Blood of Angels

by Reed Arvin

  Chocolate brown, fitted dress—V-neck—with a jagged edge along the bottom. Not too expensive but beautifully proportioned. Sling-back shoes, black. Her hair down, curled seductively behind her ears. The usual multicolored circlets on her left wrist, a splash of funky color that says there’s something interesting going on here. Small catch-purse, also black. She walks to the table, and I stand and pull out a chair. She moves past me, and I get the scent again, that gentle, earthy musk.

  “Dennehy.”

  “Towns. You look…” I stop, because the only correct word is fabulous, and offhand, I don’t know if that kind of thing is going to generate a smile, an irritated roll of the eyes, or a slap. “Nice,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  She nods and sits, legs crossed demurely. The waiter appears. “Bushmills, please,” she says. “Just ice.”

  I nod. “The same.”

  She looks around, taking in the bar. “Rita says I should be grateful to you,” she says. “She says you saved Moses’s life.”

  “The drink will do.”

  “The drink is for the church windows.” She exhales deeply. “Moses wouldn’t have confessed unless he was guilty. So I’m saying it. I was wrong.”

  “Then he wasn’t with you that night. You were willing to lie on the stand for him.”

  She smiles softly, a mysterious flicker in her eyes. “I’m against the death penalty, Dennehy. And I believed he was innocent.” She shakes her head. “I still do, somehow. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Moses is a long ways from home,” I say. “After everything he’s seen…maybe violence isn’t the stretch for him you think it is.”

  She looks down at the table. “Maybe.” But I can see she doesn’t believe it. Faith dies hard, I think. No wonder she’s a preacher.

  “Still,” I say, “he’s alive, and he’s going to stay that way.”

  “Yes. There’s that.”

  The drinks come, and she holds her whiskey between two fingers. “To life,” she says, staring me in the eyes.

  “To life.”

  We tip back the glasses. She sets hers down, half empty. “I was still willing to testify, even after what happened. Just so you know. A slim chance is better than none.”

  “Then I would have had to discredit you and impeach your testimony. I decided to do it at Tennessee Village, rather than on the witness stand. A few hours in county lockup, rather than a few years in prison.”

  She finishes her drink, the glass resting on her bottom lip. She holds the whiskey in her mouth a moment, swallows, and sets the glass back on the table. Jesus, she drinks like a man. “How do you do it?” she asks, suddenly looking up at me.

  “Do what?”

  “Live by calculations like that. Instead of by your heart.”

  I laugh quietly. “Thanks.”

  “I’m serious, Dennehy. I want to know. Because there are times you almost seem human. And then you say something that reminds me you’re a guy who can walk into a courtroom and tell the jury that the absolute right thing to do is kill the person sitting fifteen feet to your right.”

  “Justice. You take a life. You give one back.”

  “More calculations.”

  “Can’t we agree to disagree?”

  “No. Not on this.”

  I push back from the table. “Look, I came to this job like every young prosecutor, naive as hell and wanting to make a difference. Then reality sets in. My first year in the office I watched Carl Becker prosecute Paul Dennis Reid. And Reid was quite a piece of work, because he loved cops. He’d see one in a restaurant, he’d buy the cop dinner. Christ, he gave money to the benevolence fund. Bunch of cops standing around, he’d ask to have his picture taken with them. You know, kind of goofy, a little too eager.”

  “So?”

  “So then he’d go to a fast-food place and blow the heads off everybody in the place. When he wasn’t buying cops lunch, he was the city’s worst serial killer.”

  She turns her head, repulsed. “He was obviously insane.”

  I shrug. “That’s what three expert witnesses for the defense said. The guy actually waived his right to appeal, on the grounds that God told him that the death penalty was His idea, so who was he to disagree with God? Of course, he also said God told him to kill those people, so that’s pretty insane, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It’s classic psychosis.”

  “A month before Paul Dennis Reid was supposed to pay the ultimate price, he said God had changed His mind about the death penalty. He said that God had thought it over, and all of a sudden He had some new information on the subject. So Paul Reid told his lawyer, who was provided free of charge to him, and that lawyer started filing motions like crazy for a stay of execution. And now Paul Reid has a Web site, a letter-writing campaign, and a bunch of people who are making it their life’s work to keep him alive.” I lean forward. “So now how crazy does he sound?”

  She turns away. “Look…”

  “Paul Dennis Reid killed seven people in cold blood, and the idea that the state of Tennessee is going to be buying that man three squares a day for the rest of his natural life makes the families of his victims sick to their stomachs.” She turns away, and a part of me regrets the heat I sent in her direction. “Look, it’s complicated, OK? But I get a little tired of this idea that yours is the only position that can be held with a little fervor.”

  She nods. “OK.”

  “OK. God, I need another drink.” Great. This is going really well. I wave the waiter over and order two more Bushmills. He brings them, and I pay him in cash. Fiona reaches into her handbag, and I wave her off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got nobody to spend money on.”

  “No family?”

  I shrug. “A daughter, but her stepfather could buy this restaurant.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  I nod toward the blonde at the bar. “He’s in the physical enhancement business.”

  She gives a barely perceptible smile. “You’re immune from charms like that?”

  “Not my cup of tea.”

  “And what is your cup of tea, Dennehy?”

  “At the moment, I’d say, smart, brave, and beautiful. But maybe that’s the Bushmills talking.”

  “At least you’re not naked this time. I tend to disregard the statements of men in that condition.”

  “That reminds me, Towns. Just how much did you see?”

  “Are you putting me on the witness stand, after all?”

  “That’s right. And you’re sworn to tell the truth.”

  She raises her glass and sips, leaving a drop on her lip. She sucks it gently into her mouth and sets the glass back down. She gazes at me a second, then picks up her purse. “I should get going, Dennehy. It’s late.”

  I watch her a second, knowing I could talk her into staying, but also knowing it’s a bad idea. “I’ll walk you out.” I throw a few bucks on the table and walk Fiona to the front entrance.

  “I parked on the street,” she says. I give the valet a five to bring around my truck, and tell him I’ll be back in a minute. I walk Fiona along the sidewalk to the street, and down a half block to her Volvo. She fishes out her keys, unlocks the door, and stands beside it. “So,” she says. “We’re even.”

  I can’t help thinking that we’ll be even when I’ve seen her naked in a hot tub, but some things you keep to yourself. “Yeah,” I say. “Even.”

  “Good-bye, Dennehy.”

  I step toward her, and in one fluid motion, she tips up her head, parts her lips slightly, and kisses me on the mouth. Her lips are soft and warm, and I press mine against hers, not hard, but enough to let her know this is no schoolboy kiss. I press my hands gently down her arms until our hands are locked together. It’s a single kiss, but it’s enough to wake me up inside, to remind me how substantial this woman is, how her combination of intellect, soulfulness, and beauty are enough to knock me off my balance if I don’t watch myself. The kiss lasts ten seconds or so, and we
pull apart. I can feel her breathing more deeply, and I know the warm fire inside me is mutual. “It would never work,” she says quietly, looking away.

  “Yeah. I know.” I put my hand under her chin, pull her toward me gently, and kiss her again, more softly. “See you, Towns.”

  She turns and gets in the Volvo. The motor cranks over laboriously, and she drives slowly away. I turn and see the valet pull up in the Ford at the hotel. I walk over to the truck, put my right foot inside, and notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I stare out into the dim end of the lot and see a figure; there’s something familiar about it, but I can’t get a clear look. I fire up the truck and drive to the far side of the hotel. The figure is about to slip away into an alley that leads to the old stairs that descend to the maze of railroad tracks and cars beneath the hotel. I can’t catch him; he’s too far away. But as I swing the truck to turn around, the headlights illuminate a face in the distance. It’s Robert, Fiona’s addict.

  I floor the truck. Damn it. Am I in this guy’s world, or is he in mine? I reach the stairs in about five seconds, screech to a halt, and bail out. I can hear the metal stairs rattling as Robert jumps off the end of them. I can make out a shadow moving across the first row of tracks, diving between cars. Industrious drug dealers hang out down there all the time to pick up a little business, especially the two or three days after SSI and disability checks get issued. The tracks are where most of the desperate, downtown users make their connections. It’s exactly the kind of place where I would feel a lot more comfortable with a gun, only mine is in my nightstand, at home.

  I grab the rusty rail of the stairs and head downward, taking steps three at a time. The stairs rumble with every footfall, the sound echoing across the rail yard. Might as well carry a sign. The lights from the hotel fade as I descend, and within twenty steps—about halfway to the rail yard—I’m in a deep gloom. The moon is the only light above, and it’s half covered by clouds.

  I reach the bottom of the steps and peer into the darkness, looking for movement. The first tracks start twenty yards away, then stretch forty more beyond. A half-dozen railcars sit empty, singly and in twos. I hear a metal scrape about thirty yards off at ten o’clock, behind a couple of cars. I take off in a run, trying not to stumble over the minefield of abandoned parts and the jetsam of the homeless. There’s a louder clunk, and I see Robert bolt out from behind the cars, heading up the track toward the station, about two hundred yards away.

  I shift up a gear, turning it on. I catch up to him in ten seconds or so, just as he dodges behind a railcar. He tries to scramble up into the car, but I grab his ankle and yank him back to the ground. He bangs against the edge of the car as he falls, crumpling to the gravel and gripping his shoulder in pain. He collapses into the gravel dust and stares up at me like a trapped rat.

  “Look who it is,” he says, crouching down. “It’s the great Thomas Dennehy. His Royal Highness, come to see the lost.”

  I stare down at him. “Who are you?” I demand.

  He looks up. “The fucked, Skippy. The fucked.”

  I reach down for his arm, and he flinches back. “Get up,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Too late for that, Skippy.”

  I take his arm and firmly lift him to his feet. He leans back against the railcar, wincing. “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  He squints at me, surprised. The glasses, apparently, have flown off his face in the chase. But in the dark, I can’t make out his eyes any clearer than before. “You know what goes on down here,” he grumbles.

  “You’re here on a buy.”

  “Tell the man what’s he’s won, Skippy.”

  “Fiona thinks you’re clean.”

  “Some things I keep to myself.”

  I stare at him, trying to see his face through the gloom and the thick facial hair. “I know you, dammit. Who are you?”

  “You ruin my life, and you don’t even remember.” He shakes his head. “Yes, it’s the brilliant prosecutor Mr. Thomas Dennehy. The merciless bastard himself, ladies and gentlemen.” He stands, unsteady on his feet. “I use my middle name now. That was my parole officer’s idea. He said it might help me find work, since I’m a convicted felon.” He looks up at me. “Thanks to you.”

  I lean forward, staring at him in the dim light. “Jesus. You’re…”

  “The woman was on her back on the floor of the Sunshine Grocery Store. She’s been fucking shot, her whole lower back’s torn open, right behind the liver. She’s dead already, only she doesn’t know it. I try to intubate her trachea, but I can’t get her mouth open. She’s struggling with me, using her energy to fight me instead of stay alive. So I give her twenty ccs succinyl choline to paralyze her, so she won’t fight me.”

  I stare. The facial hair and glasses would have been enough to hide his identity, but they’re not the most dramatic change. In the seven years since I last saw Charles Bridges, he has become a wrecked human being. Counting years, he should be in his early thirties by now, but drugs, prison, and a life on the street have aged him to look at least fifteen years older. “You put the tube in her esophagus, not her trachea. That’s what killed her.”

  “Do you even know how often that happens in hospitals?” he snarls. “Every damn day. And I’m supposed to get it right in the middle of a crime scene? It was bullshit.”

  “She couldn’t breathe. You were supposed to listen to her ventilate.”

  “She was fat, dammit,” he growls. “I couldn’t hear shit in there. People running all over the place, I’m trying to hear her breathe through fifty pounds of tissue. Impossible.”

  “She was fibrillating, and you weren’t even watching. You were high on methamphetamine.”

  “Half the docs in this city are on something. They pay their malpractice bill and have another martini.” He steps toward me menacingly. “Do you know what you did? You stole my life.”

  “You went to work impaired, and you fucked up. A mistake like that…” I grind to a halt. “A mistake like that can’t be tolerated.”

  His face twists in hatred. “That’s right. It’s all coming back now, isn’t it? A mistake like that can’t be tolerated. Your last words to the jury. And they sent me away.”

  “You deserved what you got.”

  Bridges begins pacing back and forth, lecturing me. The stench off him is palpable. “So I guess you’ll be checking into Brushy for your five years too, asshole. Because the only difference between you and me is that you kill for the state.”

  “This is how the system works.”

  “Fuck the system. You sent the wrong man to die, and you know it. You did it for the state, so you get to walk. I can’t help that. But one thing I can do, and that’s make sure everybody on this fucking planet knows that the great Thomas Dennehy is no better than me.”

  “You’re the source behind the whole thing with Hale.”

  “That’s not a crime. It’s a fucking public service. Check the dates, Dennehy. I was in Brushy with Hale. He told me what happened. I found out Fiona was the one to tell, and I told. She got Buchanan involved, and now your ass is about to be served.”

  “Fiona. She’s why you hang out around the church.”

  “Just until your career is dead and buried. Not that I can’t use the free food.” He smirks and turns away again, heading toward the grim darkness near the empty station.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Arrest me,” he says, over his back. “I haven’t done anything against the law, and I got nothing left to lose. Unlike you.”

  I watch him recede into the blackness under the train station. Charles Bridges. Back from the dead for his taste of revenge.

  CHAPTER

  18

  COFFEE AND ZOLOFT, but no run. There are two days left before we get the ballistics report back on the Browning. I intend to use the time discovering every rat hole Charles Bridges has stuck his nose into since the day he walked out of Brushy Mountain. I pull on
blue jeans and a shirt and drive into town, but not toward 222 West. Instead, I go to the state parole offices, down at the New Justice Building. I park out back and take the elevator to the fourth floor. I step into the offices, which are a revolving door for the city’s human flotsam. Everything about the place is depressing, from the worn, industrial furnishings to the line of released convicts waiting for appointments with their parole officer. I step up to the front desk, identify myself, and ask for the officer assigned to Bridges. The receptionist asks for his Social Security number, which I don’t have.

  “Bridges. Charles Robert Bridges. There’s probably only one.”

  She gives me a pained expression, searches on her computer, and looks up. “Brushy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You want Ronnie Tate.”

  “Can I see him?” She picks up a phone in slow motion and punches a button. “Mr. Tate? Someone here to see you. No, not one of those. From the DA. Uh-huh.” She points down a hall. “You can go on back.”

  Charles Bridges’s parole officer is in his mid-thirties, with the indifferent dress of a GS8-grade government employee. Ronnie Tate looks like a community college professor: the khakis are worn, the shirt is not entirely tucked, the hair, longish, is indifferently styled. Judging by the smell hanging around his clothes, he’s also a heavy smoker. His office in the New Justice Building is less than a year old, but it already seems as depressing and aged as the forty-year-old one it replaced.

  “Bridges?” he says. “His resentment is poetic, man. It’s like the haiku of pissed-off-ness. It’s fairly entertaining, actually.”

  “Does he ever mention a woman named Fiona Towns?”

  “Sure. She’s his contact number.”

  “How would you describe their relationship?”

  “Don’t know. Never talks about her, and I’ve never called.”