Backlash

by Paula Gosling

  Stryker closed his eyes briefly as he leaned back in his chair. ‘What do you suggest? A murder? Nice talk, wishing someone dead.’

  Tos shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing to admit,’ Stryker said, ‘but catching a shoplifter or a crooked accountant would be infinitely preferable to sitting here staring at this damn thing.’ He pushed the keyboard away from him and scowled at Toscarelli. ‘Are you working on anything I should know about?’

  Toscarelli stood up. ‘My chest expansion. I’ll be in the gym if you want me.’

  Stryker sighed as Tos went out. He was on call; he had to stay at his desk.

  And wait for the phone to ring.

  Out in the bull pen, footsteps heralded something coming, but it was only Pinsky.

  ‘Hey, Pinsky, where you been?’

  ‘Following up that old lead on the Carson case,’ Pinsky said. He threw himself into a chair and nearly knocked it over. ‘Whoa, old paint,’ he muttered, rebalancing the chair, then raised his voice. ‘Not that it went anywhere; there’s nothing at that witness address at all but a vacant lot.’

  Neilson came over and looked down at his partner. Ned Pinsky was tall, skinny and seemed badly put together, as if by an amateur. But the look was deceptive – he was athletic and fit, ate like a horse and never put on an ounce. ‘You ask around, in case we got the number wrong?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ Pinsky growled. ‘Nobody knew anything – like you’d expect in that neighbourhood.’

  ‘Bummer,’ Neilson said sympathetically. Neilson was handsome, lazy and not overly bright, but amiable. ‘There was a call for you.’ He held out a scrap of paper. ‘Sounded like a kid – Ricky Sanchez. Know him?’

  Pinsky sat up, frowning. ‘Sure I know him. He’s been dating my eldest girl – they’re both at the university now. Did he sound OK?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like did he sound worried or scared or anything?’ Pinsky was instantly concerned about his daughter.

  ‘He sounded . . . young,’ Neilson said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I asked if I could help, but he said he wanted to talk to you. He’ll be at that number until three.’

  Pinsky looked up at the pale-green smoke-stained wall. The old clock was always ten minutes slow. ‘Damn,’ he said. Adding in the missing ten minutes, it was almost three thirty. ‘Did he say where he’d be after three?’

  Neilson shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it, it’s probably nothing.’

  Pinsky wasn’t so sure. ‘No, it’s something. He’s not the kind of kid who rings up to pass the time of day. He’s a serious kid, pre-med student, very smart, very . . . cocky. Did he sound cocky?’

  Neilson considered. ‘No. He just sounded kind of in a hurry, is all.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ Pinsky reached for his phone. ‘Maybe I’ll call back, just in case.’ He rang the number, but when someone answered it turned out to be a payphone in the hall outside the Student Union cafeteria. Whoever it was said Ricky had left. Pinsky hung up slowly, wondering why Ricky had called, why he had been in a hurry. It didn’t sound good. He wondered if something had happened to Denise on campus and Ricky was trying to tell him in order to get him to the hospital or something. He considered ringing home, but realized his wife would still be at her part-time job down at the library. And if it was that bad, Ricky would have said so to Neilson. He wished he knew Ricky’s cellphone number. Why hadn’t he left it?

  Neilson sat on the edge of his desk. More compact than his partner, he was a snappy dresser with an eye for the female of the species. Where Pinsky was dark-haired, Neilson was dusty blond, with a face like the late Alan Ladd. ‘He reliable, this kid?’ Neilson asked.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Pinsky said. ‘You remember that neighbourhood shooting we had about three years back – guy got into an argument with a neighbour over hedges or something and the neighbour shot him?’

  ‘Sounds familiar – like maybe I’ve done nine or ten like that.’ Neilson grimaced. Like all cops, he hated ‘domestics’ – there was never a right answer to them.

  ‘No, this was in my neighbourhood,’ Pinsky said, implying it was a little different from the ordinary. Which was fair enough: the Pinsky family lived in a very nice neighbourhood, not rich, but very respectable. ‘Guy who was killed was named Leo Sanchez.’

  ‘Any relation?’

  ‘He was Ricky’s father. Damn shame. It’s a nice family. Mother works in the mayor’s office, all the kids are decent kids. Ricky sort of took over his father’s place. Made sure the younger kids stayed in school, didn’t get into trouble – you know how a shock like that can send kids off in all directions.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Neilson agreed.

  ‘Well, Ricky . . . he sort of steadied things down. The neighbour got sent away for manslaughter.’ Pinsky frowned again. ‘Maybe that’s it – he might be getting out soon if he’s behaved himself. Maybe Ricky’s worried about that.’

  ‘What makes you so sure he’s worried?’ Neilson wanted to know. He picked up a letter opener, examined it, put it down, picked up a rap sheet, glanced through it, put it down, picked up an apple, bit into it.

  ‘Because he’s never called me at work before,’ Pinsky said. ‘He’s never seen me as a cop, just as Denise’s father. I took an interest, you know – Denise had just started up with him then. Ricky sometimes would sit and talk with me, waiting for Denise to get herself ready to go out. Like I said, a serious kid if a little cocky. Very, very smart, knows it; sometimes that rubs people the wrong way, but it’s not intentional. I think I’ll ring home and see if Denise is back from classes – she must have his cellphone number.’

  ‘Maybe he’s even there,’ Neilson said, chewing a mouthful of apple. ‘With Denise.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Pinsky nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You don’t want to interrupt anything.’ Neilson grinned.

  ‘Very funny,’ Pinsky grumbled. ‘Denise is no angel, but she’s no fool, either.’ He leaned forward and dialled.

  ‘I don’t know where he is, Dad,’ Denise told him when she answered his call. ‘I haven’t seen him all day, because our classes don’t match. And he has to be at the hospital by four.’

  ‘At the hospital?’

  ‘Yes – he has a part-time job as an orderly at the hospital. It’s real good experience for him, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I guess it would be. Is that City Hospital?’

  ‘Yes. He usually works in the ER, I think. You could try to get him but I don’t think they much like people getting calls at work, in case like if someone is trying to get through with an emergency? And they make them turn off their cellphones while they’re in the hospital because it causes interference with some of the machines or something. He’ll be back by ten tonight and he usually rings me when he gets home. You could talk to him then.’

  ‘I guess that will have to do,’ Pinsky said slowly.

  ‘How come you want to talk to him, anyway?’ Denise wanted to know. ‘Does it have anything to do with my birthday, maybe?’

  Pinsky grinned. She was a sly little thing. ‘Not as far as I know, sweetheart. And stop trying to find stuff out, my lips are sealed.’ They were sealed because he had no idea what his wife’s plans for Denise’s birthday actually were. ‘Ricky’s not . . . he hasn’t been worried about anything special lately, has he?’

  ‘Just his grades, like always,’ Denise said. ‘And his mother because she works too hard. And his little sister because she’s getting interested in boys . . .’

  I get the picture. A born worrier.’

  ‘That’s Ricky,’ Denise agreed. ‘Oh, I know – his kid brother got a speeding ticket the other day. That’s probably it.’

  ‘OK, then. See you tonight.’ He hung up, feeling a little better. As far as he recalled, Ricky’s ‘kid’ brother should be about seventeen now. So as Denise said,
that was probably it. Although he was a bit surprised – Ricky didn’t seem the type to try to get a ticket fixed. Well, he’d wait until this evening, then, rather than disturb the boy at work. He hadn’t realized Ricky was working at the hospital. That was a good break for a pre-med student. Maybe that was why Denise was home more nights than usual these days, which was not a bad thing.

  He looked across at Neilson and said, ‘I think we should check out that other address, over on Hayes. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m free.’ Neilson flapped his wrist like that of a popular television character. He tossed the apple core into the nearest wastebasket. ‘Let’s go.’

  Lieutenant Jack Stryker looked out through the glass wall of his office and watched Pinsky and Neilson depart. The only one left in the squad room was the new rookie, Joe Muller, who was reading old cases to get used to the routine. He seemed like a bright prospect and was very eager. What was against him was his appearance – although he was twenty-four he looked about sixteen: lightly built, blond hair cut tight to his skull, big brown eyes that seemed as innocent as a faun’s. He might be bright, but he would find it difficult to impose himself on witnesses. They would treat him like a child.

  Stryker narrowed his eyes. Mind you, if Muller played it right, that could work for him. He wondered if the boy was bright enough to use his audience. It was an unusual way to gain information, but it might work. It might work very well, especially with women. He was going to watch Muller’s progress with interest. Reports from his former bosses said the boy was good and he had been effective on the street, particularly with adolescents. Time would tell.

  All the other detectives were either hard at work or across the street eating doughnuts at the coffee shop that had become a second home for the off-duty officers and men of Police Central. The owner, a big Italian woman with a heart of gold and teeth to match, made them all welcome, reasoning that a constant police presence in what was, admittedly, a criminous part of town gave her coffee shop a measure of protection against nutsos and robbers. And besides, her doughnuts were fabulous, home-made and very, very fresh. She closed at six, whereupon any idling police customers decamped to their favourite bar. It made getting in touch with men easier, he figured, and Captain Fineman agreed, so they didn’t come down on the men for ‘wasting police time’ in these places. In addition, it was preferable to have the men get fat during the day rather than drunk. Not that any of them had that much spare time these days.

  Stryker leaned back in his chair, ignoring the blinking cursor on the screen. Early on in his career he had earned the nickname of Jumpin’ Jack Flash, always on the move, but he had slowed down a little as the years passed. His curly hair was slightly receding, and both it and his moustache showed considerable amounts of silver. It ran in the family, he insisted, this tendency towards premature grey. He was a compactly built, highly strung man for whom leisure was just a matter of breathing slightly slower than normal.

  He certainly didn’t feel comfortable behind a desk. But that desk had been one of the things that had eased his relationship with his girlfriend, Kate. She said she would live with him, love him, but not marry him, because she knew how cops’ wives waited during the nights and days, waited for that phone call, or the visit from the superior officer who told them their man was dead. Worse, that the father of their children was dead.

  For some reason, avoiding the final commitment of marriage made a difference to her. It seemed almost a superstitious attitude on her part. He didn’t understand it, but he reluctantly accepted it. And she was very much caught up in her career at the university, which she found very fulfilling. The university was so different now from when he had been a student there himself. Then it had been made up of a few buildings and some big old houses converted to offices for the various departments. Now it was a state institution, with a modern and quite elegant campus, some prize-winning architecture and a landscaping department second to none. Part of him was pleased but most of him regretted the loss of those big old houses where he himself had taken his degree in pre-law. Then his parents had died and he had gone into the police. Getting his law degree was still a dream and he occasionally found time to take the odd course for credit, but it was a sometime and long-time thing. Since he had been living with Kate, he begrudged losing any time with her and it was only when she herself was teaching in the evening that he matched a class with hers. This autumn he had been studying torts while she taught nineteenth-century American literature. It meant two evenings together lost, but there was the nice advantage of being able to go out for a drink together or even a meal after classes finished. Sort of like being an undergraduate again. He smiled to himself. And at our age, he thought.

  So the fact that he was more desk-bound also meant he was better able to regulate his life. He wasn’t sure if it was an advantage or a disappointment. Just because a person was old enough to consider slowing down didn’t mean he had to, did it?

  The phone rang in the squad room and he punched the button to take it, Muller apparently having gone to pick up more files. ‘Major Crime.’

  ‘Is Sergeant Pinsky there?’ asked a young man’s voice.

  ‘Sorry, he’s out on a case. Can I help?’ Stryker leaned forward and punched a couple of keys to move the cursor down to the next line of the form he was filling in.

  ‘No . . . I don’t think so. I really need to speak to Mister Pinsky,’ the young man said. ‘Would you tell him Ricky called?’

  ‘Ricky what?’

  ‘Oh – sorry – Ricky Sanchez. He knows me.’

  ‘OK.’ Stryker scribbled the name down. ‘You sure I can’t help?’

  ‘No . . . it isn’t really about homicide, see.’

  ‘We don’t only work on murder, son,’ Stryker said. ‘Are you quite sure I can’t help?’ The boy sounded stressed.

  ‘No, sir . . . it’s . . . personal.’

  Stryker raised an eyebrow. Sir? That degree of politeness was rare these days. ‘OK. I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in. Has he got your number?’

  There was a strangled laugh. ‘Oh yeah, he’s got my number all right. But I’m at work now . . . I’ll speak to him tonight.’

  ‘OK.’ Stryker hung up thoughtfully. He’d speak to Pinsky about it when he came back in. Something about the boy’s voice worried him, but he couldn’t have said exactly what it was. He shrugged, dismissing it, and went back to the computer. All he had to do was get through this report and ten others like it, and he could go home at a reasonable time for once. No classes tonight – he and Kate had a whole evening to themselves. He hoped.

  Tos Toscarelli was working out in the gymnasium in the basement of the municipal building, but his beeper was placed conscientiously nearby. A big man naturally, he had a constant battle with his weight and the only way forward he could see was to turn fat into muscle. Italian through and through, he had black curly hair and snapping black eyes. He had finally decided that if he was going to be big, he might as well be big and hard. And, too, the department had high standards of fitness – standards he not only wanted to meet, but beat. It was better than going home.

  For all his size, Toscarelli was a downtrodden man. He lived with his mother and sister – the former a mistress of hypochondria, the latter one of those seemingly shy people who hide an iron will behind a velvet demeanour. He was the breadwinner for them and they guarded him zealously. No matter that he was much in love with a woman named Liz Olson, a colleague of Kate Trevorne’s, and she was in love with him. They wanted to marry, but every time Tos brought up the subject of Liz at home, Mama Toscarelli always managed to produce a ‘heart attack’ and his sister a crying jag. They ‘needed’ him, this Liz woman wasn’t Italian, they would be unsafe alone etc. etc.

  It was really beginning to get him down.

  He knew Liz was losing patience. She, too, was a big person, in more ways than height. She was a professor of French and Spanis
h (‘Why not Italian?’ his mother kept asking) and carried herself proudly – six foot of her blonde, shapely self was a noble spectacle around the campus. When she and Toscarelli got together, it was an inspiring sight. The trouble was, they didn’t get together often enough for either of them.

  ‘I feel like the Other Woman,’ Liz had complained last week. ‘Like you already have two wives and I am something on the side.’

  He knew she had every right to feel that way.

  It was his own cowardice that left the situation unaltered. He stared at himself in the mirror and sneered. He could build up his muscles all he liked, but he had a chicken heart.

  Something would have to be done, and soon, because Liz was not going to wait for ever. She was an independent woman, she said, but since falling in love with Tos she yearned for the safe harbour of marriage. He had made her realize she was lonely, she told him. Well, he was, too. And now, at her suggestion, they were ‘giving each other space’. That meant that she did not want to see him again until he made up his mind.

  He wondered if there was a body-building machine that duplicated the sensation of being between a rock and a hard place. Maybe he could practise on it. He loved his mother and he loved his sister, but . . .

  But.

  Families are funny things. They bind with ties nobody else can see or understand. They weigh you down with responsibilities you never asked for and you wonder how you got into that particular corner. But if he was not careful he would get to be an old Italian bachelor, looking after his spinster sister and his elderly mother, and nobody would be happy. Especially not Liz – and he wanted Liz to be happy. He wanted them to be happy together.

  He added a weight to either end of the bar and continued with his compressions and lifts. Steel on his chest and Mama on his back. And, any minute, a call to get dressed and follow up on some new case, because that was his job. It was for times like these that doughnuts were invented, he thought. Where else to find solace?

  It seemed he spent all his time being pressured from two sides and tripping over dead bodies.