by Sandra Brown
He turned away from the sink and looked at her, wondering when she had
turned so snide and unapproachable. Had she always been that way?
Or had years of dissatisfaction and unhappiness made her into the bitter
woman confronting him now? Either way, he hardly recognized her as the
bride he'd started a life with. He didn't know this woman at all, and he
saw nothing there that he cared to know.
"I'm not even going to honor that question with an answer." "You've
abused me, Burke. Just not with your fists."
"Whatever." He stepped around her and went into the bedroom, where he
reached beneath the bed for his suitcase, into which he began emptying
his bureau drawers.
"What are you doing?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Don't think for one minute that you can file for divorce on the grounds
of adultery. Our problems began long before " "Before you started
wall-banging other men in our shower?"
"Yes!" she spat."And he isn't the first."
"I'm not interested." After cramming a few items from the closet into
the suitcase, he latched it.
"Where are you going?"
"I haven't the faintest."
"But I know where I can find you, don't I?"
"Right," he replied, letting it go at that. He'd be damned before
defending his work ethic to his cheating wife."As for filing," be my
guest, Barbara. I won't contest any charges you lay on me. Say I'm a
sorry provider, a brute, say I'm queer. I couldn't care less."
He glanced around to see if there was anything he'd overlooked, and it
saddened him to realize how easily and quickly he had packed. They
hadn't lived together in these rooms, they had merely resided. He was
walking away with nothing personal. He had packed only the bare
essentials that could have belonged to anyone. He was leaving behind
nothing of value to him. Not even Barbara.
He wasn't even certain the building would still be there. But he found
it squatting between similar buildings, all stubbornly withstanding the
encroachment of development around them.
The escalating tourist trade was rapidly destroying the uniqueness of
New Orleans, which was the attraction that caused tourists to flock to
the city in the first place. It was a paradox that defied logic.
Burke would have hated to find this building destroyed, because, for all
its signs of aging, it had character. Like a dowager who clung to
fashions of decades past, it wore its age with dignity and an admirable
air of defiance. A section of the ironwork was missing off the
second-story balcony. The front brick walkway was buckled. Weeds
sprouted from cracks in the mortar, but there was an element of pride in
the pot of pansies on each side of the gate, which squeaked when Burke
pushed it open.
The first door on his left was designated as belonging to the building
manager. Burke rang the bell. The man who answered wasn't the landlord
he remembered from years before, but this one and the one in his memory
were virtually interchangeable. The apartment behind the stooped,
elderly gentleman was a stifling ninety degrees and smelled of a cat
box. In fact, he was holding a large tabby in one arm as he peered
curiously at Burke through the rheumy eyes of a lifetime alcoholic.
"Do you have a vacancy?"
The only thing required for leasing an apartment was a hundred dollar
bill to cover the first week's rent."That includes a change of towels on
the third day," he was told by the landlord who shuffled up the stairs
in his slippers to show Burke the corner apartment on the second floor.
Basically it was one room. A shabby curtain was a nod toward privacy for
the commode and tub. The bed was a double that dipped in the middle.
The kitchen amounted to a sink, a narrow shelf, a refrigerator not much
larger than a mailbox, and a two-burner hot plate that the landlord
believed was in working order.
"I won't be doing much cooking," Burke assured him as he accepted the
key.
A black-and-white TV set chained to the wall was about the only amenity
that had been added since he had rented here nearly twenty years ago
after leaving his hometown of Shreveport to accept a job with the
N.O.P.D.
Before he could find more suitable lodging, he had leased a temporary
room in this building and wound up staying eighteen months.
His recollections of it were hazy. He hadn't spent much time in the
apartment, because he was at the station nearly every waking hour,
learning from the veterans, volunteering for overtime, and catching up
on the paper-shuffling that was the scourge of policemen around the
world. He'd been a young crusader then, committed to ridding the world
of crime and criminals.
Tonight a less idealistic Burke Basile drew a hot bath in the antique
claw-footed tub and climbed into it with an uncapped bottle of Jack
Daniel's black. He drank straight from the bottle, watching
dispassionately as a cockroach the size of his thumb scuttled across the
water-stained wallpaper.
When a guy catches his wife in flagrante delicto with another man, the
first order of business after beating the shit out of the other man and
buying a bottle of whiskey, which he intends to drink from until it's
empty is to reassure himself that he can still get it up.
So, with his free hand, he brought himself erect. Closing his eyes, he
tried to replace the image of Barbara fucking the football coach with a
fantasy that would sustain his erection long enough for him to enjoy it
and bring him to an ego-restoring climax.
In an instant, there she was in his mind's eye: the whore in Duvall's
gazebo.
He rubbed every bad thought from his mind and focused on the woman in
the snug-fitting black dress, her hair as dark and glossy as a raven's
wing, her breasts kissed by moonlight.
Her face was indistinct. In his mind, he brought it closer. She gazed
back at him with sultry eyes. She spoke his name. She stroked him with a
soft hand. An even softer mouth caressed him. Her tongue He came,
cursing blasphemously through bared teeth.
It left him feeling weak and dizzy and slightly disoriented, but that
could be as much from the hot water and whiskey as the sexual release.
It was comforting to know that he was still a functioning male. But on
an emotional level he felt only marginally better.
Well on his way to being good and drunk, he climbed out of the tub and,
wrapping one of two thin towels around his middle, sat down on the edge
of the bed to reflect on his future.
He supposed he should be contacting a divorce lawyer, freezing bank
accounts, canceling credit cards, all the things people do for spite and
self-protection when their marriage becomes a statistic.
But he lacked the wherewithal to enter that kind of legal fray.
Let Barbara have it all, whatever the hell she wanted from the spoils of
their life together. He'd salvaged all he needed, a few changes of
clothes, his badge, his nine-millimeter.
He reached across his pile of discarded clothes on
the bed and picked up
the pistol, weighing it in his hand. It was from this gun that he'd
fired the bullet that had killed Kevin Stuart.
His personal life was for shit. So was his career. He no longer nursed
illusions about valor and duty. Only fools believed in that crap.
Those standards were outdated and didn't apply to contemporary society.
When he enrolled in the police academy, he had fancied himself a knight,
but the Round Table was history before he even began.
Burke Basile was a pariah, an embarrassment to the Narcotics Division
for shooting one of his own men, then for demanding justice when no one
else seemed to give a damn.
Wayne Bardo was free to kill again, and he had.
Duvall was ensconced in his ivory tower with his servants, and his rich
friends, and their expensive whores.
Meanwhile Burke Basile's expressions of sympathy were being rebuffed and
his wife was screwing younger men in his own house.
Again he hefted the pistol in his palm. He wouldn't be the first cop,
dejected over the futility of his work, to eat a bullet. How long before
he'd be missed? Who would miss him? Pat? Mac? Possibly.
Or, secretly, maybe they'd be glad he had solved their problem for them.
When he began to stink up this horrible little room, when the land
lord's cat began scratching at the door, they'd find him. Who would be
surprised that he'd taken his own life? He had destroyed his marriage,
they'd say. Gossip would get around that he had caught his old lady, the
one with the great body, doing the wild thing with another man in
Basile's own shower. Poor schmuck. They would shake their heads and
lament the fact that he had never fully recovered from killing Stuart.
That's when all his troubles had started.
While Stuart's widow struggled to keep food on the table for her
children, unscrupulous lawyers and criminals threw lavish parties to
celebrate their lawless successes. Ol' Burke Basile couldn't take that.
He couldn't handle the guilt anymore.
So, bang. Simple as that. It occurred to him that he might be suffering
a bad case of selfpity, but why the hell not? Wasn't he entitled to a
little self-analysis and regret? He'd been deeply wounded by Nancy
Stuart's decision, although he admitted it was the right one for her.
She was holding onto her life with both hands.
Eventually the pain of Kev's death would abate, she would meet someone
else and remarry. She didn't blame him for the accident, but his visits
were bound to stoke her most painful memories.
He wanted to think of Barbara as a cheating bitch who'd been unwilling
even to try to understand the hell he'd gone through over his partner's
death. But that wasn't entirely fair. She certainly wasn't without
flaws, but he hadn't exactly been an ideal husband either, even before
the fatal shooting incident and certainly not since.
The marriage should have ended long ago, putting both of them out of
their misery.
He'd made lousy choices all around. Bad choice of wife. Bad choice of
career. What the hell had all the overtime hours and all the hard work
been about? He had accomplished nothing. Nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. He had killed Kev Stuart.
Damn, he missed that mick! He still missed Kev's quiet logic, and his
stupid jokes, and his unshakable sense of right and wrong. He even
missed his bursts of temper. Kev wouldn't have minded dying in the line
of duty. Actually, that was probably how he would have preferred to go.
What he wouldn't be able to tolerate was that his death had gone
unavenged. The criminals responsible for it had gone unpunished by the
system of law that Kev had dedicated himself to uphold. Kevin Stuart
would have had a hard time accepting that.
And that was the thought that sobered Burke Basile like a cold shower.
He set the bottle of Jack Daniel's on the rickety nightstand, and,
alongside it, his pistol. Removing the towel from around his waist, he
stretched out on the lumpy bed and stacked his hands beneath his head.
For hours he lay there, staring at the ceiling and thinking.
Although there really was nothing more to think about.
He knew now what he had to do. He knew who he had to kill. And it wasn't
himself.
When he finally fell asleep, he slept as he hadn't for months deeply and
dreamlessly.
"Quitting," Burke repeated.
For a moment Pat was speechless."Just like that? For chrissake, why?"
"It's not just like that," Doug. And you know why."
"Because of Kev?"
"Primarily. And Duvall, and Bardo and Sachel. Shall I go on?"
"How can you do this?" Pat left his chair and began to pace the area
behind his desk."If you quit a job you love because of them, they win.
You're making it too damn easy on them. You're giving them control over
your life."
"It might look that way, but it's not. I wish my reasons were that
simple and clear-cut."
Pat stopped pacing and gave him a sharp look."There's more?" "Barbara
and I have split."
Pat gazed down at the floor for several seconds, then looked at Burke
with regret."I'm sorry. Is this a trial separation?"
"No, it's for good."
"I sensed that you two were having problems, but didn't know that things
had unraveled that completely."
"Neither did I," Burke admitted."Until last night. I won't bore you with
the details, but take my word for it that we reached the point of no
return. I moved out and told her to file for divorce on the grounds of
her choosing. The marriage is kaput." "I'm sorry," Pat said again. He
wasn't any more sorry than Burke that his bad marriage had finally
ended. The real regret was in the timing.
Burke said, "I'm fine with it. Really. It had been coming for a long
time. As for the other, the job, that's been coming for a long time,
too. I'm burned out, Doug. In my present frame of mind, I'm no good to
you."
"Bullshit. You're the best man in the division."
"Thanks, but this is the right thing for me to do."
"Look, we've just come off a disappointing trial. You're upset about you
and Barbara. Not a good time to be making a career decision.
Take a week off ..."
Burke was shaking his head before Pat finished."That's not what this is
about. A week off would be like using a Band-Aid when I need open-heart
surgery."
"So maybe a desk job for a while," Pat suggested."Work in an advisory
position. Something that would relieve the pressure a bit."
"Sorry, Doug. My mind's made up."
"At least let me place you on suspension with pay. You can come back
when you feel like it. The job will be waiting."
That alternative was tempting, but Burke considered it for only a few
seconds before stubbornly shaking his head."If I had that umbilical
cord, I might use it. A few weeks later I'd be right back where I am
now. No, Doug, it's gotta be a clean break."
Pat had returned to the chair behind his desk. He ran his hand through
thinning hair."I can't believe this. I'm the head of this departments
but you're the heart of it, Burke."
He made a scoffing sound."Trying a new tactic, Doug? Sweet talk?"
"It's the truth."
"I appreciate the compliment, but that doesn't sway me." "Okay," Pat
said, making an impatient gesture with his hand.
"Forget the division. What about you? Have you really thought this
through?
What will you do with yourself?"
"That's one of the perks of quitting, Doug. I don't have any plans."
That was the first time Burke had ever lied to his friend.
The brothel was as imposing a structure as a branch of the public
library.
It was set well off the street behind an iron picket fence in a grove
of spectacular magnolia trees. The house had been built by a wealthy
Creole family who had grown and imported cotton prior to what was
commonly known as the War of Northern Aggression.
During that conflict, the Yankees had seized all the family's ships and
warehouses, burned their plantation upriver, and commandeered this,
their home in the city, to be used as quarters for Union officers.
It was this final insult from which the family never recovered.