“You’d probably have to be in a pretty fucking agitated state to do that. Twice. Fucking head case,” Monroe said as a half-chewed onion ring tumbled out of his mouth.
There was silence, then Galen leaned closer to Monroe and the two talked quietly.
“She was a good cop,” Wally said, staring into his glass.
“Yeah. She was.” Harley downed the last of his beer, then left.
Chapter Seventeen
Maggie was asleep when the uniforms brought the package the next morning. It was a hard night. Rayney watched as she finally lay still on the hide-a-bed. As he waited to make sure she was asleep, he scanned the books on the shelves lining the walls. A thick, pink binder caught his eye. “Baby’s Memories.”
On the couch in the living room, Rayney flipped through the album. Photos of a little ball of pink and a woman he barely recognized as Maggie along with pages full of writing. First food, rice cereal. First word, mama. First steps, eleven months. Endless notes marking endless milestones. Each image filled with happiness, warmth. Life. Rayney looked at the photo on the last page. Erin, a year old and Maggie. It was easy to see they were mother and daughter. Same face, same smile, same spark. And both were gone.
He heard shuffling in the library and quickly slipped the book into one of the end table drawers. Maggie walked out with the Tempo section in her hand. She flopped down in the Morris chair and pulled at the sweaty t-shirt clinging to her.
“Can’t sleep?” Rayney asked.
She shook her head.
“I can give you something.”
She shook her head again.
Maybe Maggie didn’t need to be bothered with the envelope right now. Then Rayney remembered Paddy Quinn’s words when he first took the job. “You’re easy and it’s all over. You’re easy, she dies.”
Something smacked her chest and Maggie jumped, reaching for the Heckler & Koch .45 that wasn’t there.
“Easy, Tex.” Rayney said.
The oversized envelope lay in her lap. Rayney watched as Maggie flipped the thick package over and over in her hands. “You gonna open it or just use your x-ray vision?”
Silently, Maggie went to the library and closed the door. She tossed the envelope on her desk. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. She wanted work and that’s what waited in the envelope. She just didn’t know if she wanted this work. So, she ignored the envelope and flipped through her CDs instead.
Today was S.
S for Stalling.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to look at the files. Maybe she should just call Tierney and tell him she wasn’t up to it. Maybe she should just crawl in a hole and die. Again. There was no guarantee she could do anything to help anyway.
A chill shot through Maggie. What if she couldn’t? What if she was useless? There were only two things she was really good at. Waiting and thinking. Most of her early life revolved around those activities. Waiting anxiously with her mother for her Paddy Quinn to finish a meeting or a “job.” Calculating what the two would have to do to survive if he didn’t come home. Then when her mother was gone, Maggie waited alone for her father to return, wondering what she’d do if he didn’t. Listing what she would take with her if she had to leave fast. If she had to disappear. Finally Maggie waited for Joe to bring her father from his cell. Wondering how he was getting by in prison. If she would ever come to visit one day and he just wouldn’t be there anymore. Imagining what she would do with her life when she had no one left.
It added up to a lot of years of waiting and thinking. Maggie kept her mind off things she preferred not to think about by working brain-teasers and puzzles. Puzzles had clean answers. No matter how diabolical, the pieces always fit together eventually. You just had to be patient enough to do the work.
That’s what made Maggie a good detective. A crime was nothing more than a puzzle. The biggest obstacle was finding all the pieces. Every action left some sort of trail, so the pieces were always there. It was just a matter of brushing all the useless things away so you could see them.
From across the room, the envelope stared at Maggie. Unlike puzzles, even when the pieces for a killing did fit together, the answers were seldom clean. Maggie turned her back and cranked up the volume on the stereo. No, she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Nick waited for the autopsy report to get back to his office. He read it over, made notes and then spent the rest of the night catching up on paperwork. By the time he made it home, it was almost nine. The dinner Cheryl made was packed away in the refrigerator. His wife was packed away in the bedroom, the door locked. He tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t listen. He would make it up to her tomorrow. He had Sunday off. They’d go someplace. Just the two of them. He wouldn’t mention his cases. He would just focus on Cheryl.
Nick went to the refrigerator, made a sandwich from the steak his wife grilled earlier, opened a beer and settled down on the couch. Maybe their next couch should be a hide-a-bed. It made sense considering the amount of time he slept on it. After a second beer, he fell asleep. He didn’t hear Cheryl come out and switch off the TV.
It had been deadly quiet since he left Maggie alone hours earlier. Now dinner was ready and Rayney had an excuse to knock. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. His heart skipped a beat. It happened every time he had to wait for a response. Every time Maggie wasn’t where she was supposed to be. I should’ve checked on her earlier, Rayney told himself, suddenly afraid to look inside the room. Had he put the medications away? Yes. Were the knives secure? Yes. He held his breath and opened the door.
Maggie sat in the oak rocker. Her head hung back against an old brocade cushion. Her eyes were closed, her mouth barely open as warm air passed rhythmically between her lips. She wasn’t sleeping, Rayney knew that. She never slept when it was dark. Maggie Quinn had just disappeared like she did every night. Rayney heard the faint pounding of piano spill out of the headphones and felt the familiar pull that always kicked in whenever he came close to the woman.
A mighty piece of soul, his auntie used to call it. Some people were just born with it. Maggie Quinn was one of them. They filled more space when they walked into a room. When they looked at you, you felt split open like they knew everything about you, things you didn’t even know. People like that, his auntie would say, gave the world its real color. But when a soul like that got crushed, it was like being trapped in a room without air. Like sinking to the bottom of a lake and not having the strength to swim back to the surface.
Hopefully work would help. That’s all Maggie Quinn had, that and a big pit of nothing good that she fell into every day when she slept. But at night when the sun was gone and it was too dark to sleep, she put on music, pulled herself up and tried to fill the hole before she stepped into it again. Some days she succeeded. Most days, she fell.
Rayney brushed a small bit of hair from Maggie’s face as he watched her. He could keep dinner warm for a couple hours, let her rest. Then he noticed the envelope, still unopened, lying on the desk. “You’re easy, she dies.” The young man nodded to himself and tapped Maggie on the shoulder.
“Time to wake up.”
Her eyes snapped open.
“Dinner,” he said.
She nodded and pulled herself up. Up from the chair. Up from the pit.
Dinner was silent. Maggie stared at her plate and dutifully shoved food into her mouth, all the while staring at something in the corner Rayney couldn’t see.
“You want to play something?” Maggie asked when the table was cleared.
“No. You got work to do,” he said. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Night.”
The house was quiet. That’s when she did her best thinking. When everyone was tucked safely in bed and she was alone. The days were always too busy. Always something to do. Something for work. Something for Richa
rd. Something for Erin. A lot of somethings. Sleep was always at the bottom of the list. Funny, now she had all the time in the world to catch up and she couldn’t close her eyes peacefully. A sudden wave of anger slammed into her and Maggie tossed the envelope on the table. She wasn’t that curious. She didn’t need this shit.
A giggle.
From behind the curtain.
From outside.
The dark. Scratching to get in. To get to her. Maggie flipped through the CDs to find something new for S. Something Sad. No, she wasn’t particularly fond of Sad. Not anymore. How about Sanguine? There was a Scrabble word. Maybe Solemn. That fit. S for Solemn. Very different from Sad. A rube might think the two pieces would sound the same. Maggie knew the difference. Solemn could be majestic. Not Sad. Sad was just… well, sad. Pathetic, a P word very much like Sad.
Mozart. She pulled out the disk. Nothing was more Solemn than a really good requiem. Dies Irae. The Day of Wrath. Quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix justus sit securus? To which protector shall I appeal when even the just man is barely safe? No. She didn’t need that tonight.
A small, buried part of Maggie asked for forgiveness. That part left from childhood, from years of going to mass. From her mother telling her how to be a good girl. That same small part secretly begged for what the Requiem Arternum promised. Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua eis. Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. Maggie could use a little perpetual light.
She thought of Erin’s funeral mass. Richard and his parents chose light, uplifting music. Something, they said, Erin would like. But Erin wasn’t there. The music was for those who mourned, not the one being mourned. Maggie had wanted something Solemn. Something that carried the weight of loss. Sadness implied sheer, raw emotion. Being Solemn required thought. Consideration. A conscious choice. Death should be like that. Thoughtful.
Maggie looked back at the envelope. Would the victim’s parents play something Solemn at their child’s funeral? Or something Sad?
Laughter.
“Shut up,” she whispered between clenched teeth.
The dark played behind the curtains. Laughing, calling out to her. Throwing small pebbles at the glass. Maggie stomped to one of the two floor lamps and aimed the 100-watt bulb at the window.
Silence.
She threw the disk back in the case and selected another. The first strains of music filled the library and every dark corner inside Maggie. The envelope was still there. Waiting. She stared as blood puddled, then seeped into the paper fibers. She didn’t flinch.
Pie Jesu. Lord have mercy.
She was next to the table, unaware of making the choice to go.
Dona eis requiem. Grant them peace.
The envelope opened carefully, the papers and photos covering the table.
Agnus Dei. Lamb of God.
Covering the blood.
Sempiternam requiem. Grant them everlasting peace.
Maggie sat down, took a slow breath in and out and began to work.
S for Solemn.
For Strangulation.
Solution.
Chapter Eighteen
Kurt Baskin was playing Galaga in the back of the deserted bar. Sunday was the big day at Lou’s. Everyone in to watch the games. Saturday afternoon was for the regulars. The folks who had no family or didn’t want to be with the family they had. Kurt was well on his way to his best game when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“You got it?”
“Just a minute,” Kurt said, pushing his hip into the machine as more bugs bit the solar dust.
“Come on. I got another stop and I don’t want to smell like a dive bar. Shit, I can already feel my sinuses puffing up.”
The man was in his twenties. Thin with shoulder length black, stringy hair. He had the dark artist thing down with his t-shirt, black leather jacket and ragged pants. The giveaway was the boots. No starving artist could afford boots like that. Kurt knew the guy had a place in Wrigleyville. Parents probably paid for it. Paid for his school, too.
Kurt reached in his jacket and pulled out the memory stick. The dark artist reached out for it, but Kurt pulled it back as he dropped his hand down and popped the fire button again.
“This one’s special. A thousand more.”
“Fuck that.”
“It’s hot,” Kurt taunted.
“How hot?” the man licked his lips.
“Scorching.” Kurt smiled as he leaned on the joystick and pounded the fire button again. “Who’s your number one seller?”
The artist smiled. “No shit. He’s back?”
Kurt smiled.
“Oh, man, you got it. No problem. You got it.” The dark artist started counting out bills.
Kurt popped the button again and more insects fell. Yep, it was a new high score.
Chapter Nineteen
Nick was on Saturday and Cheryl was less than pleased. At the office, the detective looked through all the reports again to see what was left to do. He rubbed his temple as a sharp pain dug deeper. He had headaches almost every waking hour since he started the job. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. Too much stress. Too many fights at home. Everyone wanted something and he was starting to wonder if he could deliver.
“Detective.”
The voice made Dublowski jump. He wasn’t expecting the chief to be pulling a weekend.
“About the other day. I was out of line.” Tierney said, looking up to make sure the other detectives heard him. They had.
“I promise, sir, it won’t happen again.”
The kid was so sincere it almost hurt. Tierney nodded. “You and Halverson in my office.”
When everyone was settled in and Ray had a fresh cup of coffee, the chief closed his door.
“We’re bringing in a consultant for the Phillips case.”
“Not a fucking Fed,” Halverson moaned.
“Quinn. She worked Cramer and Rosenberg. She’ll give us what she can on a possible suspect or suspects,” Tierney said. “Strictly brain power. Got it?”
“Yes, Chief,” the young detective nodded.
Halverson just stared at the floor.
“If you have a problem, you should let me know now,” Tierney said.
Halverson shuffled, then fidgeted. “Yeah, I suppose I do have a problem. I don’t want to work with her. She’s a fucking nut case.”
Tierney’s eyes narrowed.
“…sir,” the detective quickly added.
“Okay, Ray, you get your wish. Dublowski, you’re Quinn’s contact in this department. She needs something, you get it. She finds something, you report it.”
“Yes, sir.” Dublowski nodded. Hopefully, this would make up for the Monroe autopsy.
“So, Ray, when this case gets wrapped up in a fraction of the time it would take you to crack it, Dublowski here will be taking all the credit.”
“Fine with me,” Halverson snapped.
Was she that good? Nick wondered. Was Quinn going to put the envelope to her forehead and name the killer? If she did and he scored the credit… well, worse things could happen. Maybe he did have the lucky desk after all.
“And Ray, if you so much as breathe a negative word about Quinn to anyone, and I mean anyone, I’ll have your balls in a vice.”
The detective nodded.
“I think that deserves a ‘Yes, sir,’ Detective,” Tierney growled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of here,” Tierney said. Halverson slumped back to his desk, muttering the entire way.
“That goes for you, too, Dublowski. Quinn’s personal life is not up for discussion. She is more than qualified to consult on this case. Probably better than the Feds. I know that. The superintendent knows that. No one el
se will care. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Nick didn’t have to be told how to respond.
“Use whatever she can give you.” He handed the man a slip of paper. “She’s got contact information. She’ll be calling you.”
“Yes, Chief.” Dublowski nodded. “Sir, if you prefer to put someone else on this case, I would understand.”
Who else, Tierney wondered. None of the seasoned detectives wouldn’t step in the same room with Quinn. Not even Art. Not after what she did to herself. Dublowski was too green to know any better and too motivated to turn down an opportunity to look good. The chief just shook his head.
“Everyone fucks up, Dublowski,” said Tierney. “Just don’t do it again on this one, okay.”
“Yes, sir.” Dublowski left quickly and quietly.
Chapter Twenty
It was a beautiful night and God was smiling. He was in his car with the window down. The air was warm and fresh. It was a good night for a drive. And he had work to do. A window of opportunity opened and he needed to move fast to make the most of it. His phone rang and for a moment he was angry. He didn’t appreciate interruptions. Still, patience was a virtue and God loved virtuous men. God loved him. So he answered his phone and promised to do what he had to do. He could be patient for one more night.
There was a special gift he had been admiring for the last several days. Beautiful, perfect. Ripe for the taking. Only the best for the best, he told himself. And her parents would cry out for the best the city had to find their daughter’s killer. And the hunt would begin again. And it would be bliss. Pure bliss.
Chapter Twenty-One
Too Dark To Sleep Page 7