by Lee Killough
“Keep looking around, will you, please?”
He understood Lane destroying papers but had trouble accepting she just walked away from all her personal belongings, an accumulation she had obviously kept since childhood. She must have a few items too loved or revealing to be left behind.
He headed back for the living room. It had more of her effects than any other room. It also had the desk.
He stared at it, pulled by some magnetism he could not explain. A letter had been on that desk the first time he saw it. If only he had time to see more than the address before Lane turned out the light. He tried visualizing the envelope in his mind, picturing the ornate lettering.
He paused. That was where he had seen the writing on the flyleafs of the children’s books. It had been a letter from Lane’s mother! He ticked his tongue against his teeth in excitement.
“I remember something,” Mrs. Armour said. “There used to be two photographs on that top shelf.”
Photographs. He turned his full attention on her. “Do you remember what they were?”
“One was of her grandparents. She never said so, but I assumed it. It was sepia toned, and the woman’s hair and dress were World War I styles. I have a wedding picture of my parents that looks a lot like it. The other looked old, too…three little girls sitting on the running board of a car.”
An outdoor picture? “Do you remember the background behind the car”
“Background?” She blinked. “Why, just a house, I think.”
“What kind of house? Brick? Stone? Wood frame? Large or small?”
“White I think, with a porch with that gingerbread in the corners between the ceiling and the posts.”
“Was there any landscape visible?”
She stared at him. “Really, Inspector, I never paid that much attention. Is it important?”
He made himself shrug. “Probably not.” A lie. The little girls could include Lane as a child. A close look at the background might help identify where she came from…and where she came from might point him toward people who knew her well enough to suggest where Lane was now.
Garreth walked out with her, as though finished, but once she drove away he steeled himself and pressed against the door.
Wrench!
A passage as painful as ever, no matter how much experience he had accumulated passing through pier gates. Aggravated by the pressure of daylight.
He staggered into the livingroom and sat down at the desk. Was every aspect of vampire existence paid for in pain? Pain of hunger, pain of daylight, pain at dwelling doors, pain of passage, pain he caused others by bending them to his will. Did Lane experience it, too? He hoped something hurt her.
The pain ebbed and he stood to examine the room again. Books, toys, treasures. He fingered the large shark’s tooth again. Everything interesting but not very informative. He wished he could have seen those photographs.
Then again, her situation was like being under cover. One false word might betray her true age, or her true nature. Take him, looking over his shoulder, as Harry put it. Caution must become a reflex.
Not always, he suddenly realized. When booked for that assault in 1941 she gave her name as Madelaine Bieber, the same one on that envelope in her apartment. So it could be her righteous name. The assault itself suggested a woman with more temper and less caution than the one he met. Perhaps she talked about herself back then. He needed to find people who knew and remembered her.
The victim of that assault had good incentive to remember her.
He wished he had the file to study again, or at least his notebook, where he had written down some of the file details. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize the file. Oh yeah…the victim had been one Claudia Darling.
He smiled. So maybe he did not need the file after all. The name and the assault date might be enough to let him pursue other avenues to the information he needed.
2
“I need the July 1942 edition of the Chronicle,” he told the librarian on duty in the microfilm section of the Main Library. He wished he remembered the exact date of that assault. It meant searching the entire month of newspapers.
He spun the film through the viewer as fast as he could and still read it. By concentrating so hard on small items, though, he almost missed what he wanted. Lane had earned herself space and a picture on the third page. There was no mistaking her, tall as the four police officers hauling her back from a woman who crouched with blood leaking through the fingers of the hand held over her left ear. “The Barbary Coast Still Lives,” the headline proclaimed.
Garreth thanked Lady Luck for the colorful reporting of the day. Maybe he had something here. This Madelaine with her face contorted in fury was a far cry indeed from the Lane Barber who stood him up against a wall years later and coolly proceeded to drink his lifeblood, then go back to work.
He pressed the button for a hard copy of the page and carried it into the reading room to study, underlining all names and addresses. He smiled as he read, amused at both the gossipy style of the story, laden with adjectives, and what he saw between the lines, knowing Lane to be what she was.
A woman named Claudia Darling, described as “a pert, petite, blue-eyed brunette,” was accosted in the Red Onion on the evening of Friday, October 17, by “a Junoesque” red-haired singer named Mala Babra. Lane could fill a phone book with her aliases. An argument ensued over a naval officer both had met the evening before, Miss Babra claiming that Miss Darling caused the serviceman to break a date made previously with her.
Oh how that must have frustrated Lane…supper all picked out and some other lady walked off with it.
When Miss Darling denied the allegation, the story went on, Miss Babra attacked. They had to be separated by police hastily summoned to the scene. Four officers were needed to subdue and hold Miss Babra. Miss Darling suffered severe bite wounds to one ear and scratches on the face, but “the familiar habitue of the nightclub scene is reported to be in satisfactory condition at County General Hospital.”
Garreth eyed the last sentence, ticking his tongue against his teeth. He sensed a sly innuendo, something readers of the time no doubt understood, but which eluded him, two generations removed. He studied the photograph: the four officers straining to hold Lane, obviously surprised by her strength; Lane ablaze with fury; and the Darling woman, showing what the photographer must have considered a highly satisfactory amount of leg as she crouched dazed and bleeding on the floor.
The bare leg caught Garreth’s attention, but the rest of the woman held it. Even with the differences in hairstyle and fashions, he recognized what she wore as just a bit flashier, shorter, and tighter than the dresses on the women in the background. Now he recognized what the reporter meant: hooker. Higher class than a street walker. Today she would call herself an “escort.”
That was a break. Being in the life, she must have been busted a few times, and that meant a record of her: names, addresses, companions.
But for that he needed access to Records. Which, unfortunately, meant going to the Hall of Justice and walking into the lion’s den.
3
Garreth twisted slowly on the spit over the fire pit. Or so it felt.
Coming down, he hoped to be indifferent to the interview. What happened to him did not matter. Let Internal Affairs ask whatever they liked, ascertaining the facts of the incident in order to submit a report to the Firearm Discharge Review Board, for their hearing to be held later. He just needed to give simple answers — as true as he dared — making sure as little blame as possible attached to Harry.
So he told himself walking in Homicide to face Serruto. Except, no Serruto. Belatedly he realized that being Sunday, Serruto was off. The whole office was almost deserted, only Art Schneider and Ron Cohen there. The indifference ended when Art glanced toward him and immediately away again.
Cohen eyed him coldly. “Lien keeps asking why you haven’t come to see Harry. Everyone else has. Don’t you give a damn how he is?”
That stung
as hard as he knew Cohen meant it to. He wanted to yell back that of course he cared, just been afraid to ask. Now he knew Harry was at least alive! “I didn’t think I’d be welcome.” He paused. “How is he?”
“Hanging on.” Cohen turned away.
Art looked up from his typewriter, his expression kinder. “He hasn’t regained consciousness. You need to go see him.”
Garreth’s stomach lurched. So Harry might not be safe yet? “I’ll go…after…” He pointed up.
He left them looking torn between I hope they rake you over the coals and Better you than me and took the stairs up to the I.A. office on the fifth floor.
Now he sat…had sat for days it seemed, minus his glasses, head pounding with the misery of daylight…with Sergeants Fong and “Merciless” Mercer taking him over and over Friday’s nightmare. Making him feel like the fuckup of all time. A blackboard in front of him had a schematic drawing of Wink’s hideout, marked with x’s and o’s at the front and back doors, and big X in the middle of the livingroom marking where Harry had lain bleeding. The four uniforms had already given their versions of course.
Fong said, for maybe the hundredth time…or maybe the fiftieth — he and Mercer took turns asking the questions — “You weren’t on duty at the time, were you?”
But for the hundredth time, Garreth made himself reply in a calm, even voice. “No.”
“You were on sick leave because of the recent attack on you.”
“Yes.”
“And had an appointment that afternoon for a psych evaluation.”
“Yes.”
“Was Inspector Takananda aware of this?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us again, then, how you happened to be accompanying Inspector Takananda.”
A question not answerable with yes or no. “Harry had an interview with a witness in an unrelated case we had been working and I asked to ride along…not to participate, just to hear what the witness had to say. We expected to return in time for my appointment with Dr. Leonard.”
“Yet you did participate in the apprehension of Wink O’Hare.”
Garreth’s gut started to twist. “Yes.”
“Which Inspector Takananda permitted, despite your medical status.”
Each time, that question brought a flare of anger. Garreth bit it back once more. “I’ve told you, I talked him into it.”
“Despite your medical status.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that at the time.”
“What were you thinking, Inspector?” Mercer asked.
Blame the oppression of daylight, the repetitive questions, the fire in his throat from smelling their blood. Anger boiled over in him. Garreth jerked to his feet. “I’ll tell you what I was thinking! Here was this scumbag who killed a sweet old man for less than a hundred bucks, just for not opening the cash register fast enough, and now, if we hurried, we could nail the son of a bitch’s ass! That’s what I was thinking, that and nothing else!”
He caught a glance of satisfaction between the two of them. For cracking his seeming patience, which might have bothered them? Or were they thinking: cowboy, or loose cannon. Let them. Either could apply.
“So, now are we going through the deal with my gun all over again?”
The.38, which he let them examine in the first round of questions. It had been affirmed as his personal weapon, not issued by the department, but practiced with regularly so he was proficient with it and knew it to be in working order. The malfunction, he had admitted over and over, was him, not the weapon.
They were eyeing him, assessing his sudden aggression, when the door opened and Serruto came into the room, wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and a grave expression.
Garreth’s heart contracted in fear for Harry. He dropped back into the chair, dry-mouthed, while Serruto pulled Mercer aside and murmured in his ear.
Mercer came back to Garreth. “You haven’t told us everything about that day, have you, Inspector? You’ve left out the incident in the restaurant when you and Inspector Takananda went to lunch.”
Garreth stared at him, and then at Serruto. There was only one way for them to know about that. Relief and elation made him feel boneless. “Harry’s conscious? He’s talking?”
Serruto gave him a thin smile.
“Tell us about it the restaurant,” Fong said.
So overjoyed about Harry that now nothing else did matter, he told them, omitting only his knowledge of the cause. That gave them a whole new set of questions to ask, of course, hitting even harder on why he ignored the warning of that “anxiety attack” to go along on the arrest. Eventually they ran out of even those questions, returned his gun, and let him go. With instructions to come back tomorrow and sign his statement.
Serruto walked out with him. “Don’t miss your next appointment with Dr. Leonard. You understand now you’re in for a whole series of them.”
“No.” Garreth put back on his glasses. “I’m out of here.”
Serruto frowned. “Excuse me?”
“At the hospital I gave you the nearest I had to a badge. I meant it then and that hasn’t changed.” At the elevator he pushed the Down button. “I don’t deserve to be a cop and I’m resigning.”
“No,” Serruto said. “You’re too emotional right now to make decisions like that…sick about Harry, guilt-ridden — deservedly, though you might cut yourself a little slack for extenuating circumstances — angry for reasons I’ll bet you can’t articulate.”
He had that wrong. Garreth knew exactly why he was angry, and at whom.
“Take sick leave. Talk to the shrink. When your head’s straight again, then decide.”
Garreth felt too tired to argue. His head pounded. He wanted nothing more than to crawl on top of his pallet and pass out for as long as possible. “Okay, fine. Harry urged me to get away for a while. First, though, I’d like to clear my desk…finish reports I would have worked on if Barber hadn’t attacked me.” He felt no shame in pulling off his glasses, ready to exert as much persuasion as necessary.
Serruto eyed him narrow-eyed before answering. “All right…as long as that’s all you do…sit at a desk. Nothing else. Understood?”
“Yes.” That was mostly what he planned.
“Okay. We’ll get you an office key. But then, before you do anything else, you go see Harry.”
4
A pale, worn-looking Lien flew into his arms, hugging him hard. “You bastard! Why haven’t you come before? I couldn’t leave but I kept calling and calling and you never answered. I was so afraid after the way you stormed out that you’d done…something stupid!”
Beyond her, Harry looked like a cyborg, almost unrecognizable amid the tubes and monitors and eyes like bruises. He smiled weakly and whispered in a faint croak, “It’s turnabout, huh.”
Garreth broke loose from Lien to go to the bed. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. You were right, I shouldn’t have been there. I fucked up. I fucked you up.”
“Mik-san…” The beeps of the heart monitor picked up in rhythm. “It’s not all your — ”
“No!” Lien cut him off. “You’re not pointing fingers today, not even at yourselves.” Lien shook Garreth’s arm. “Come sit down and relax.”
Instead, he leaned close, fighting off the hunger lit by the reek of blood. “You’re right, Harry. It isn’t all my fault. It’s Lane Barber’s…because of what she made me.”
They stared. Lien said, “Made you?”
He mentally slapped himself. Shut up, idiot! Serruto was right about him being emotional. He took a breath. “I mean, because of what she did to me. But don’t worry. I’ll track her down — ”
“Stop it!” Lien hissed as the monitor hiccuped once. She dragged Garreth away, out into the hall. “I’m not having this! You may not upset Harry! He’s too weak. Besides, what you want to do is stupid. Didn’t going along on that arrest show you how much your judgement is screwed up? You know her lawyer will use that against you in court, even if you find her and your involv
ement doesn’t compromise the evidence too much for the case to go to trial. Or,” Lien added, “what if you find her and she decides to just finish the job of killing you.”
She was right on all points, of course…not that it affected what he had to do. To satisfy her, he nodded meekly.
“Now,” she said, “you are going back in and be a placid pool. Happy, happy.” She pushed him through the door.
He apologized to Harry. “I guess I need that session with Leonard.” And for the rest of the visit, a short one, ended by Lien even before an ICU nurse threw him out, he pretended to be quietly cheerful. Telling Harry about following his advice to get away, inventing a drive through wine country on the way to see his parents and son.
Lien insisted on driving him home. “I can leave Harry for a while now and you need a ride. When he was here earlier, the lieutenant mentioned that the patrols going by your place say your car was still there this afternoon.”
On the way she tried talking him into coming back to their place, an offer he gently but firmly turned down.
At the apartment, she followed him in. “The lieutenant also told me he had the landlord let officers in to check on you and they found your phone unplugged. Oh, and it’s unplugged again. No wonder I didn’t get you or the answering machine. You need to let people reach you.” She plugged it back in.
Much as he adored her, he debated shoving her out the door. The pallet in the bedroom called to him. But she could be like standing in front of a train.
Like a train, she steamed past him into the kitchen. “You look thinner every day. Let me fix you something to eat.” She reached the refrigerator before he reacted. “Haven’t you bought groceries since coming home? What’s here is mummifying or going moldy. Your milk’s turned red!”
Panic jolted him into action. She had the translucent jug in her hand, twisting off the cap, when he reached her…and stared as he snatched it away.
“It isn’t milk. I just use the bottles. It’s a…liquid protein mixture. Tomato juice and other veggie juices, soy, minerals, vitamins. Part of my diet.” Carefully tightening the lid again, he returned the jug to the refrigerator.