“Beat cop?”
“He might not go through with it. Could be a threat,” Sal said.
“He’s been wanting to do something like this for a while,” Sean said, depressed.
“He’s threatening me with probation.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong!” Sean exclaimed. “Except get chained to me as a partner.”
“Oh, he had a few items I done wrong.”
“I’ll talk to him about it.”
Sal chuckled. “No offense, buddy, but I don’t think it would help.”
Sean thought of a beat cop’s schedule. No flexibility, bad hours. How could he do that?
“I don’t know, Sal. I might not be able to keep on the force.”
“Look, he’s not firing you.” Then Sal got his meaning. “What—you’re gonna quit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hold on tight, buddy. This case ain’t over yet.”
“Who’s he handing it to?”
“I think he’s taking it over himself while they look for Jansen again.”
“Well, once they get him, the case is over.”
“You think it was him?”
“Nobody else fits.” But still, now that the interview with Jansen had settled in his mind, Sean didn’t feel he’d been talking to a murderer. A coward, yeah, just as Jansen had said. But a killer? Naw, not a messy, beater kind of killer. Not Jansen. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty. And besides, he’d admitted to having a gun. Why hadn’t he used that on Hill?
***
Sean thought he’d have a weekend to calm down and figure out what to do. A weekend of peace with his boys when he’d force himself not to worry about Brigitta or about his job. Just pay attention to them, take them for a walk, maybe fly a kite in the park. Push thoughts of everything else away for a little while.
But the Saturday morning paper changed that.
Accident claims prominent doctor, a headline at the bottom of the city section read.
Dr. Jansen was dead. Died in a fall at his house Friday evening.
Chapter Twenty-Four
HE DRESSED THE BOYS in last year’s suits and took them to church on Sunday where they listened to the prayers and heard the good wishes of other churchgoers on the steps as they left. He’d not gone to Communion. He still hadn’t found time to get to confession and he needed to be absolved for…for everything. For Jansen. For Brigitta. For messing up his job. Next week was Palm Sunday, he told the boys, and after that Easter.
What had he done last Palm Sunday? He tried to remember as he walked the boys home through glorious sun. Oh, yes. He’d driven Mary and the boys to a beach on Middle River and he’d taken them fishing while she’d sat on the shoreline, arms looped around her knees, looking pale and drawn and trying to pretend she was having a good time. He’d made them all dinner that evening, undercooking the chicken, overcooking the potatoes. She’d eaten two spoonfuls exactly—he’d watched her eating habits like a hawk at that point—telling him it was “lovely,” before collapsing in bed, too tired to even undress.
“What we doing today, Dad?” Danny asked him, kicking a stone up the street.
Sean had no heart for taking them fishing. He couldn’t pretend like Mary had that everything was all right.
“Momma put palms behind the cross,” Danny said, looking at his feet.
Yes, when they’d come home from church last Palm Sunday, Mary had immediately taken the boys’ palms and put them behind the crucifix that hung in their bedroom, behind the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture in the hallway, and behind the picture of Our Lady of Lourdes, a recent purchase at the time, in the living room.
“We can do that,” Sean said.
Robby looked up at him. “Will she have palms, too? In heaven?”
He didn’t know if there was a heaven anymore, and, despite what he’d said to Dr. Jansen, he didn’t know if God truly was merciful.
They walked in silence the rest of the way home. When they reached the house, beautiful things waited to pierce his heart. Purple crocuses and red tulips were blooming, from bulbs she’d planted the first fall in the house. He’d not noticed them on their rush out that morning. And inside, with no cooking smells to obscure it, was the faintest scent of her rosewater perfume, brought out by the warmth of the day. Oh, Christ.
“Go to the bathroom, boys. We’re taking a drive.”
He took them out to the little cemetery off Taylor Avenue and laid some of her tulips on her grave. They all stood straight and silent, hands grasped before them, lost in their own thoughts and prayers.
Mary, I’ve gone and made a muck of things. I’ve gambled away my future and the boys,’ too. I didn’t know it’d hurt so much to miss you. I didn’t know it would cloud so many things, my sweet. It’s made me crazy. Dear lord, I don’t know what to do now.
It was a slow day after that, like walking through water. He played catch with the boys in the yard. He made a pot roast, according to directions Mrs. Buchanan had left him months ago. He told them he’d buy them new suits for Easter, and teased them about the Easter Bunny and what he would bring.
He sat down that afternoon and called the woman the nun’s housekeeper had mentioned to him for possible sitters and arranged for her to come by the next day.
He also called Brigitta to see how she was faring—“better, thank you”—and to let her know he’d found another sitter and she need not worry about helping him out. He apologized for “taking advantage of your good nature” and assured her he’d call her that week to talk about going out the next weekend. If things were as he suspected, he better start building a real relationship with this woman.
By the time he put his sons to bed that night, after a bath and a story, he was empty, feeling his face muscles ache the way they had after visiting Mary in the hospital. It wasn’t from the effort to smile. It was from the effort not to frown, not to let his face and body collapse into the wailing grief he felt deep inside.
He sat alone that night in the living room, drinking a whiskey and listening to the radio, feeling the joy in his life drained away. And you thought that had happened after Mary was gone. But there was still more pain to feel, more loss to experience.
He was about to turn off the radio and go to bed when Walter Winchell’s report came on. Here was a pleasant memory. Mary and he used to listen to Winchell, sitting quiet on a Sunday evening, content in each other’s company. So he stayed, hoping to grab some of that peace back.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea,” the familiar voice began. “Attention everyone. In a few moments I will report on a new polio vaccine—it may be a killer…”
Sean sat up, waited through the commercial, and listened to the rest.
“Attention all doctors and families. The National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis plans to inoculate one million children this month. The U.S. Public Health Service tested ten batches of this new vaccine. They found, I am told, that seven of the ten contained live—not dead—virus. That it killed seven monkeys. The name of the vaccine is the Salk vaccine…”
***
By Monday, he’d talked himself into taking whatever came at him. He deserved a demotion. Deserved it because of Jansen, because of everything. Was lucky that was all he was getting.
“As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.” O’Brien looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Either he’d had a hard night or allergies were bothering him. “Jansen was the killer. Jansen is dead.”
“It was an accident then?”
“He was found at the bottom of his steps by his housekeeper, his neck broken in a fall.”
“No evidence of foul play?” He remembered Jansen being afraid someone was after him. Had he been right?
O’Brien didn’t respond. Just stared at him, breathing out a quick, angry sigh. He’d begun the meeting by reminding Sean of how understanding he’d been when his wife had been sick. At length, he spoke.
“What the hell do you ca
re?”
Now it was Sean’s turn to remain silent.
“You let the guy go,” O’Brien continued. “If he’d have stayed in custody, he’d still be alive. You’re better off not knowing if it was foul play, buster.”
This was true.
“I’ve talked to Kaminsky,” O’Brien said. “He can take you if you’re willing to start on the night shift. Cherry Hill and that side of town.”
Back on the beat. With no Mary to admire his uniform. The boys would like it. And they’d not know what it signified. There was comfort, at least.
“Yes, sir.” He had to provide for the boys. He was lucky to have his job. “When do I start?”
“In a week.” O’Brien put his hand on his phone, a sign the meeting was ending. “In the meantime, keep your nose out of trouble. Type up other detectives’ reports for them or something. I noticed you’re good at typing.”
***
Julia came in at noon that day. Mrs. Wilcox had called her at home on Saturday and told her she should feel free to take the entire day off after the shock of Dr. Jansen’s death. But she couldn’t do that. She had an appointment that evening….
She twisted the ring on her finger. She’d worn it just so she could take it off and return it to Will. She didn’t want him asking where it was. She just wanted to get it over with. Her head was in a muddle, as confused as the day she’d discovered Dr. Lowenstein’s body, lighting on one thought that would scamper away as quickly as she comprehended it.
Dr. Jansen was dead. She’d thought of calling Sean after reading the news, but what in the world would have been her reason? To ask for reassurances?
Yes, she did want that. She wanted to know what had happened when he’d talked to Dr Jansen, and if…if anything, even a small crumb of information she had divulged, had led to his death.
It had hung over her Sunday like a thunder cloud waiting to burst, weighting her down more than the leg brace.
It had been supposed to be a day of celebration, her father’s first Sunday at home since the heart attack. Beth and Stu were there with the kids after church, and Julia had helped Helen prepare a dinner that would rival Easter’s feast. They’d gone straight to the kitchen after Mass where Helen had rolled out biscuits and instructed Julia on how to prepare the chicken for roasting. Then they’d come up with a brilliant game for the children—Find Grandpa’s Cigarettes.
Since coming home, Howie Dell had wanted nothing so badly as a smoke, and both Helen and Julia had caught him taking a drag in secret, snatching the smoke from his lips before he’d had a chance to get more than a few whiffs. He had them stashed somewhere. Donny had found a pack between mattress and box spring. Even little Andy had come up with some, stuck behind a flowerpot in the kitchen.
Those moments of lightness, when they’d teased their father about his energetic pursuit of smoking, had lifted her for brief periods from her blues. She’d needed desperately to talk to someone about Dr. Jansen.
And that someone, not surprisingly, had ended up being Helen. As they’d washed the dishes together, Helen had brought it up.
“You must be pretty shaken up,” she’d said, handing Julia a dish to dry at the table. They’d all offered similar condolences on Saturday after reading the news, and then no one had spoken of it, so wrapped up in the planning for Sunday’s celebration. “I imagine it’s hard not to dwell on it.”
Julia had looked up at Helen and realized how wrong she’d been to assume that Helen had turned into a cipher after Tom’s death. She’d retreated, yes. But she’d not stopped thinking and observing.
“It has been hard,” she’d said, placing a dried plate on a pile of others. She’d sat while she dried, too afraid she’d drop something while standing and balancing herself on her good leg. “I told the detective some things about Dr. Jansen and I thought he was going to be questioned. I don’t know if that happened. I wonder sometimes if…” If his death wasn’t accidental. If he’d killed himself, or worse.
“Oh Jules, don’t torture yourself like that. If you had information related to the case, you would have been remiss for not turning it over.”
“I suppose.”
“You should take off tomorrow,” Helen had said. “We could do something together. I don’t have to be at the shop until three.”
“Mrs. Wilcox called to tell me I could take off.”
“Well, there you go!” Helen had handed her another dripping plate. “We’ll go to the market for Mutti together. Or just take a drive.”
“Listen to you—‘just take a drive’—Helen, you’ve changed so much.”
“Necessity is the mother of invention….” She’d rinsed another plate and handed it over. “So you’ll take the day?”
“I don’t know. I really need to talk to Will and he’d made this plan, before the news about Dr. Jansen, of course, that we could grab a bite to eat after work tomorrow since we didn’t see each other this weekend.”
“You’re going to break the engagement then.”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s wise, to do it in a public place. Less chance of a big scene.”
“I hope so.”
So now here she was at work, her thoughts a universe away from the tasks at hand, just waiting for the moment when she could tell Will she no longer wanted to be his wife two days after learning of her boss’s death. She felt as if the nerves in her body were firing rapid signals to each other, creating a static that wouldn’t let coherent thoughts penetrate the crackle.
“Dr. Morton’s taking a vacation,” Linda said, her voice seeming to come from afar. “After the funeral, of course.”
Julia looked up from the reports she’d been arranging on her desk. “I can understand him wanting to get away.”
“I’m surprised you’re here.”
“I couldn’t sit at home.”
So the afternoon passed. Julia was in a daze and kept hoping that routine would comfort her. But at this point, the only thing that would make her feel better would be if Will would show up to say quite cheerfully that he had found another woman and wanted to release Julia from her promise to marry him. So she plodded along, watching time crawl by on the clock, taking phone calls about Dr. Jansen’s death and the funeral arrangements, feeling like her life had crumbled away under her feet and she was left with nothing to stand on, no firm, sure place to press her cane.
***
“He do it?”
“Yup. Busted me back.” Sean looked up at Sal who stood in shirt sleeves and no jacket and tie at his desk.
“Crap. I was hoping he was just talking big.” Sal plopped a thick pile of files on Sean’s desk, explaining, “It’s the stuff we collected on the case. I took it home Friday night, figuring I’d go over it with a fine tooth comb over the weekend. Had a theory. No point in that now.”
“What was your theory?”
Sal twisted his mouth to one side. “What I said before—that crippled secretary. I started thinking how she was a troublemaker, always getting folks in the soup. She’s angry deep down and it comes out that way.”
Sean heaved a sigh. Julia was hiding her anger, sure, but did she have enough to kill? He didn’t think so.
Sal continued, “Maybe she got angry at our Dr. Hill. She had reasons. He refused to work on her disease.”
Sean had seen fierce determination in her eyes, had heard fomenting anger in her voice. But, like Jansen, she’d been timid with her rage, not showing it off to the world.
“Anybody talk to Jansen’s neighbors—see anybody coming to visit him Friday night?”
Sal shook his head. “Doubt it. I think the case is closed.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” As O’Brien had just told him. This was a fool’s errand in every possible way to keep pursuing it. It could only mean trouble for Sean.
Sean changed topics. “What’s your sentence?”
“Two weeks’ probation,” Sal said. “O’Brien let me know Friday night before I left. I’m not supposed to b
e here.” He smiled. “I’m going to the beach right before Easter. Got some money saved.”
“Hope it won’t be too cold.”
“I don’t care, man. I just want to sit in a bar drinking a National Bo and thinking about nothing related to doctors and the like.” He rocked on his heels. “Your beat days are only temporary, right?”
Sean shrugged. “He’s not saying.”
“Ain’t nothing you can do?”
Sean leaned back in his chair. “I’d always thought of opening my own shop one day. A PI agency. Something all on my own. But I can’t do that now. Have to support the boys.”
“My guess is O’Brien will make you walk the beat for a month tops and then reel you back in.”
Sean smiled at Sal’s optimism. “I think it’s more likely he’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
The man himself appeared in the doorway to his office, shooting them a dour look that made them both realize there was worse their boss could do to them still.
“I’ll be talking to you,” Sal said before leaving. “Best of lucky, buddy. You’ll land on your feet.”
After Sal left, Sean spent a humiliating day typing reports as O’Brien had directed. One of the other detectives kept ribbing him about it, calling him “Miss Reilly,” as if he were a secretary. No wonder that Julia was filled with rage, he thought as he rolled out the last page of the day. Just the typing alone was enough to send you over the edge.
He leaned on his elbows and wiped his face with his hand. If she’d had something to do with the murders, he should find out. It didn’t matter if O’Brien thought the case was closed. Their job was to take killers off the street.
My god—Sal had thought Julia Dell was the killer. It turned his stomach. But maybe he’d just wanted her to be innocent. He’d wanted to see that in her because…because he’d seen a wee bit of his Mary in her, something soft buried underneath all that pretend cheer.
To hell with O’Brien. He was working the case. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself otherwise. He picked up the phone and dialed Julia’s number.
***
Why’d you send that note to Susan’s house instead of just handing it to the girl?
LOST TO THE WORLD Page 27