Your secretary is a pushover...gave me your digits…sorry, but I have to see you…Woody’s at 7?...tell Naomi not to wait up…
your dutiful student,
Sam(ara)
His pulse raced. It was worse than he thought. He put the phone down and stared into the rearview mirror. Samara must have remembered that Woody’s had been he and Charlie’s favorite drinking spot. Why couldn’t Naomi have been at home waiting for him tonight of all nights? It was very bad luck and a familiar but almost forgotten feeling came over him of the exhilaration of misdeeds. It had been a long time since such an opportunity had dangled itself in front of him, one so enticing at least. Age, relationship, proximity to his wife--there were a thousand reasons he should simply decline. He laughed at the pressure he suddenly felt. He had done nothing wrong and already he was trying to figure out how to rationalize the situation. It ended badly any way you looked at it and so that was that. He looked at his watch. It was 6 pm. In an hour she would be waiting for him. His other option was reheated Mexican food and bad TV for the whole evening. It would be easy enough to get away, go out drinking with the guys. It would give him time to explain things to Samara and put out that fire before it ever started.
He put his fingers to the keypad and muttered aloud, “This is the grown up thing to do. Yeah sure, exactly,” he said before typing:
Samara,
See you at 7.
***
Downy realized as he pulled onto Third street that he hadn’t been to Woody’s for years, however many he couldn’t count. While he had been Charlie Patterson’s favorite grad student and protégé, the two had become a permanent fixture there every Friday night. Woody’s wasn’t your typical college bar. No one yelled. Whatever your reasons for wanting to drink in peace, or even by yourself, you could rest well assured people would respect you. It was also a primo date spot. Dark enough even in the day to feel like you were part of the wallpaper. You could blend in. The gourmet Greek coffee, still boiled, helped flush the toxins of whatever poison was your pick. He missed simple pleasures like these now more than ever. He thought of Charlie and their endless conversations in the back, darkest corner of the place, a table that was reserved for them exclusively. Any guys that spent as much on fine scotch as they did “had earned a regular spot,” the owner had said. He had once threatened to hang a plaque in their honor with their names on it. Both were shocked when a month later one appeared. Charlie had jokingly dubbed their booth “the couch,” in honor of the picture of Freud just above the table. It had made the both of them laugh uncontrollably, especially when they got drunk and started talking about their fathers, which happened almost every night. Two glasses of scotch erased all need for self-analysis thankfully. Tonight though, he had to stop thinking of his old friend. He was there to see Samara and drinking like that was out of the question.
He remembered with sober clarity the question he had once posed to Charlie during one of their all night orgies on philosophy: “What do we do when the ones we love die?” It was the only thing he ever truly felt lost talking about and he was sorry as soon as he asked it. It was too heavy a remark for what was usually a light occasion, a chance to decompress from work. Charlie’s response stung now.
“You must go on living. Bury the dead, they stink up the joint.”
Typical Charlie. He was a hard man to bury though.
It was at that same table that Charlie had forced him to tell his stories about Roman history. Charlie had been the teacher for so long that he had never really considered himself any kind of authority. When he finished Patterson had applauded.
“You’ve far outgrown my teaching Noah,” he’d finally admitted. “I’m serious, you know this subject better than anyone in the field, myself included. I have nothing left to teach you, I’m afraid.” Then at the end of the conversation he had produced the tape. He had recorded everything Downy had said into a tiny recorder without telling him. “My dear boy, here is the first few chapters of your new book. Just have my secretary transcribe it for you and you should be able to finish by Christmas easily. I will submit it to my publishers, then and you can cash big fat checks in perpetuity. Drinks are on you from now on though, ok?”
And that night they had both laughed hard, but early the next morning he was wide awake working on chapter two of his multi-volume history of Rome, beginning with the strange twins, Romulus and Remus, credited with Rome’s founding and ending with Cleopatra’s dramatic death in Egypt. There was still more to tell of course. The death of Caesar, the reassessment entire of Caesar himself, who to both Downy and Charlie was no tyrant, more hero, and finally the ascension of his adopted nephew Octavian, one of the shrewdest men in all of Rome, whose reign truly began the golden age of Rome; To Downy though, the death of Caesar marked the end of something that was never recovered. For him, Caesar was the ultimate Roman. His book had begun right there in Woody’s with Patterson as the ever-eager audience.
Unbelievably, it had happened exactly as Charlie predicted; checks and all, then came the documentary film and then of course being made advisor to the mini-series. He had even met Naomi while on set. She was playing Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinowe. Gratefully Naomi’s job had lasted only a day, since Cleopatra had had her sister killed, fearful that she too would try to take the throne. He remembered telling Naomi that she died with great majesty. He hadn’t been joking, but she had cracked up anyway. In some ways he owed Charlie Patterson his whole life and when he died suddenly, so unexpectedly, he found he could hardly breathe, much less work for months. Even Naomi couldn’t help. He knew he should have been there with Charlie on the boat that day, but he’d backed out at the last second when his publisher demanded another volume of his series. It was the first and only time anyone had given him a hard deadline. Some timing. How often had they both talked about the strange Roman conception of fate? Downy had been the first to know. It was Nazim, their boat handler, who had made the call. His sorrowful voice over the phone sounded ancient and foreign. He strangely remembered the calls to prayer he could hear in the background, ringing out in seeming looped echo. It was awful. He had screamed at Nazim to go find Charlie, but Nazim could only weep himself.
“Mr. Charlie has been lost overboard and he is not with us any longer professor, sir. I am so sorry. I have lost him. I do not know how. He is gone.” At the funeral Nazim had fallen to his knees and begged Downy’s forgiveness for not looking out for his dear friend more carefully. Nazim was a good man though and had done nothing wrong.
It was better not to think of these things. His mood was sinking until he thought of Samara again. He remembered looking for her at the funeral, but she had been a no-show. Her mother claimed it had been simply too much to bear, that she wouldn’t leave the back garden except to sleep for a few hours in Charlie’s favorite hammock. She was a piece of Charlie in so many ways and it felt good to be near her, even if her beauty did scare the hell out of him. Now if he could just figure out how not to sleep with her.
Chapter 8
“Wait up, Detective!” the voice came from across the room. Sullivan was headed for the door, manila folder under his arm. It was the bulldog sergeant turned softy that had been railing at him earlier. “Let me give you a lift over to impound. I can get Rita to knock half off the cost at least. We dated in high school. Well, she let me play with her boobs once anyway.” Tackett seemed an oversized teddy bear, but looked like a man who suffered from permanent hypertension. A bit more than overweight and far too sweaty. “Lemme get you a drink tonight and give you a real introduction to this city.”
“Uhh, that’s really tempting, but you know I gotta get a place still, so I need to--”
“If you think you will find a place to move into tonight or even in the next month sport, let me tell you ya’ got another thing coming. This is Southern Cali, boss. Come on, I know a place you can stay temporarily until good real estate becomes available.”
“Ok then, I’m with you I suppose, sergeant.”
<
br /> They jumped into Tackett’s black SUV. They virtually filled the lot, seeming replicas lined up in perfect formation.
“You ever get in the wrong one by mistake?” Sullivan mused.
“Nah, this one is always covered in bird shit, because I’m too cheap to wash it.”
“Oh, ok.” He realized he might have gotten Tackett all wrong. Perhaps they were kindred spirits after all. He also realized they were leaving the lot.
“What about my car?” he said.
“Don’t worry about it we can get it tomorrow; it couldn’t be in a safer place.”
He leaned back, accepting that Tackett seemed to be in charge, and not just at the office.
“San Diego has a ton of really classy bars, but that’s not where we’re headed.”
“Thank goodness,” he replied. “I’m starting to get the feeling this is more of a planned date than a spontaneous get together.”
Tackett drove in silence while Sullivan surveyed the city-scape. He swerved the SUV suddenly onto a side street, down a dark tree covered driveway.
“Or maybe a professional hit by the looks of things,” he muttered nervously.
He peered squinting into the darkness before they finally emerged onto a vast flat spot overlooking the ocean.
“Best view in town and not ten people know about it,” Tackett said pointing out over the seemingly endless ocean.
“Wow.”
“I pulled your file kid. It’s impressive work you’ve done in Richmond. You know what though, Richmond is a pretty small fishbowl. Out here you’re swimming in a whole ocean of it.”
The car finally pulled to a stop. Tackett reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask.
“Open the glove box,” he said. Sullivan complied and found a stack of paper cups and a small plastic bottle of coca cola. “Jack and Coke ok with you?”
“Sure. You really know how to make a gal feel special,” he said batting his eyelashes.
“What is it they call you, Ice Cube?”
“No, actually Ice Man is the correct pronunciation. After the actor, who is considered decadently handsome by the way, or at least was.”
“Yeah, yeah I saw the fucking movie,” Tackett said pouring. “Look Sullivan, if I might ask that our conversation tonight stay just between the two of us. I know that’s asking a lot since we just met, but I need to know that you and I are the only two discussing this topic. If I find out you’ve told anyone I won’t be able to offer my help again.”
“Please, sergeant, go on; this sounds juicy.”
“That case you got from Tierney today, case 1032, right?”
“Yeah?” he said looking down at the folder in the floorboard.
“That’s an old case around here. You’re not the first guy to be given a chance to crack that nut. How was your meeting with Tierney by the way?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Tell me what do you think of Bob so far? Did he do that stupid routine where he asks you to analyze him?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, what the hell was that? He does that to everybody?”
“Drink up.” Tackett said.
He slammed the jack and coke, remembering its taste from the night at the lake with Caroline, the true beginning of his trip in some ways.
“He seems like he does things by the book. Maybe he tries a little too hard to seem human. I don’t know, I just met him really.”
“I’ve known Bob since the academy. We went through together. Everybody called him Robby then, believe it or not. By the time he was thirty though it was definitely Robert. He made Chief at 37 and then he made everyone at the precinct call him chief, even me, which is funny because the job was mine actually. For 48 hours anyway. Then Bob dialed in one of his big favors from Sacramento. Bob has the soul of a politician, Sullivan, and to him using political favors to get what he wants is as natural as breathing for most of us. I even went home and told my wife when I got it and then of course had to un-tell her when they took it away. It’s been twenty-two years and Bob has never once said a word to me about it. That’s his style. To his credit he has given me the maximum raise every year and has given me a ridiculous number of commendations. His way of paying penance or tribute or whatever, I’m sure.” Tackett paused to refill their cups. “Don’t get me wrong, Sullivan. I am not the type to hold grudges, but I want you to know that Bob Tierney is a man who is always looking out for himself first, and usually at the expense of others. “Case 1032,” Tackett said pointing, “the first guy to get that case was Danny Fleming. Fleming was a great cop and a great friend.” Tackett stopped pouring into his cup and turned up the flask before he spoke. “He’s why I became a cop, frankly. He played a couple of years of NFL football actually, before injuring his shoulder with the Raiders. Then joined the force so he could stay around some action, I guess. Family man, two kids. He liked getting a cat down from a tree as much as busting a crook though. Everyone in San Diego loved the guy, in spite of his playing for the wrong team. He and Tierney never got along. Tierney thought he was too old school and of course Bob hates anyone who is naturally popular. It cuts into his theory that the wheels must be greased for you to win in this world. Once Tierney became chief he purposely gave Fleming the worst cases--1032 started out as a simple breaking and entering actually. Someone called it in anonymously. But no one could explain all the blood found at the scene and none of it showed up in the DNA databases, then or now for that matter. There were two blood types for sure, but not a shred of evidence for who it belonged to. Fleming only had the case for a couple of months before he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah, hasn’t been seen since, that was twelve years ago now. Left for work on a Monday morning and just never showed up. Never found his car or him, like the earth just fucking swallowed him.”
“You think it was related to this case?”
“I’m sure of it, though I don’t know exactly how.”
“Have you looked through the files yourself?”
“Numerous times. There’s nothing much in there. I even had some of the initial suspects followed, tapped a couple of phones. Nothing came of it.”
“Then maybe you’re wrong.”
“That’s always possible,” he said handing over the flask. “But I don’t think so. Not this time. This case has become very quietly, mind you, one that Bob Tierney has a personal stake in and that’s what scares me the most. The pressure from Sacramento to squelch this before it becomes a big story in the press is immense. What else did Bob tell you about the case, if anything?”
“Only that it was ice cold and to take my time. I figured I was getting a demotion right out of the gate.”
“Yeah, I figured as much, the son of a bitch. It’s backwardass psychology. He knows a competitive guy like yourself will get all over it so you can move on to bigger and better things. Look Sullivan, after Fleming disappeared, the case got handed over to a guy named Nicky Jensen, Fleming’s partner. Finish it,” Tackett said pointing to the flask. “It’s only the fact that they disappeared four years apart that’s kept this case from becoming a scandal already.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are the third detective who has been given case 1032. The other two have never been heard from again.”
Chapter 9
Downy rounded the corner on third and he could feel butterflies in his stomach. He hadn’t anticipated feeling so nervous and he actually stopped walking so he could take a deep breath. Ok, just go in you idiot. This was your big idea. When he entered the room it was unusually bright, the late afternoon sun still pouring in from outside. At the bar sat Samara. She had clearly changed for the evening. She now wore a sleeveless black dress cut high at the thigh. Her shoes, black stilettos, dangled from her toes. This was all a very bad idea he suddenly realized. But it was too late. Samara smiled and rose to greet him as he walked in. She already had a drink in hand.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said huggin
g him tightly.
Her lips brushed just slightly against his neck when they embraced and he almost lost it. He glanced down at her shoulder and could see the tattoo’s dark ink against her skin. He opened his mouth to speak, but Samara put her hand to it. She pointed at the bar.
“That’s a double shot of their finest Scotch. Drink now, then meet me in the back,” she said pointing to the far corner.
He watched her walk away silently and reached for the drink. As he lifted it, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the second floor balcony, where he had sat so many times with Charlie. It was empty and dark. The scotch went down smoothly and was warm in his stomach. He looked for Samara, but he couldn’t see well into the darkness in back. What the hell was she up to? he thought. In the corner, just out of view of the bar he saw her leaning against one of those old fashioned red phone booths from downtown London. The booth was new, or at least he didn’t remember it being there before. It had been awhile since he’d been in, too long. Samara stood posed like someone out of a movie and used her finger to beckon him toward her.
“Man, the scotch is really good, I can see why you two spent so much time here,” she said looking around. “Get inside,” she said pointing with her head to the booth. His head was humming now, from the shot, from everything.
“Ok,” he heard himself saying.
As he slid nervously inside, Samara appeared without warning, pressing against him and without a word her mouth was on his. They were trapped together in the booth and she squeezed the door closed behind them. He had no space to move away, so instead surrendered himself to the feeling of her lips against his, her body pressing against him. Worse was that he could sense real emotion coming from her. This had been saved up and planned for. The fear and exhilaration were impossible to disentangle. Finally, when it seemed they’d both have to gasp for air she stopped. They both froze. Her head slid down against his chest. She held it there for many seconds. He was afraid to speak. Finally, she looked up at him; her eyes were misty and her pupils dilated.
Saboteur: A Novel Page 4