by John Moss
The last thing Miranda thought as the hollow silence of the soundproof room closed around her and she drifted off to sleep: Damn her, she peed on my floor.
She peed on my floor.
15
Old Friends
Morgan fell asleep on the blue sofa. The television was flashing indecipherable images when he peered through squinted eyes, trying to read the time on the digital display on the VCR below the screen. It was exactly three in the morning, as if the clarity of curvilinear digits had awakened him much the same way old-fashioned clocks used to click in anticipation of the alarm going off. Three, zero, zero. As his eyes brought the read-out into focus, the final digit transformed to a one. He sat upright and fumbled for the wand, turning off the television. The time panel remained illuminated. It was the only light in the room. He had had the presence of mind, before falling asleep, to turn off the reading lamp.
It had been an unsettling day and he had denied himself closure by not going upstairs to his bedroom to sleep. He was wearing boxer shorts, which meant he had got himself ready for bed before settling in on the sofa. He wore boxers as summer pajamas, never as underwear.
He had been under restraint. It was only the direct orders of the superintendent that had kept him away from Francine Ciccone. Most of the day he had spent in the office, correlating forensic information from the various plots and subplots that followed from Miranda’s discovery of her lover’s corpse in her bed. He was searching for the grand scenario, something that would tie all the details together in a coherent account.
That’s how Morgan’s mind worked. He was inductive, he would accumulate facts and impressions and gradually or suddenly a pattern would emerge. That was how he thought of himself, thinking. Miranda was deductive. She would pick up a detail and extrapolate from it an entire narrative. That was how he thought of her, thinking. Part of the mythology they shared was the assumption their minds worked in opposite but complementary ways.
This was a bit of a joke around the department. For the most part, their colleagues thought of them thinking exactly alike. They cultivated the myth of difference but worked so well together precisely because they were not. In spite of the dissimilarities in character, sex, experience, and disposition, they were very much the same.
He had called her in the morning at Elke Sturmberg’s apartment in Greenwich Village. Inexplicably, when she got on the line, he decided not to tell her about his experience at the warehouse. It seemed like an imposition.
“You okay?” he had asked.
“Sure, of course. We’re off to Saks Fifth Avenue in a few minutes. And Elke wants to show me some shops too small to advertise in Vogue. How’re you doing?”
“I’m fine,” said Morgan, reassuring himself as he spoke that he was telling her the truth. Last night seemed far away, like a Bruce Willis movie he had watched on the late show, while at the same time reading one of his esoteric books, perhaps on Ontario country furniture.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, you’re the one in the war zone.” Goodness, he thought, what a cliché. He had been every bit as much under fire in Toronto the Good.
“Well, the war’s over. The NYPD want us to stay around for a bit, though. Clancy, he’s running the show, he’s easy with the hostage situation, that it went down like we said —”
“But it didn’t?”
“Not exactly. But, you know, Morgan, Elke was caught in the middle, she did what she had to do. The bastard sold her out, he was going to have her killed.”
“Really?”
“No, but he sent her off to Rochester, he set her up to take the fall for exposing the wine scam … and she ended up in the wine marinade in Niagara.”
“And she executed a two-bit hoodlum under the Humber Bridge.”
“Morgan, she’s in the next room,” said Miranda in a low voice. “We can argue the fine points later. The fact is, explanation, exoneration, she was the hostage taker, but she was also the victim — it would have been complicated to explain to Clancy. I just cut through the red tape. The woman is innocent, except maybe of overreaction.”
“Blonds are usually the victims.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, she is … both. And she’s taking me shopping.”
“Why not.”
“Exactly!”
“You take care in the big city. Don’t spend too much.”
“See you in a couple of days. Don’t solve any murders without me.”
“Later.”
Morgan picked up the phone on impulse, then put it down. He should call her back, let her know what had happened. He had spoken to Clancy at the NYPD; he’d pass it on. She would be furious, finding out about the warehouse standoff second-hand. He set the phone down gently. He got up and walked to the bathroom, washed up, climbed up into the darkness of his sleeping loft, and got dressed. It was three fifteen in the morning.
Morgan ambled through the muted light of the city at night, from the Annex down to College Street and across, past the monolithic Police Headquarters building, admiring the rectilinear tumble of rose-coloured granite and gunmetal steel that surged against the sky as he walked closer and passed by in front. At Jarvis, he paused. Ahead and to the south lay Cabbagetown, now one of the chic addresses in the city, but when he was growing up, as the name suggested, derived from the staple of boiled beef and cabbage eaten by denizens of the largest Anglo-Saxon slum outside England, it was a far different place, a curious mixture of tenements, tumble-down townhouses, and prized restoration projects. A short distance to the north was another world entirely, one enclosed by walls of privilege and power.
Morgan turned north and, still well before sunrise, he found himself in the heart of Rosedale, surrounded by fine homes, manicured front gardens, strolling over red brick sidewalks under the spreading canopies of towering silver maples along the narrow boulevards and winding streets.
A cruiser pulled up beside him and a uniformed officer asked what he was doing.
“Walking.”
“Walking? Where’s your dog? Have you got ID?”
“Yes.”
The uniformed officer got out of the car. His partner got out the passenger side. She had her hand draped casually over her gun, not menacing but wary.
“Let’s see it.”
“What?”
“Your ID. What’re you doing, walking around here, this time of night?”
“Would you be asking that anywhere else?”
“Okay, my friend, up against the car, hands down, spread ’em. Now, carefully, reach in, get your wallet, hand it to my partner.”
Morgan was neither amused nor angry. He was interested, curious to see how the situation would develop. He handed his wallet to the officer standing at his side.
“David Morgan, you’re us. Gaffield, ease up. He’s a detective, Homicide.”
Gaffield, who had a strong hand firmly on Morgan’s shoulder, did not release his grip.
“Find a picture,” he said. “Photo ID. Check his driver’s licence.”
“Gaffield!”
“Could be stolen.…”
“Gaffield. I recognize him. Detective Morgan. You know, one of ours.”
Gaffield let his hand drop from Morgan’s shoulder. “Yeah, okay. Sorry, Detective. You never know.”
“No, “ said Morgan, “you never know. Have a good evening, both of you.” He turned away and walked off. The cruiser caught up with him and rolled along at his pace with the window down.
“You might want this,” said Gaffield, holding out Morgan’s wallet.
“You’re not supposed to take the wallet,” said Morgan, retrieving his wallet.
“You can’t be too careful,” said the officer behind the wheel. It was the woman now. They had switched.
“No, just doing your job.”
“Goodnight, Detective.”
Morgan did not respond, and the cruiser slowly pulled ahead, then sped up aro
und the next corner and wheeled out of sight. Morgan stopped and looked around. He was in front of the Ciccone house. He had, he knew, been coming here from the beginning, from the moment he woke up on his blue sofa.
There was a low wall and a thick hedge across the front. No attempt had been made to secure the premises; it was not necessary in Rosedale. People did not go around invading other people’s houses. Break-and-enter specialists avoided the neighbourhood. Virtually every property was equipped with alarms and surveillance devices, somewhat undermining the illusion of invulnerability but emphatically discouraging burglary.
Morgan slipped though the front gate, which was secured by a simple lift-latch. Set back to the left was a carriage house over the garage. He knew there was a couple living in the carriage house. They were not servants. People like the Ciccone family are jealous of their privacy; they do not allow domestic help to stay overnight. The couple was married, with no children. The woman managed the household and was Frankie Ciccone’s confidante, and although their relationship lacked parity, it was not reciprocal. Her husband was a specialist in protection. He would take a bullet for the Ciccone family, or dispense one if necessary, without a moment’s hesitation.
While the Ciccones might be considered more vulnerable than most of their neighbours due to their business interests, for the same reason they were protected by their reputation from criminal invasion.
Morgan understood that the four children had moved out. Frankie and Vittorio lived alone. Frankie, now, on her own.
He walked stealthily, but in the open, around to the French doors at the back. There were no signs of a dog, no bare spots on the lawn or gnawed lower branches on the shrubs. He pondered the locked door for a moment, amused that even people in their line of work should trust the naïve conventions of home security. And they are conventions, he thought. People will design elaborate locks on their doors, bolt their windows closed, and assume a pane of glass, one eighth of an inch thick, will keep out intruders. They will install elaborate alarm systems and only set them when they go out. They will leave on a light downstairs when they retire for the night, almost as a talisman to keep burglars at bay, as if they were afraid of the light the way children are afraid of the dark.
Morgan selected a glass pane in one of the doors that was directly over a small Persian carpet on the hardwood floor in the dining room. He tapped it sharply with his elbow, there was a slight crackle, and the shards of glass fell quietly onto the rug. It was a Persian Qashqa’i, he noticed as he reached through into the light coming from the kitchen and unlocked the door. He could see the fixed red beacon on the alarm across the room and knew it was not armed.
He was fascinated by the presumptive carelessness of the Ciccone family. He thought of the hubris that brought down kings and felt a mixture of righteousness and regret.
Walking across the thick broadloom of the living room to the base of the stairs, Morgan admired the furnishings. Frankie had come a long way, in some respects. This was, so far as he could tell in the dull light streaming in from the street, in very good taste, of a particular sort. Not his taste, no personality (more House Beautiful than Architectural Digest). Given the over-the-top funeral, Morgan figured she had professional help with the house décor. He gave her credit that at least in this context she recognized her own limitations.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, all whimsy had dissipated. She had set him up to be killed, using their friendship as the lure. He was irritated with himself for being stupid and hurt by her betrayal. He was sad, but he was angry. He paused in the hallway, his hand on what seemed most likely the door of the master bedroom.
What was he here for? Certainly not to harm her physically. He wanted to confront her, face to face. Just so that she would know that he knew what she’d done. He did not expect remorse or an apology, but he thought perhaps she might be humiliated for having sold herself out — not him, but herself. What satisfaction that would bring was uncertain.
He turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open enough to slip into the room. He could smell the delicate fragrance of feminine vanity. As he moved away from the door, he felt it swing slowly shut and sensuous strains in the air seemed to gather behind him. Without turning around, he knew she was there. The bed was empty, and he could smell the oiled steel of a revolver cocked close to the back of his head.
“Francine?”
“I thought it might be you, David.”
Neither of them said anything. Neither of them moved. He caught the scent of her warmth in the air. She moved very close to him. He could feel the muzzle of her gun pressed against his skull just behind his left ear. He could smell something else, and he was certain it was the smell of the ocean, the salt of her tears.
“Francine,” he said, gently. “Do you want to talk?”
“You dropped in for a chat, David? How considerate, you’re here to console the widow.”
He said nothing.
“This is very cozy, and so wonderfully private. Did you know I sleep naked, David? Is that why you came? Or is it to gloat: crime doesn’t pay, she’ll end up in bed by herself. And she did. Is that it? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a midnight caller, David. Vittorio and I slept in separate rooms. How did you pick my door? The Lady or the Tiger? The tiger is dead.”
“Francine, take the gun away from my head.”
“Do you want to turn around? Do you want to look at me naked? Is that what you always wanted.…” Her voice trailed off. She did not at all sound like the confident widow at the cemetery, nor did she sound like a woman who had tried to arrange Morgan’s death. She sounded desperate, needing to be assured that with the death of her husband she was still a woman. She sounded infinitely lonely and lost. This is the worst time of night to be alone, he thought, waiting on your own for the sun to rise.
He turned slowly until his eyes connected with hers and she let the revolver descend to her side. He placed an arm around her shoulders as he took the gun in his hand and, setting it down, he led her to the bed. He fluffed out the top sheet in the air and eased her back against the pillows, then drew the sheet up to her shoulders and tucked it around her. He traced the back of his hand across her forehead and softly brushed hair away from her face.
She lay very still with her eyes closed, then opened them unblinking and looked solemnly up at him. When he smiled, she smiled back.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to caress her forehead, letting the backs of his fingers flow gently against her skin until it relaxed and the lines faded and her face glowed in the soft illumination from the night-light seeping under the bathroom door.
Frankie Ciccone let her eyes flutter closed and she drifted into a deep sleep. Morgan lowered himself onto the floor and sat leaning with his back against the bed. His mind was filled with a lazy swarming like bees on a cloudless day, and no idea came to mind worth holding as he slipped into a light slumber.
When Morgan woke up, the room was filled with sunlight, and Frankie was lying on her side with her hand draped over his shoulder.
“Close the curtains,” she whispered.
He got up and drew the drapes closed, shutting out the light. He went into the bathroom for a few minutes then emerged to find Frankie had drawn the sheet down and was waiting for him.
Neither of them said a word. Morgan stripped off his clothes and lay down beside her, pulling the sheet up over them both.
Frankie drew him on top, spreading herself so his weight rested on his knees. They kissed passionately. She whimpered and he held her close under him, her breasts pressing deeply into the hardness of his diaphragm. He nibbled against her neck but she took his face between her hands and held it aslant to her own and kissed him deeply, drawing his mouth hard-soft against hers and at the same time shifting her weight to draw him into her. They rocked gently for a long time, their mouths locked and their bodies merged in warmth.
After a while, time gathered force and exploded in a shared orga
sm and they were outside the moment, waves rushing through bodies and brains in a receding sequence of pleasure until their synergy subsided and they rolled away, still joined at the loins, and stared into each other’s eyes.
Neither of them spoke when Morgan got up, and gathering his clothes went into the bathroom to shower and dress. When he came out, Francine was wrapped in a silk kimono and she had opened the curtains again so the room was flooded with light.
There was a complete English breakfast for two waiting on a side table by the window. Francine poured Morgan a coffee. She poured herself tea. They ate in comfortable silence, like an old married couple.
When they finished, they both sat back. It was time to talk.
“You think I betrayed you, I know that.” She spoke as casually as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Yeah, maybe that’s what I thought.”
“Do you still think so?”
“Maybe.”
“Morgan, Vittorio and I were happy.”
“It didn’t cross my mind you weren’t. You’re tough, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Because we had separate rooms, doesn’t mean, you know.”
“I know.”
“Right now I’m angry at him, can you understand that?”
“For leaving?”
“Yes, for leaving me.”
“It wasn’t his choice. What happened, what went wrong with the warehouse thing? You tortured the guy, you cut off his pecker, you wanted him arrested.”
“We wanted him arrested, yes. But the last part, that wasn’t us.”
“It wasn’t you who ambushed me and killed him. Was it Mr. Savage?”
“He isn’t one of ours.”
“And you’re not his?”
“No, of course not.”
“But he is a very powerful man.”
“He is.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain.
“You can’t, or won’t?”
“Both. If I could, I wouldn’t.”
“Before — you talked about Vittorio’s killers. More than one. Who? How many?”