Fever Dream

by Dennis Palumbo

  Nobody had said much on the way down, but now, as we stepped out onto the sprawling concrete floor of the garage, Brian Fletcher took hold of my hand with both of his. As he’d done with Eleanor upstairs, in the conference hall. His signature gesture of sincerity, apparently.

  “I want to thank you again, Doctor, on Lee’s behalf. And mine. I got a helluva scare tonight.”

  “Me, too.”

  Parnelli grunted noisily. “And it isn’t over. Far as I’m concerned, the clock’s started ticking, and it won’t stop until the debate Saturday night. You heard what Jimmy Gordon said. Lee’s in danger from this moment till then.”

  Eleanor said, “Unless the next attempt is at the debate itself. Same kind of situation. Big crowd. Lots of distraction. Tough on security.”

  “That’s why I want to move the venue,” Fletcher said. “Though I don’t think Lee will go for it. And he’s probably right. He can’t look like he’s scared.”

  “C’mon, give the people some credit. Even you can’t believe they’re that easily swayed.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe, Detective. It’s what the electorate thinks. Or can be persuaded to think. If you can even call it thinking. I’ve been in this game a long time, and I never forget something Churchill said.”

  “Which was?” I asked.

  He grinned. “‘The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with a registered voter.’”

  Scowling, Parnelli dug a short cigar from his tux jacket’s inside pocket. “Well, aren’t you the clever boy? While you and the doc here exchange Bartlett’s-fucking-Quotations, the police and I have work to do. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Waving a dismissive hand, Parnelli bit down on his cigar and went off across the low-ceilinged enclosure in search of his car. Muttering to himself as he patted his pockets, obviously looking for a light. Without success.

  Fletcher turned then to Eleanor and me. “I better go back upstairs and check in on Lee. And get our spin doctors started on drafting an official statement about tonight for the media.”

  “I look forward to seeing it,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Smiling as he stepped back inside the elevator. “And don’t worry, Doc. I’ll make sure they spell your name right.”

  Before I could reply, he’d taken a Blackberry out of his pocket and begun pushing buttons. As the elevator doors closed with a muffled click.

  Eleanor gave me a wry look. “I don’t like him.”

  “Which one, Parnelli or Fletcher?”

  “Do I have to choose?”

  “Point taken.”

  She gestured toward the multiple rows of parked cars gleaming under the harsh, uneven garage lights.

  “My car’s over there. Somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re a detective. You’ll find it.”

  She playfully punched my arm, then headed us toward the first line of cars.

  I saw her brow furrow.

  “Parnelli was right, though. Long night’s work ahead of me. I just have to go home and change, and then it’s back to the precinct.”

  It’s what she didn’t say that registered.

  “You’re worried about Harry, aren’t you? Wondering if he’ll be there.”

  “Even if he is there, I’ll bet Biegler’s tearing him a new one. He must be furious about having to tell Sinclair that he was unable to reach Harry tonight. That he couldn’t provide the latest info about the bank case.”

  We walked in silence for a few moments, our footsteps echoing hollowly on the concrete. Then she indicated a late model Chevy sedan parked near a massive pillar.

  As she searched her small purse for her keys, I found myself putting my hand on her bare shoulder. Then instantly regretted it. I’d meant it to be supportive, reassuring. Yet it seemed suddenly too familiar, too—

  But Eleanor just turned her head and smiled. Put her own hand on mine.

  “I like you, too, Danny.” Giving my hand the slightest squeeze. Then letting her fingers linger a moment, softly stroking my knuckles.

  Before she bent to unlock the driver’s side door, and slipped easily behind the wheel.

  And then, giving me another brief smile, she put the car in gear and pulled away.

  ***

  My Mustang was in another section of the lower level. I headed up the ramp to the street, took out my cell, and called Pittsburgh Memorial. And asked for Treva’s room.

  I knew it was after visiting hours, and that it was unlikely they’d put me through. But I wanted to at least get a report on her condition.

  When the switchboard connected me to the duty nurse, I was pleased to find that it was Ruth. The same one I’d met when Polk and I had questioned Treva earlier that day.

  “This is Dr. Rinaldi. I know you probably won’t let me speak to Treva Williams at this hour, but I was wondering how she’s doing?”

  Ruth’s raspy chuckle was made tinnier by the cell’s speaker. “Hell, Doctor, I don’t mind bending hospital rules once in a while. Especially since Treva likes you so much. She talked about you a lot.”

  “That’s nice of you to say. So I can speak to her? I’ll only take a minute or two.”

  “Like I said, I’d be happy to. Thing is, she ain’t here. She checked herself out about an hour ago.”

  I let this news sink in.

  “And the doctor was okay with this?”

  “Sure. Treva’s just tired. Physically and emotionally. The police were fine with it, too. They were here right before, with that obnoxious man from the DA’s office.”

  “You mean Dave Parnelli?”

  “That’s him. Real charmer. But he signed off on Treva going home.”

  This threw me. Why had Parnelli bothered to visit Treva at the hospital? He could’ve given the okay by phone. More importantly, why hadn’t he mentioned it?

  “Hello?” Ruth said the word with emphasis.

  I got the hint. I quickly thanked her for her time, and for the good care she’d provided Treva. Which merely brought another weary chuckle from the veteran nurse before she hung up.

  I sat back against the Mustang’s cool leather. I’d been told that Treva was probably going to be released, but it had happened sooner than I’d expected. Still, no reason she shouldn’t have been.

  As I thought this over, I absently checked my office voice mail. No urgent calls. One was from a prospectice new patient. Another was a request from a psych journal I sometimes contribute to for an article on childhood trauma.

  The last message, to my surprise, was from Treva Williams. Leaving her home number, and asking that I call her. Regardless of the hour.

  I punched in the number, heard the phone ring three times. Then she picked up. Her voice faint, sleepy.

  “Thanks for calling, Dr. Rinaldi. I was hoping you would.”

  “How are you, Treva? I just heard you checked yourself out of the hospital.”

  “Yeah.” She yawned. “The doctors said it was okay, and I wanted to go home. So that’s what I did.”

  “You’re home now?”

  “In bed. I have an apartment in Monroeville. Near the Mall, on Route 22.”

  “I know the area. Listen, Treva…”

  “Before you say anything, I just want you to know I’m fine. Really. That’s why I left you a message. I knew you were worried about me, but I’m fine.”

  “Physically, perhaps. But earlier today, you…”

  “The truth? All I want to do is burrow under these covers and sleep for a week.”

  “I understand. You must be exhausted. But I wonder if we could arrange to meet sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “Okay, whatever. Those Victim Services people are coming to see me in the morning, so I’m covered. Unless I don’t answer the door.”

  “Now, Treva…”

  Her laugh was soft, almost playful. “I just want to shut out the whole world. No more cops and doctors. Except you, of course, Dr. Rinaldi
.”

  Now I was getting concerned.

  Like many trauma victims, she was trying to retreat from dealing with what had happened to her. Using sleep, or reasonable-sounding assurances that everything was okay. Or even an amiable, knowing denial. All to keep potential caregivers at a distance. To keep from really looking at the emotional turmoil roiling inside her.

  None of which I shared with her. Instead, I merely said, “How about if I call you later tomorrow? Or in the evening.”

  “Okay. If you want.” A pause. “Truth is, I guess I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  Wanting help, and not wanting it. Pulling back on the life-line whenever it threatened to go slack.

  “Well, the last thing I’d want to do is disappoint you, Treva.”

  An awkward beat of silence.

  “You mean like with the ambulance?”

  I admit, I was a bit taken aback. But I only paused for a moment before responding.

  “Yes, Treva. Like with the ambulance.”

  Her next words were guarded. “But that other promise you made today…in the hospital room…you’ll keep that promise, right?”

  “Yes, I will. But I need to know more—”

  “Maybe tomorrow, okay, Dr. Rinaldi? I’m so tired.”

  Another, heavier yawn. Insistent. “Bye.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The city’s silhouette glowed dully against the thick summer night as I drove aimlessly through the urban core. It was late, past midnight, but I was too wired to sleep. Too jangly from the past days’ chaotic events.

  I headed in the general direction of the Point, the storied juncture of the Three Rivers. Lights spilled from its slim, gleaming buildings onto the new construction site below, threading odd-angled shadows through its erector-set scaffolding. Like the crystals we used to grow as kids in science class, every year brought new facets and planes to the gentrified expanse of downtown Pittsburgh.

  I turned down the volume from my dashboard speakers. Since pulling out of the garage beneath the Burgoyne Plaza, I’d been listening to Nina Simone singing about heartbreak and hope in that classic, mournful voice. But now, as though unwilling to allow myself a respite from the thoughts crowding my mind, I dutifully clicked off the CD player and tuned in the all-news radio station.

  Dutiful? I thought. Or just a glutton for punishment.

  As I expected, the attempt on Leland Sinclair’s life led the news. I tried another station, where I heard various local pundits weighing in on the political aspects of the event. What would the polls say?

  One of these commentators reported mentioning the polls to Sinclair’s campaign manager, Brian Fletcher, who apparently took great offense at the question. According to Fletcher, elections weren’t about polls, weren’t about some media-fueled horse race. Elections were about what was best for the people of Pennsylvania.

  “I mean, the guy practically took my head off,” the journalist said, laughing. “On the other hand, Fletcher has been with the Sinclair campaign from its beginning. There’s no question the two men have developed a deep, mutually-supportive bond. Should Lee Sinclair go on to win the governor’s seat, I believe he’s certain to name Brian Fletcher as his chief of staff.”

  Which brought another flurry of disagreement from the other commentators, some of whom felt such appointments should only be made from outside the campaign. Perhaps from the business world, or academia. Et cetera, et cetera.

  After finding similar stories on other stations, I realized that the hunt for the two bank robbers was barely being covered. Other than a cursory recap of details most people already knew. It reminded me of what Sam Weiss had taught me about news cycles. How, as a result of the Internet and other technologies, they’d essentially morphed into one continuous loop. Which meant that what was now considered newsworthy had a pretty short shelf-life. Unless fresh information became available—new facts suggesting an exciting, unexpected angle—the story itself soon stopped being “news.”

  Soon weary of channel-surfing and yet still nowhere near ready to go home, I decided to drive down to the river for a nightcap at Noah’s. Sometimes, it seemed to me, his particular brand of crazy was just what my conflicted, over-heated mind needed.

  Suddenly my cell rang. I looked at the dash clock. Almost one AM. Who—?

  It was Nancy Mendors.

  “Danny, it’s me. I just heard on the news about Leland Sinclair. They’re saying you saved his life.”

  “It was kind of a group effort.”

  “Whatever. Not that I’m surprised. It’s exactly the kind of bone-headed thing you’d do.”

  “If you say so. I assume there’s a reason for this late-night call?”

  “Depends. Where are you?”

  “In my car. Heading down to Noah’s.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you there.”

  ***

  By the time I arrived at the riverfront bar, Noah Frye and his two new best friends were finishing their last set. I saw right away that, as Noah had reported, the side-men could easily be cousins, or at least somehow related. Both tall, skinny, with tufts of unruly sand-colored hair. Both also displayed the bored, too-cool-for-this-world look of your typical jazz veteran.

  I leaned back on my bar stool, Scotch in hand, and reveled in Noah’s soulful touch at the keyboard. Especially on the hauntingly beautiful “Lush Life.”

  The trio was paying homage to one of Pittsburgh’s home-grown heroes, Billy Strayhorn, who wrote that song while still in his teens. Noah told me once, not long after he’d started working at the bar, that he wanted to showcase music representing Pittsburgh’s rich contribution to jazz. So he often devoted whole sets—sometimes whole evenings—to one of our famous local artists.

  As the few remaining customers and I broke into applause at song’s end, I reflected on how many Pittsburgh-born musicians there were to choose from. People as varied as Billy Eckstein and Erroll Garner. Harold Betters and Ahmad Jamal. Kenny Clarke, Maxine Sullivan, Art Blakey, Ray Brown. Stanley Turrentine and Mary Ann Williams. And on and on…

  “How about a refill, Danny?”

  Charlene’s booming voice made me swivel in my seat. With Noah at the piano, she was on bartender duty. Made sense, too, since I knew from long experience that the kitchen closed at eleven.

  “I’ll just nurse this awhile, Charlene. I’m waiting for Nancy Mendors.”

  Charlene smiled sardonically and peered past my shoulder. “Waitin’s over, Doc.”

  There was something knowing in her eyes that probably deserved further investigation, but I let it go. With her finely-tuned intuition, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Charlene had long since guessed that there’d once been something between Nancy and me.

  I also suspected that she’d never share this notion with Noah. No way Charlene would risk saying anything that might complicate Noah’s clinical relationship with her. At the best of times, Noah Frye walked an exceedingly fine line.

  I followed Charlene’s gaze and spotted Nancy standing inside the door, waving in my direction.

  “Are we closing up the place?” She came quickly across the floor, booted heels clicking on the hardwood. Small, trim body in what looked like new jeans and a scooped-necked silk blouse. Highlights in her dark hair. Frosted pink lipstick.

  And again, as she sidled up to me, the scent of that unfamiliar new perfume.

  Only her eyes, despite an over-bright sheen, displayed their usual solemnity. As always, I saw the weariness, the slight though unremitting strain, that lay deep within. The residue of a life’s trials, disappointments.

  Nancy gave me a quick kiss. Then, with one knee on the stool next to mine for support, leaned awkwardly across the bar to offer Charlene a hug. The two women met more or less in the middle and embraced warmly.

  “Careful, Dr. Mendors,” Charlene said cheerfully. “If Noah catches sight of us, he’s gonna want a threesome.”

  Nancy laughed. “In his dreams.”

  Charlene straigh
tened up again, waved her hand, and moved down the length of the bar to serve another customer. Meanwhile, Nancy took her seat on the stool next to me. Avidly eyed my drink.

  “I hope that’s Scotch.”

  Bowing slightly, I handed her my glass. She took a tentative sip. Then a larger one.

  She smiled shyly up at me. “You ought to get yourself one, too.”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  As I watched her take another swallow, I had the disquieting thought that this wasn’t her first drink of the evening. Nor perhaps her second. Again, uncharacteristic.

  I was still thinking about it when Noah ambled over, his shirt dark with honest sweat.

  “Great set, Noah,” I said.

  He beamed. “So I wasn’t hallucinating? People were really digging it?”

  “Absolutely. Unless I was hallucinating, too.”

  Noah feigned offense. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  Then, turning: “Dr. Nancy. Lookin’ fine, I must say.”

  “Thanks. How are you doing, Noah?”

  “Same old. Breathin’ in, breathin’ out. Not that I’m complainin’. Beats the fuck outta the alternative.”

  His opaque eyes betrayed a flicker of sadness, which just as quickly disappeared. Then he too-elaborately clapped his huge hands together.

  “Anyway, time to go dig some cash out of the old vault. I gotta pay them other two head-cases or they’ll key Charlene’s car. They done it before.”

  “Then why still play with them?” Nancy asked.

  “You shittin’ me? You heard ’em. Petty vandalism’s a small price to pay for such kick-ass chops.”

  I was about to ask whether Charlene shared his opinion on the subject when he turned—pretty damned gracefully for a big man—and took off. Soon to vanish behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  “He’s still upset about Andy’s suicide,” Nancy said.

  “Easy to understand why.”