by Tim Stevens
“Really?” Cody was at an age where she could never be quite certain if adults were joking or not.
“Yeah,” said Franciscus. “He’s a cereal killer.”
Amid the groans and whoops, he dropped into his favorite recliner and took in the landscaped lawns dropping away beyond the huge picture window. Despite the hubbub around him, Franciscus felt peace flood through his arms and legs and the muscles in his neck. Some men took a whiskey after a hard day to achieve the same effect. Franciscus just needed a comfortable armchair and the view from his living room window.
And it had been a hard day, that was for certain.
When he heard the timer of the oven go off in the kitchen, he made a half-hearted move to get up, but his daughters shooed him back into his chair and skipped into the kitchen to help Marcia. Franciscus let his head drop back on the support of the recliner, closed his eyes, and allowed the scene to play itself out in his mind once more.
*
Franciscus had offered O’Dell a ride back to his home in Queens, and O’Dell had accepted. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Franciscus took the BMW through the late afternoon streets. O’Dell gazed out the window, the smell of stale sweat and despair hanging round him like smoke.
Eventually O’Dell said, “It’s put me in a bind.”
“What has?”
O’Dell looked across at Franciscus. “Councilman Marshall posting bail. Sure, it’s got me out of the cells for now. But I can hardly use him as part of a plea-bargain now.”
“He didn’t post bail,” said Franciscus. “I did.”
O’Dell’s mouth hung open. “You –”
“Call it a loan, at no interest, repayment flexible.” Franciscus waved a hand. “Look, Sean. You’ve been a valued client over the years. This is a one-off, and next time I’m leaving you in jail. So there better not be a next time.”
“Peter, I –” For a moment Franciscus thought the other man might burst into tears. “Thank you.”
“Also, you need to start taking my advice. I mean, seriously, as your counsel. When I say talk to the DA, not the cops, you do it. Clear? You’ve already told me you’re willing to give up Marshall, and that’s fine. I’ll set up a meeting with the DA for tomorrow. But this other thing, this drug dealer guy – forget about it. He’s dead anyway, as we just heard. And even if he weren’t – Marshall’s a bigger fish. The DA, and the cops, aren’t interested in some scuzzy drug dealer. Don’t get greedy.”
“Okay,” said O’Dell. “Got it.”
Franciscus took the BMW into the underground parking lot below O’Dell’s building. They rode the elevator, O’Dell stealing glances at Franciscus as though he was still overwhelmed by his generosity.
Inside the condo, Franciscus laid out a bunch of papers on the dining table for O’Dell to sign. He saw the man head straight for a drinks tray. “A little something?”
“Sure, why not,” said Franciscus. “Vodka, straight, no rocks.”
O’Dell handed him a glass, knocked back his own whiskey. Poured a second, then a third.
Franciscus made a show of sipping his drink, but didn’t touch it. He glanced around. He’d been in the apartment before.
“You install that CCTV outside, like I suggested?”
O’Dell looked rueful, the booze already mellowing him. “Nah. Keep meaning to. Been too busy.”
Franciscus shrugged. “Your call. Your possessions at stake.”
While O’Dell read through and signed the paperwork, Franciscus strolled to the glass sliding door that opened out onto the balcony. He stepped outside, feeling the soft breeze filtering through the heat. The view wasn’t great, and consisted mostly of tenement buildings and construction sites.
“Gentrification,” said O’Dell, who’d made his way over and joined Franciscus on the balcony. “It doesn’t look like much now, but just you wait. Two, three years, this’ll be the new Brooklyn.”
His speech was slightly slurred, and he bumped against Franciscus. “Sorry.”
Franciscus leaned over the railing and peered down. On the street below – an alley, really – a couple of people wandered on foot, and a desultory car or two crawled along.
In one swift move Franciscus grabbed O’Dell’s shirt collar with one hand and the waistband of his pants with the other, and heaved him up and over the railing. His muscles burned as he hefted the man’s bulk.
“Hey,” was all O’Dell managed, before his voice tailed off into a drawn-out scream. Just before he disappeared from view, Franciscus saw his face in profile, one of his eyes staring straight at him.
He heard the distant, wet thud, the screech of rubber on tarmac, and a scatter of further screams.
Franciscus moved quickly, roving around the living room, using a handkerchief to wipe each surface he’d touched, tipping the vodka in a plant pot and slipping the empty glass in his pocket. His DNA would be scattered around the condo, but that didn’t worry him; he was O’Dell’s attorney, after all, and it would have been normal for him to have visited previously.
In less than four minutes he was letting himself out of the apartment and taking the stairs down to the basement parking lot, because it would be easier to duck and hide if he heard somebody coming up the steps than if he rode the elevator. He encountered nobody, and pulled out into the late afternoon traffic.
In his mind, O’Dell’s eye stared into his.
*
Later, after their eldest, Madison, had gone out with friends and Cody, the fourteen-year-old, was in bed, Franciscus sat with his wife on the deck overlooking the garden, enjoying the beautiful summer evening with her. She’d opened a bottle of wine and he permitted himself a couple of glasses.
Marcia was telling him about Cody. She was the more intellectually curious of the two girls, and Marcia had had a long debate with her tonight, one which had teetered on the brink of becoming an argument.
“I said she needed to turn off her light by nine-thirty,” said Marcia, snuggled against Franciscus on the wicker couch. “She said I was being contradictory, because we always encourage her to pursue the things she values, and she happens to value reading late.”
Franciscus smiled. He could just picture the discussion.
Marcia went on: “So I asked her if she valued the prospect of getting into med school. She sad of course she did. I asked if she valued it more than a few hours’ worth of novel reading. And she accepted that. Cue a sermon from me about how sometimes you need to sacrifice a lesser value for the sake of a greater one.”
Franciscus gazed off over the tops of the trees at the bottom of the garden. Yes, that resonated with him. A lesser value sacrificed in favor of a greater one.
The problem was, as time went on it became more and more difficult to remember what the greater value was.
They chatted for a half hour more, before Franciscus yawned and looked at his watch. “Long day, honey. Busy one tomorrow, too. I’m going to turn in.”
Tomorrow would be a busy day. Because Franciscus had been as surprised as O’Dell to hear from the cop, Venn, that Kruger had been killed. And it meant there were complications. Loose ends to be tied up.
In bed, he turned the retro-style alarm clock away from him, because its face resembled an eye, peering at him through the darkness.
Chapter 13
Venn arrived home at half-past seven, hoping Beth wasn’t already back.
She wasn’t.
They’d bought the townhouse together, a little under a year ago after he’d been appointed to his new job with the Division of Special Projects and she’d been all but promised her position as an attending physician within six months. The mortgage was steep, but they could just about afford it. And both of them had to move out of their previous apartments. Venn’s was too small and pokey for two people, while Beth’s contained too many bad memories. Chief of which was, she’d been almost killed there by an assassin, whom Venn had later beaten to death.
Venn wasn’t much of a cook. As a single g
uy for many years, he’d survived on typical bachelor fare: TV dinners, microwave meals for one, the occasional foray into more adventurous fare such as a pasta dish he’d seen on some cooking show. And lots of pan-fried stuff. Beth had opened his eyes to a culinary world in which the color green existed, and he relished her salads, her casseroles, her exotic experiments in French and Vietnamese and Greek cooking.
But tonight, on a whim, he’d decided to surprise her.
He texted her on his way home: Forget takeout. I hope you’re hungry. She didn’t reply, and he thought that was probably because she was too busy at work to respond. But part of him was afraid her silence meant that she dreaded whatever it was he had planned.
A few blocks from the townhouse, he stopped at a grocery store and bought chicken breasts, ginger, garlic, noodles and broccoli rabe. Beth had mentioned Thai food, so he decided to stick with the theme but go homemade. In the kitchen, he dumped everything on the counter, then spread out a wok and assorted pans and bowls until the entire work surface was covered. He set about concocting the sauce.
While he worked, Venn thought about O’Dell.
Kang had said there was little point in him going round to O’Dell’s condo. The local Queens CSI people were already all over it, and it looked so far like a genuine suicide. O’Dell had been drinking, alone, and it appeared he’d pitched his bulk over the balcony railing. There weren’t many eyewitnesses, but one woman swore she’d seen the guy clamber up over the rail and cross himself before he dropped. The motive was there: O’Dell had returned home, and the first flush of relief at being free from custody had been replaced by a growing recognition that however he plea-bargained, he was probably looking at jail time anyway. His property business was screwed. A few whiskies, and the future had looked even bleaker than before. He’d had no gun, hadn’t had the courage or the anatomical certainty to slash his wrists. There weren’t pills he could take.
So he’d jumped.
But Venn didn’t like it. He’d known O’Dell a few days. The guy was a liar, a crook, a sleazeball. But he was wily, despite his hapless, sweaty demeanor. He was a survivor, with the cunning of a fox. Suicide wasn’t the way he did things.
Venn and Harmony had gone back to the Division’s offices, where Shawna was getting ready to pack up for the night. Walter was back there, despondent after a fruitless afternoon looking into the guys Righteous had described to him. He perked up when Venn showed him the photo of the tattoo on Ramon Espinoza’s arm.
“Those snakes are a variation of the one on the Mexican coat of arms,” Walter said immediately. “You familiar with it?”
“No.”
Walter brought up an image on Google. It showed a raptor devouring a serpent.
“The Mexican Golden Eagle,” he said. “The coat of arms is based on the legend of Tenochtitlan. Now named Mexico City.”
“How do you know this stuff?” said Harmony, more fascinated by Walter than what he was describing.
“It’s called an education.”
Venn cut in hurriedly: “Yeah. The snakes are the same. But we already know these guys are Mexican.”
Walter tapped the screen on Venn’s phone. “Look at what they’re wrapped around. The gun.”
“An M-16,” said Venn.
“Yeah. An American rifle. So we have one of the most sacred symbols in Mexican culture, juxtaposed with an iconic American weapon. Not just juxtaposed. The snakes are throttling the shit out of it. Look. The rifle’s dented, in places, where the coils are squeezing it.”
Venn peered at the grainy image. He had to admit, Walter was right.
He said, “So the tattoo’s, what, some kind of political statement? Ancient Mexico standing up against the Yanqui aggressor?”
Walter lifted his shoulders. “Could be. I’m just thinking laterally here. On the other hand, it might just be some dumbass gangbanger brand. Maybe we shouldn’t think this through too much. People with tattoos don’t necessarily have the most nuanced intellects.”
“Hey, fuck you,” said Harmony. “I have tattoos.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Walter, leering grotesquely. “I’d like to interpret them some time.”
Venn said, “Walt, you got any time now to look into this? Run it through the databases?”
“Sure.”
Venn forwarded the image to Walter’s computer, then shut himself in his office and began to attack the paperwork. He’d need to schedule a meeting tomorrow with whoever was available at the Plaza, to give a formal statement on what had happened in the gunfight. Then, as a result of his having killed three perps, he’d be offered counseling, which he’d politely decline.
It was all a pain in the ass.
He finished up at seven. In the main office, Harmony was noodling about with paperwork of her own. Walter was still at his computer.
“Anything?” said Venn.
“Not yet. But I’ve been going down some fascinating avenues, looking at different Central American gangs and their chosen symbols.” On Walter’s monitor, rows of intricate designs were laid out like clothing samples.
“Just as long as you don’t allow anything to distract you.” Venn slapped Walter’s shoulder and headed for the door. “Message me if you get lucky, okay?”
*
Beth arrived home a little after eight. Venn swept her into his arms, then held her away to look at her. Her face was pale and drawn, her makeup long faded. Her auburn hair had come loose from its pinnings. Her clothes were creased.
Venn thought she was just about as gorgeous a vision as he’d ever seen.
“Smells great.” As Venn stirred the contents of the wok, Beth pressed against his back, her arms around him.
“Yeah. I took a shower.”
She cuffed him lightly. “Good day at the office?”
“You wouldn’t believe.” He changed the subject, making small talk, asking about her day at work. He was putting off the moment when he’d tell her he’d come under fire, and had put down three guys. Like any cop’s significant other, Beth lived in dread of the dangers inherent in his job.
They’d talked about it many times, the similarities between their work. Both of them operated under conditions where sudden, extreme stress was apt to descend at any time. Both of them dealt on a daily basis with death, and human suffering, and conflict.
But Venn was unlikely to get a call out of the blue informing him that Beth had been seriously injured, or worse. He couldn’t imagine what living like that must be like, day after day.
Over dinner, a bottle of Californian rose open between them, Venn told her. About O’Dell, about Clune, and about the bloodbath in the market. She put down her chopsticks, raised a hand to her mouth.
“God,” she said. “I was in the ER when someone mentioned a shooting. They were getting ready for casualties.”
“Nobody got hurt,” said Venn. “Apart from the three assholes, who got dead.”
She grabbed his knee under the table. “Venn.”
He sidled his chair round so he was sitting beside her, let her lean against him. “I’m okay,” he said. He didn’t mention the gun going off inches from his face. She didn’t need to know that level of detail.
After they’d washed the dishes together, they sprawled on the couch, Beth nestled against Venn’s chest. He stroked her hair. They’d been through hell together, and it had bonded them in a way Venn hadn’t experienced with any other human being before. He’d wake sometimes in the middle of the night, stifling a yell, emerging from a dream in which he was reliving the chaos and carnage of those events two years earlier. Except this time, he wasn’t quick enough to save her.
Beth was done talking about the cases she’d treated that day. “So what’s on your agenda tomorrow?”
Venn had been wondering about that himself. “If they find the British guy, Clune, I’ll have a lead to work on. But they probably won’t. He’ll have disappeared. Left the city.” He yawned. “If Walter manages to dig up anything interesting on this
tattoo, it might give us a way in.”
“You think this O’Dell killed himself?”
“Nope. The more I try to picture it, the more it doesn’t feel right. Which means, if he was murdered, I may be looking at the councilman, Marshall.” He yawned again.
Beth stood up, tugged his hand. “Time for bed.”
He didn’t need a second invitation.
*
Afterward, she dozed in his arms, her hair fanned across his chest. Venn lay waiting for sleep, but he was still too hyped by all that had happened during the day to relax completely. He tried to focus on the noises of the city outside to distract himself: the incessant car horns, the voices, the snatches of distant music.
On the street below the bedroom window, a bottle smashed. Angry voices, male and female, began to jabber drunkenly.
Venn gave it a minute. Then, when it was clear a fight was developing, he rose wearily. He’d tell them to knock it off, and if that didn’t work, he’d show his shield.
He pulled on a dressing gown and padded to the window when he stopped.
Had he imagined it?
No. There it was again. A rustling sound, from outside the window further along.
He crept over and squinted through the crack between the drapes.
There was movement in the elm tree outside the window. Just a little, in the lower branches.
The tiniest flash of light glinted between the leaves.
Venn ducked below the window sill, lunged across to the dresser, pulled the Beretta from the drawer as quietly as he could. He glanced at Beth, fast asleep on the rumpled sheets.
There was a clear sightline between the tree and her.
Venn moved back under the sill, keeping low. He reached up and tugged the drapes so that the gap between them closed.
He ran back to the bed, shook Beth’s shoulder. “Beth. Wake up.”
She stirred, mumbled. Venn shook her again, harder. She opened her eyes, staring up in bewilderment.
“Beth,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Get under the bed and stay there. Now.”
At any moment, he expected the shot to come through the window. He half-shoved her off the bed and onto the carpet. She complied, still half-asleep, her confusion replaced by fear.