I finished my swallow, tipped the cup and said: "How you doin'?"
He simply nodded and turned away. I guessed his age at somewhere in his early twenties. His shoulders were thin and his face angular and drawn under a mop of straight black hair that covered his eyes when he bent his head forward. He was shuffling something under the counter and did not look up so I shifted my weight from side to side while I finished my snack. Behind the clerk was a hanging roll of lottery tickets next to a Philadelphia Flyers calendar next to an eight-by-ten portrait of a dark-haired girl whose crooked smile and too wide eyes said that she had to be Faith Hamlin. She had been given a place of honor where everyone could see her, where everyone who bought a pack of cigarettes or loaf of bread could remember.
I tossed the rest of the cake and its wrapper into a small trash can and stepped over to the counter. The kid didn't look up.
"How, uh, much do I owe you?"
He finally met my eyes through a strand of hair. I raised the cup and gestured back toward the rack of snacks. "This and a Tastycake," I said.
"Two-oh-four," he said without moving to the register, just waiting while I dug into the pocket of my sweatpants.
"Who's the girl?" I said, nodding at the framed photo and trying to be nonchalant while I sorted some bills. "She's pretty."
The kid's brow wrinkled at the question and he actually started to turn around to see what I was talking about but stopped himself halfway. He turned back and I put three ones into his outstretched hand. His wrists were skinny and knotted. He stepped back and rang up the sale and was snaking out change with long, pale fingers.
"You a cop?" he suddenly said, and I may have mistaken the flat tone as an accusation. Maybe he was being a smart-ass because I was asking questions. Maybe it was something else. But I had an odd, sudden urge to reach over and snap his bony wrists.
"No," I said, trying to match his bluntness. "Why?"
"I dunno," he said pouring ninety-six cents into my palm. "You just look like a cop."
"No," I said again. "I'm not from around here."
"Yeah," he said, pulling a strand of black hair away from his eyes. "Have a nice day."
My coffee was cold by the time I hit Jefferson Square and I tossed the cup into a trash can. I jogged the rest of the way back to Gaskill with the thought of a hot shower motivating me and the same thought keeping at bay the proposition of having dinner with my ex-wife. I got to Moriarity's by seven thirty and sat at the end of the bar by the door so I wouldn't miss her coming in. Billy had left a message for me to call him. When I reached him at his office he told me he'd gotten a call from Rodrigo Colon. One of the cruise workers had been roughed up outside the medical clinic by some muscle who had approached the group in an alley where they were smoking. It had been a warning and the only translation the workers came away with were shut up and go home to Manila or their injuries from the explosion would be minor in comparison.
"So he wasn't from the recruiters in the Philippines?" I'd asked.
"No, Rodrigo said he was American. White and bigger than you. Someone with an ugly or vulgar mouth," Billy said. "That was the best description he could give. He said he and the rest had decided to stay inside for a few days. Keep to themselves and lay low, but it definitely put a damper on his recruiting efforts."
I figured I already knew who Ugly Mouth was. Bat Man's jaw would still be wired from my head-butt. I told Billy I would wrap up here as soon as I could.
"So how's it going up there?" he'd asked.
"Thirty-six degrees and drizzle," I said. "And I'm having dinner with Meagan in about an hour." I had never heard Billy whistle before and he hung up before I had a chance to ask his meaning.
I was into my second beer and was eyeing the Schnapps when she finally arrived, fashionably fifteen minutes late. She was in a long cashmere coat and scarf and wasn't wearing a hat despite the drizzle. I had never seen her wear anything over her blonde hair unless a uniform demanded it. She opened the coat and put her shoulders back to shrug the coat off into the hands of a mildly surprised hostess. She had on a sweater and a dark skirt underneath. At least two guys at the bar subtly turned to admire the sweater.
She came over and as I started to slide off the stool she said: "Sit, Max. Let's have a drink at the bar first."
She positioned herself on the stool next to me and crossed her legs with that sound of nylon and surveyed the long room-bar running the length of one wall until a step up into a dining space at the very back. Small tables along the other wall. A few booths just to the left of the entrance. Dark wood, ferns and neon liquor signs throughout.
"My God, Max. The place hasn't changed in ten years." She smiled. "I feel like a college girl."
Just two blocks from Jefferson Hospital, Moriarity's was a favorite of the nursing and medical students and was mostly filled with a younger crowd.
"You never went to college, Meagan," I said.
She smiled and her eyes stayed bright.
"I feel like a college girl," she repeated and then ignored me for a few beats. "Get me a Merlot will you, Max?"
She waited until she'd had a taste and then asked: "So, how often do you get back, Max? Keep in touch with any guys from the old days?"
"This is actually the first time I've been back to the city since I left, Meg. With my mom gone, there wasn't much reason."
She gave me a look of sympathy and then realized it was misspent on me.
"So this inquiry about Colin O'Shea is strong enough motivation to get you here?"
I have never been one to answer questions without thinking about my response first. I was even more careful with Meagan, who had always been a verbal chess player.
"It's a favor for a friend," I finally said.
To her credit, she saw the answer as a blocking move and let it pass.
"And what have you come up with so far?" she said, moving right to the business at hand.
"Since both your case and the one in Florida have to do with women, I'm kind of surprised by the opinions women have of O'Shea," I said.
"Ah, you talked to the ex?"
"Yeah."
"Same old Max," she said with that smarter-than-you smile. "You have to see their eyes, right? Tell if the truth is there?" I looked straight into hers.
"She doesn't think the guy that she was married to for what, six years, was capable," I said.
"Right. But she didn't mind filing a domestic abuse charge against the guy to justify divorcing him so she could run off to Cherry Hill with her boyfriend the pharmaceutical salesman."
"According to her, the abuse wasn't physical," I said and caught the flavor of defense in my own voice.
"No shit," Meagan said, flatly.
"What? You don't believe it?"
"Oh, I believe it," she said and then turned to face me again. The look felt like an assessment. I must have passed.
"I dated him a few times, years ago, when he was trying to make SWAT."
Maybe she thought it was a confession that was going to shock me. But even if O'Shea hadn't already told me, I'm not sure I would have reacted. I took a drink, like it had nothing to do with me.
"He never made the team?" I said.
"Too aggressive. Not enough patience. Thought it was all gung ho shit. He was one of those who could never find the balance."
"He ever get aggressive with you?" I said. "I mean in a personal way?"
She gave me one of those "Who, me?" looks.
"You of all people, Max," she said. "He got pissed off once and raised a hand."
"And?"
"I slapped him first when he hesitated."
"And his reaction?"
"He apologized. Said he would never have actually hit me," she said. "Like I would have let him."
"Christ, Meg," I said. "And now you think he's capable of whacking some poor grocery store clerk to cover up a sex scandal out on the beat?"
One of the sweater guys nearby looked over. Meagan smiled at him and raised her eyeb
rows. I signaled the hostess that we were ready to sit down for dinner and paid the bar bill.
Meagan was true to her word on answering any questions I had about the departments' and internal affairs' investigation into the Faith Hamlin case. While we ate she described how IA isolated the officers on the differing shifts and found discrepancies in the night crews' stories of how often they stopped at the market and who had actually been the last to see Hamlin. Although good cops usually have well tuned bullshit detectors when they're talking to mopes on the street, it doesn't mean they're good liars themselves. Despite the polygraphs that three of the cops had passed, Meagan's investigators had done searches of all the officers' homes and cars, looking for any sign of Hamlin or DNA that could have indicated she'd been transported, dead or alive, by any of them. Nothing. They also crunched the time lines down on each man, making them give details on their whereabouts during every minute that they weren't on duty from the time Hamlin was last seen. Two of the guys were married and took the biggest hit. The media was all over the story. No one escaped being flayed in public. But O'Shea took the brunt. He was the only one who refused to cooperate. He stonewalled. He'd told them to charge him or leave him the fuck alone. He demanded a search warrant be served on his home and vehicles. He knew enough about the law to argue to a judge that the department had no evidence of a crime, that Faith Hamlin could have done anything from simply walking away from the embarrassment of the situation to throwing herself off the Ben Franklin Bridge. There were no indications of a crime and no body. Though she might have had the mind of a thirteen-year-old, Hamlin was legally an adult.
"So what does your gut tell you, Meagan?" I said when I ran out of questions. "Colin killed her and dumped her over in the Jersey Pine Barrens?"
"I don't have the kind of instinct you always seem to think you have, Max. Hell, he could have chopped her up and stuck her in a barrel. It's been done before. And by guys a lot smarter than him. He might have had nothing to do with her. None of the other three ratted on each other. They just came clean," she said, not letting the conversation spoil her appetite for the veggie wrap she worked her way through.
"But you know the old saying: If you got nothing to hide, why not talk?"
"Shit," I said, shaking my head because she knew better and every cop worth a damn knew better. A lot of people went to jail for crimes they didn't commit because they talked when they should have shut up. The only thing that let some cops and prosecutors live with that was the belief that it made up for the crimes the guy did do.
"So, Max. Speaking of talking," Meagan said, folding her napkin and resting her chin on the backs of her hands. "What have you got for me?"
I didn't hold out on her. I gave her the details of my meeting with O'Shea, including his admission that he'd dated a couple of the bartenders that had gone missing. I told her he'd been working private security and even detailed his participation in the alley fight.
She smiled at a thought, but didn't comment.
"Do you have an address for him?" she said.
"I'm sure detective Richards has an address, but I wasn't exactly tailing the guy, Meg."
"They have a trace on his phone or surveillance of some kind?"
"Not that I know of. As far as I know they're in the same bind you were in. No crime, no warrants, no taps or manpower."
"I don't know, Max," she said, folding her napkin on the table. "If that's all you have I'm not sure this was much of a trade."
I took my wallet out of my pocket without looking up at her, guessed at the bill total and put a few twenties on the table and slid my chair back.
"Yeah, it's not going to get you any captain bars," I said, getting petty by matching the dig.
"Oh, the jealous good ole boys' club got your ear already," she said.
"Hey, you've always been a multitasker, Meg. You find out what happened to your girl and get promoted for it, more power to you," I said, letting her lead the way out.
On the sidewalk the drizzle had stopped but it felt ten degrees colder. Meagan waved at a taxi that was parked across the alley in front of the Walnut Street Theatre. I opened the door for her and again she put her hand on mine.
"I was kidding with that trade comment, Max," she said.
"I know," I lied, knowing she had only been half kidding.
"It really was good to see you," she said and took a strand of her hair and carefully pulled it behind her ear and smiled. "Will you call if you get anything more from O'Shea that will help us, you know, with the girl?"
"You'll be the first," I said, and this time the kiss did not surprise me. It felt dry and perfunctory and did not even leave a warm spot on my chilled cheek. The next morning I flew back home to Florida.
CHAPTER 13
He was in her apartment, lying back on her bed, his work boots on the thin chemise bedspread, watching her get ready for work. Her face moved in and out of the mirror on top of her cheap dresser as she crimped her eyelashes and applied shadow and took particular care with liner. She caught him in the reflection and said: "What?"
"I'm just amazed at the work you put into all that when your eyes are already so beautiful."
"Yeah? How do you think we keep them so beautiful? We cheat," she said, smiling at him without turning around.
The few weeks they'd been together had been good. Sure he was kind of private, didn't like to stay and hang out with any of the other regulars at the bar when her shift was done. Didn't like to talk much with the other patrons and had pointedly asked her not to let anyone else know he was a cop. He said he had to be careful because it was like that situation with that prison asshole who scared the shit out of her that night in the bar when she saw him flash his badge. He said it should be a secret between them because he could get caught up in off-duty stuff like that and then he'd end up being liable and it made sense the way he explained it.
"If I let that other pencil dick get his ass whipped and then his fucking lawyer gets onto it and starts saying: You're a cop, why didn't you step in and stop it?
"Then the department attorneys get on me: Why are you getting involved when you're off duty? Was the guy a physical threat to you or others?"
Better to just scare the guy off, he said. He'd catch that idiot on the street someday and he'd be glad to do some ass-kicking when he was in uniform and it was his turf.
She liked that about him, too. He wasn't like the wimpy guys back home or the bar clowns who were all mouth. He told her some stories about suspects who fought him on the streets. He was aggressive in bed, too. But she wasn't complaining. They'd had sex here in her apartment the first time and she was a little frightened by how intense he was, but she'd had an orgasm like nothing she'd ever had in the past. He was strong and bold in the way he took her. It was exciting. After that they'd done it at night on the beach, once in the pool after he'd slipped the lock to the utility room and turned the underwater lights off. They'd even done it in the backseat of his car one night out somewhere in the Everglades where there weren't any houses or traffic.
She looked at him now, stretched out on her bed. She didn't like the boots on her spread but she knew better than to say anything. She found her perfume among the mess on the bureau and dabbed some on. She found him in the mirror. He had that way of kind of dominating a space when he was with her. Like the time he was getting beer from her fridge while she was letting the shower water warm and she heard him punch on her message machine and listen to the whole tape. Or the time he walked into the apartment before her and scooped the mail off the floor and went through each letter before putting it on the counter. Yeah, it was all junk, but she called him on it anyway.
"What? You afraid I'm going to see something from your boyfriend in Minneapolis?"
"That would be a trick since I don't have a boyfriend in Minneapolis," she'd said, and it was the truth.
"You'd better not," he'd said and then slipped his hands around her from behind and nuzzled her ear just like he was doing now.
"Come on, baby. You know I gotta get to work," she said.
"Yeah?"
He put his mouth on her neck and started unbuttoning her top button.
"If I'm late again Laurie's gonna kill me."
"No she won't," he said, working on the next button.
"No? She fired Roxy just last week. Though it was probably because she was always drunk by the time her shift ended."
"So let her fire you," he said, and now he had himself pressed up against her from behind and she could feel him getting hard against her. "You don't need to work there. I'll take care of you."
"Oh, you're gonna keep me barefoot and pregnant?"
He was unfastening the front snap on her bra and she put her hands on his to stop him and he did that cop thing where he suddenly spun his wrists and grabbed hers and in a split second he had her arms locked up behind her. With her shoulders pulled back, the bra snap gave way and when he pulled her elbows tighter together her breasts came out of the fabric. In the mirror both of them could see that she was now excited, too, and she thought: OK, I won't fight it. Just this once.
CHAPTER 14
My flight landed at Palm Beach International and I found my truck deep in long-term parking. When I opened the door, a wash of stale air spilled out. It was eighty degrees in the sun. Compared to Philly, the humidity felt like it was at ninety percent. Welcome back.
I tossed my travel bag into the passenger seat and then rolled up the new coat and stuffed it behind the seat where it might stay for another twenty years. I rolled down the windows and headed east, my cell phone in my ear and feeling anxious to talk with Billy. When I got to his office and he opened the door I realized that I looked like a slob, but then next to William Manchester, Esquire, most men fell to some level of slobdom.
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