wounds of our own.
.." What are my wounds? he asked himself. How many have I got? A long, loveless marriage that had ended in a bitter divorce, a few affairs that had ended badly, a lot of experience with the worst sort of people and the attendant law enforcer's disillusionment. A picture came into his mind, a network of scars, old and deep, crisscrossing his middle-aged torso. He shook his head; he didn't like the image. He turned away from the water and started back toward the hotel.
Once again under the arcade, the window of a travel agency caught his eye. He halted and stared in. A poster showed a gondolier in silhouette against sparkling water and the dark outline of a
great domed church. The words below were few and to the point: VENICE THE DREAM.
The next morning he returned and bought himself a ticket.
2
It was a morose autumnal Venice he had come to. The first afternoon the air turned chilly; after that he wore a raincoat when he walked. It was mid-October, near the end of the season, and there weren't many tourists. The Piazza San Marco was inhabited mostly by pigeons, and Cafe Florian was deserted, its waiters lonely sentinels guarding neat rows of empty seats. He bought a guidebook, then set out to explore in a studious manner, intending to work his way through a list of churches, museums, bridges, palaces of cultural importance. But he soon realized that it was not great paintings of the Crucifixion that interested him; it was the lore of the old republic, her hardness, her cruelties. He understood, with a start, that it was her crimes he wanted to understand.
When he learned, for instance, that state enemies were once routinely executed by being drowned secretly in the middle of the night, he hastened to the Orphan Canal, where the drownings were alleged to have taken place. And he was equally fascinated by tales surrounding the feared Council of Ten and the even more really feared 9 Three Inquisitors-tales of informers, night arrests, mysterious disappearances, undisclosed detentions, paid government assassins, official torturings, stranglings, knifings, poisonings, and beheadings, public and private, justified and capricious, the bodies often displayed without explanation between the "fatal pillars" in the Piazzetta. to live as a Venetian in the time of the republic, he understood, was to reside in a paranoid's nightmare. Stealth, vengeance, institutionalized terror-these, too, were among the traditions of La Serenissima. they were traditions he understood at least as well as the dignity of the churches and the grace of the bridges and canals.
As there was nothing to do at night, he went to an English-language bookstore, bought a copy of stories by Thomas Mann, and began to read Death in Venice after dinner in his room.
A dense and dreary tale, he thought, about a famous middle-aged German writer, hitherto tightly controlled, who finds his fate in Venice, intoxicated by a pale adolescent boy. The novel cut deeper than that, of course, was about form and formlessness, art and obsession, rationality and madness. Janek understood it, could savor its intricate design, but in the end he could not identify with its hero.
Aschenbach, author of great books, and Janek, solver of a "great" case-both outsiders, lonely men, who had come to Venice on a quest. But while Aschenbach sought the abyss, Janek wanted only to crawl out of it, to be redeemed.
He noticed the woman several times before he really looked at her, and then, it seemed, he saw her everywhere, until, in his mind at least, their intersections became something of a joke.
She was a Northern European, most likely Austrian or Swiss, though possibly a German or a Dane. A stunning, stylish person, she looked to be in her late thirties. Very well put together, too: excellent figure, proud walk, handsome face, precision-cut blond hair. She wore exquisite clothes, well-cut slacks,
elegant suede boots, and, over a salmon blouse, the finest, softest, blackest leather jacket he had ever seen. He liked the way she wore her silk scarf tied smartly at the side of her neck.
But it was far more than her style and grooming that caught his interest; it was, above all else, her eyes. Large soft gray-green eyes, sensitive, yearning-they reminded him of the eyes of the great French movie star of the forties Michele Morgan.
It became a game with him: Could he choose a church or museum at random, go there, and not run into her? There were other tourists trekking their way through Venice, but she seemed the only one on the same track as himself. How were they connected? Were their consciousnesses linked? Perhaps they should sit down and discuss it. But first she would have to recognize him and acknowledge the humor of their meetings.
For a while he was certain she didn't notice him, or else, he decided, she was the coolest woman in Venice. Then, while eating lunch alone in Harry's Bar, he saw her enter, pause, peruse the room, smile (or did he merely imagine that she did?) as she sighted him, then quickly turn away. He smiled back but was too late; she was on her way to a table at the opposite end. He watched to see if she was joining a companion, was relieved to see her sit down alone.
Relieved. What right had he to feel that way? The answer came to him almost at once. She was so damn attractive! Everything about her, her gestures, the way she moved… he knew he had to meet her. And the first step was to find out who she was.
In New York there would be no problem. He would simply follow her to her hotel, flash his shield at the clerk, and ask. But here in Venice he had no status, was but one of five thousand end-of-the-season stragglers in a centuries-long parade.
However, after three days of fortuitous encounters, he decided that he would follow her. A crazy idea, a little too close, perhaps, to Aschenbach's pursuit of the boy. But the notion appealed to him. He was a detective; he had the skills and also great curiosity. She certainly interested him more than any lifeless work of art. Let the tarted-up old whore of a city offer her meretricious charms to someone else. The lonely middle-aged detective from North America would track the live young beauty through her streets.
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