by Jan Burke
“Other times?” he prompted.
“I killed someone,” I said. “I think about him. About ending his life.”
“What happened?”
“I thought you said Frank talked to you.”
“You tell me.”
I almost balked again, but there he was, relaxed as ever, and I wanted to shake his complacency. At first, that’s what I wanted. But by the time we were over the Tejon Pass and looking down into the San Joaquin Valley, I had confided in him to a degree that I had confided in few others. Usually, recalling those events is an invitation to a certain amount of emotional upheaval, and I found myself wondering not only why I had spoken so freely, but also why I felt relieved rather than devastated. I began to realize that in some way Cassidy’s quiet calm had been extended to me, and I had grabbed on to it. It had slowed my reactions, protected me from all the emotions usually so easily aroused when I thought of the time of my captivity.
Cassidy was silent, but there was no uneasiness in it.
He stopped at a gas station in Grapevine even though he still had half a tank, paying an extortionist’s price for a few gallons of regular while I went into the rest room and washed my face.
When I came out he had pulled the car away from the pumps and parked it on the side of the station. He was leaning against the car, arms folded, watching the other customers. The wind was gusty, and I had to use both hands to hold my skirt down as I crossed the pavement. When I had dressed that morning I had considered wearing jeans, but when I’d remembered that he was wearing a suit, I’d decided to wear work clothes. I didn’t know who else might be hanging around at the Californian on a Saturday, but it would be best not to attract too much attention. Now, walking awkwardly to the car, I wished I had remembered about the wind and worn slacks. Cassidy saw me and grinned before he turned to open the passenger door for me.
“You doing okay?” he asked once we were both inside. He hadn’t put the key in the ignition yet.
“Yes,” I said, self-conscious again.
“Thanks for talking to me about it,” he said, starting the car.
“I surprised myself,” I admitted. “Frank and Jack are the only other people who’ve heard the whole story. Unless Frank already told you most of this?”
“No,” he said. “No, he hasn’t. He really didn’t give me too many particulars.”
“Are you friends?”
“With Frank?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, not exactly. We’re friendly, but not close. I do like Frank. Probably because he is one of two people in the whole damned department who never thought it would be a hilarious and original joke to call me ‘Hopalong.’ ”
“Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”
I laughed. “I’d think the two of you would get along well.”
“We do get along. We just don’t usually end up handling the same cases. Once or twice he’s caught one of the ones that didn’t turn out the way I had hoped.”
“What does that mean?”
“The CIT — our team — gets called out to negotiate all sorts of critical incidents — suicide threats, kidnappings, hostage takings, and barricade situations — bank robberies, domestic violence, you name it. Much as I’d like to say we’re one hundred percent successful, we’re not. Over the years, Frank’s caught a couple of cases where someone threatening suicide went ahead and did it before I could talk them out of it. Had a domestic barricade situation go bad last year.”
“The one where the man was holding his wife and three kids at gunpoint?”
“Yes.”
“But you got the kids out.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t say anything more.
“I think I remember the story — something about one of the wife’s relatives?”
“Her brother. The brother was with an intelligence negotiator, giving us information on the husband and weapons he might have, and so forth.”
“What’s an intelligence negotiator?”
“Part of the team — person who gathers as much information as possible on the suspect and anything else relevant to the situation. Ideally, there’s a separate, secured area where this person interviews anyone who has information that may be of some use.”
“And this time there wasn’t?”
“There was, but the intelligence officer got distracted when the kids were released. While the officer was trying to talk to the kids about the situation in the house, the brother decided to play the hero. Snuck off and tried to break through the perimeter we had set up, but didn’t make it. We caught him. All the same, there was scuffling and he started shouting. Husband heard the noise and decided we were sending the SWAT team in. He just lost it. Shot her, shot himself.”
I stared out the window for a moment. “How old are you, Cassidy?”
“I’m forty-two.” He smiled. “Now you know why I’m gray headed — sure as hell ain’t the years.”
Now I know why you understand people who have nightmares, I thought, but didn’t say it.
“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about failures,” he said after a minute. “I don’t suppose I’ve inspired your confidence.”
“You’re wrong.” I looked over at him. “You know what? I think you know you’re wrong. I think one of the first things you learn about anyone is how to inspire his or her confidence.”
He laughed. “Hell, Irene, sometimes I really do just talk.”
“Sure, Cassidy. Sure.”
After miles of hills and mountain grades, we came to the highways that cross the southern end of the San Joaquin Valley, which are flat and waste no time with curves. They practically beg for speed. We took the Highway 99 turnoff and flew past exits for Mettler and Pumpkin Center and Weed Patch. Tumbleweeds skipped across the highway.
“Lordy,” Cassidy said, “if it weren’t for the palm trees lining that road over there, I’d be afraid I’d died and gone to Amarillo to pay for my sins.”
“I like it out here,” I told him. “Makes me think of my grandmother’s farm in Kansas. Look — there’s a windmill.” I pointed to one that stood just east of the road. “She had one like that.”
“Excited over a windmill, are you? Things must be slow in the Las Piernas newsroom.”
I ignored that. “You can see for miles. Crops are growing. There are cattle and—”
“You see a couple of cows and a pumpkin patch, and you get all romantic about it, thinking of your grandma. I see backbreaking work. I moved from our family farm to Austin just so I could keep the bottom of my boots clean.”
“Did it work?”
“Nope. Got into law enforcement and I’ve been stepping in somebody else’s BS every day since.”
“At least you’ll enjoy the music out here. Bakersfield bills itself as the C and W capital of California.”
He grimaced. “Did I ever tell you how I came to live on the West Coast?”
What the hell. “No, Cassidy, even though I’ve known you for about a dozen hours now, I’m afraid you’ve never told me.”
“Well, I was in Texas, and I had my radio on. All I could tune in was Jesus men and country-western music. So I started driving, trying to get to where I could hear something different. Next thing I knew, I was in California.”
I laughed. “And I suppose you had to go to work in Las Piernas just so you could earn gas money to get back home.”
“Oh, no. Once I learned I could live some place that had something else on the radio, I never wanted to leave.”
“We’d better keep the radio off here, then, and plan on amusing ourselves with conversation.”
“A cinch.”
“Cassidy?”
“Hmm.”
“I’ve been to Texas — including Austin. I’d swear I heard all kinds of music there.”
He just grinned.
“Take a right on Truxtun,” I told him. “There are some lettered streets after that — A, B, C, and so on. But when you get to H, the ne
xt street is Eye — E-y-e.”
“I like that,” he said. “Somebody had a sense of humor right from the start.”
“Turn left on Eye. The paper’s at Eye and Seventeenth Street.”
Built in the 1920s, 1707 Eye Street is a handsome brick edifice. Tall, elaborate columns with composite capitals adorn the front of the building; a turret graces the upper right corner, a balcony the other.
“ ‘Bakersfield, Californian. Established 1866,’ ” Cassidy read aloud.
“Bakersfield was a town of cowboys, miners, and railroad workers then,” I said.
“So what’s changed?”
I smiled. “Oil, for one thing. The business of agriculture, for another. You ought to give the place a chance, Cassidy.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t mean to offend,” he said.
We stepped out of the car. I looked at my watch. One twenty-five. “You made good time. We’ve got five minutes to spare.”
He shrugged, as if to say this was to be expected. “When did you work here?” he asked.
“Right after college,” I said. “I interned at the Express, but my first full-time, paying job on a newspaper was here at the Californian.”
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t let your friend know I’m with the police.”
Whatever feelings of goodwill I might have been building toward Cassidy were demolished with that request. “Forget it. Brandon is doing me a big favor by letting me into the building. I don’t work for this paper now, remember? He’s an old friend or I’d be locked out. I’m not lying to him. You’ll have to wait downstairs for me.”
I rang the night bell before Cassidy could say more, and a young security guard immediately let us in through the polished brass doors, which were locked on weekends, then went back to his desk to answer a phone. I saw a balding man of medium height waiting just inside the entry. He grinned as we walked in and extended a hand.
“Irene! God, it’s great to see you again!”
“Good to see you, too, Brandon,” I said, shaking hands.
He looked back at Cassidy. “Are you the fellow who called to set this up?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Cassidy replied. “I’m just Ms. Kelly’s ride.”
Brandon laughed. “What is this, Irene? You have all the men at the Express ready to satisfy your every whim?”
“If only you knew what a disgusting thought that is, Brandon,” I said. “No, this is Detective Thomas Cassidy of the Las Piernas Police Department.”
I saw Cassidy look up at the room’s high ceiling. Fairly certain he wasn’t suddenly interested in the patterns on the painted wood beams, I felt smug satisfaction at seeing his armor crack.
“Police?” Brandon was saying. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
“Detective Cassidy will be waiting right here.”
Cassidy, damn him, just smiled.
“Oh, well—”
“Mr. North,” Cassidy said in confiding tones, too soft for the security guard to overhear, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions before you take the ungrateful Ms. Kelly on back to the library?”
Brandon seemed totally confused.
“Cassidy,” I warned, my irritation growing.
“I’m out of my jurisdiction, of course,” he said. “I could drive on over to the Bakersfield Police Department, which my own department has already contacted. I used my cell phone and spoke to someone there on the drive up here — Ms. Kelly was asleep, so she’s unaware that we’ve obtained their full cooperation.”
“Cassidy,” I tried again.
“They’d probably be happy to send someone over to question you, Mr. North,” he continued, “but then you’d have at least three people connected to law enforcement agencies walking around in your newspaper offices. Might attract attention.”
“Three?” Brandon asked.
“Ms. Kelly’s husband works with me.”
“Husband?” Brandon looked at me in surprise.
“You married a cop?”
Hearing Brandon’s exclamation, the security guard looked our way.
“Yes,” I said. “Look, Brandon, let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”
Five minutes later a sheen of perspiration had broken out on Brandon’s forehead.
“God, what a mess! Irene, if you had told me what was going on here, I would have understood. You must be worried sick.” He paused, then said, “Oh, Jesus — you’re saying I talked to a kidnapper!”
“Can you describe the voice of the man who called you on the phone?” Cassidy asked.
“A young man. I don’t know why I say that, but — he just sounded young.” He started pacing. He glanced at Cassidy, then said, “No accent. I mean, none that I could hear. Seemed well educated.”
“When did he call?” Cassidy asked.
“Yesterday. Just before I went home. About three-thirty. Said he was an intern working with Irene, that she had asked him to call. Told me she needed to look through the old files — something on microfilm — wondered would I help her out. I said, ‘Sure, tell me what it is and I’ll make a copy and fax it to her.’ He said she wanted to see me personally and she’d be up in Bakersfield today anyway. If I’d meet her at one-thirty, she’d look it up and then we could go out for a cup of coffee afterward. He got my fax number and said he’d send a list of the things she needed to see.” He turned to me. “Why do you think he told you to come to the paper, Irene?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it. I suppose I might have written a story that will have something to do with this. Some similar case, maybe. I was on the crime beat when I worked here.”
“Did he send the list?” Cassidy asked.
“Yes, a fax was waiting for me when I came in.”
“Recall anything else about him?”
“Oh, yeah. He was very friendly. He sounded polite. He said Irene had told him all about me and my family. That’s why I didn’t even question his connection to her. He knew I was married. Knew I had five kids. Even knew their names—” He grew pale. “My God! You don’t think he’d harm my family?”
“I don’t think that’s likely at all, but here,” Cassidy said, pulling out his cellular phone. “Why don’t you check on them? Go ahead, call them.”
Brandon looked at him with gratitude and quickly punched in a series of numbers. He bit his lower lip while the call went through, then said, “Honey? Oh, thank God. Thank God. Listen, something’s come up. I can’t talk about it right now, but please take the kids and go over to my dad’s house, okay?” He paused. “No, right now, okay? Yeah, I’m fine. This is urgent…. Yes. On a cellular phone…. No — listen, just do this for me, okay? Right now…. No, Dad’sfine. I’m fine, too. Just go, okay?… Yes…. Thankyou…. Yes. I love you, too. Bye.”
He looked like he was ready to cry.
“Use it again,” Cassidy offered. “Let your dad know he’s about to have a passel of kids over there.”
“Thank you,” Brandon said. He dialed again. “Dad? I need your help…. No, not money. Just listen, okay? I’m worried about Louise and the kids. They’re coming over to your place…. Yes, I know what A1 broke the last time he was there. I’ll pay for anything they break, Dad. Listen. Please…. Oh, for crying out loud!”
He looked up at Cassidy. “He hung up!”
Cassidy took the phone and pressed the redial button.
“Mr. North? Good afternoon, sir. This is Detective Thomas Cassidy of the Las Piernas Police Department. We have reason to believe that there is a possibility — just a slim possibility — that your grandchildren may be in danger. I’m on an unsecured line here, so I can’t go into details, but we asked your son to think of someone who could defend his wife and children until police protection could be arranged. He named you, sir. Your son will probably be calling you to let you know more about all of this, but I wanted to make sure you were up to the job…. Well, sir, he seems to believe you are capable, but I
would hate to see an elderly gentleman placed in a position of…. Well, I’m sure you do know how to use a shotgun…. Why, no, that’s not very old at all. But you also need to be willing, sir. Sometimes people are not as kind to their kin as you’d expect them to be…. Well, no wonder he’s so certain of your help, then. As I said, he’ll probably be calling, so I won’t tie up the line. Thank you, sir…. Good day to you, too, sir — and please be very careful with that gun around the children, now…. Yes, that’s a wise precaution. Good-bye.”
He hung up, pressed redial one more time, and handed the phone back to Brandon, who was now looking at him like he was Moses come to take him to the Promised Land. I had known for some minutes that Cassidy was going to get into the library at the Californian. Now I was wondering if Brandon would remember to include me.
We went back into the building and headed up to the third floor. At first I thought Brandon was taking us into the newsroom, but he saw my confusion and said, “The library moved since you worked here. It’s right next to the newsroom now.” We entered a long, narrow room. Painted white and filled with sunlight from the large windows along one wall, it was a more pleasant research environment than our windowless tomb at the Express. A long row of putty-colored file cabinets — or, rather, pairs of file cabinets placed back to back — took up most of the room. Newspapers and long, gray metal boxes were stacked on top of the cabinets. Brandon walked to his desk, which was at the far end of the library.
“Let’s see, now. Where did I put that fax?” He began shuffling through a pile of papers.
An interior set of windows ran along part of the wall that partitioned the library from the newsroom. I looked through them, wondering if I would see any familiar faces on the other side. But it was Saturday afternoon, and there wasn’t much activity. The few reporters who were in the room were busy at their desks, not interested in looking at the library. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Feeling nostalgic?” I heard a voice drawl behind me.
“No,” I lied, and kept staring through the glass. A moment later Cassidy walked away. I was glad. He had managed to stick to me like a burr on a foxtail, and I was tired of it. I didn’t want him intruding on this particular ground. We all have our sacred places, and I couldn’t help it if this part of Bakersfield was one of mine. I had learned to be a reporter at this paper. My college instructors might have taught me how to close my hands around the tools of the trade, but this was where I really learned to use them. I paid my dues here, in this city, in this newsroom. Both had changed, but that didn’t matter. Looking through that window, I saw the newsroom not as it was, but as it had been not so long ago.