by Layton Green
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Preach said quietly.
“That brick ranch over there, with all the junk in the yard? Momma’s a crack whore, raising three boys by herself. I give them about a year before they end up in juvie or dead.”
“Or working for you on the corner.”
Bentley’s lips parted in a faint smile. “Durham’s so progressive these days. I love that we got all these initiatives for clean energy, net neutrality, save the trees, save the planet, save the universe. Those are worthy things, detective. Lofty goals. Well, how about this—I got people living around me with no heat or air conditioning, moldy roofs, using food stamps for potato chips and soda because they can’t afford anything else. I got kids getting sick from filthy water. Kids sleeping in the gutter. Kids with every male relative they know either in prison or unable to get a job because they just got out.”
“Don’t forget kids getting hooked on the crack you sell.”
“The dire situation in Yemen? Honduras? The Sudan? Americans have no clue how people live in their own backyard, not to mention some continent they’ve never been to. How about all of these civic- minded people around here look around and fix the damn ghetto ? The place right in front of their noses where kids are actually living in terrible conditions and actually getting sick and dying? What’s the difference between Durham and the Germans who watched the Holocaust and did nothing, except a matter of degree ? Slow or fast, it’s murder all the same.”
“I know what you’re doing to the trailer park, Bentley. I know about David too.”
“Then why don’t you put the cuffs on? Or is this my last walk of freedom?”
Again, the lack of concern in his voice unnerved the detective, as if the man already knew what Preach was going to say and didn’t care one bit.
“I’ve been reading up on stress and the stoics,” Bentley said. “Did you know there’s a human propensity to sort everything into good or bad news? It’s evolutionary. Combine that with a twenty-four news cycle that preys on fear, and you got an entire country worried about all the wrong things. Clear eyes and mind, detective. Clear eyes and mind. Cancel the noise. See what’s in front of you, the truth, and act on it.”
“That sounds a lot like my job,” Preach said. “Do you know what I think the truth is ? That an extremely small percentage of ruthless, ambitious, sociopathic criminals always make life miserable for the rest of us.”
“You’re talking about the President, now?”
“I’m talking about you.”
“Tsk tsk. I thought we were having a pleasant walk. Why make it personal ? Trust me, you don’t want to make it personal.”
Preach stopped walking, and Bentley did too. Preach stepped closer and said, “Are you threatening me ?”
Bentley didn’t flinch. “You should walk away, Detective.”
“From what ?”
“From East Durham. From this. From me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that choice.”
Bentley laughed. “Choice? We have a wasteland of choice.
That’s the defining nature of humanity, especially in your America. You don’t have to go to war on a daily basis, farm for food any more, cut your shelter out of the jungle. Your people don’t have to do anything but slave away to get shit you want, play video games, watch other people’s lives on TV. So just choose, detective. Choose to walk away.”
“What should I do, leave a manila envelope for you in my mailbox ?”
“You heard me.”
“One thing I learned as a prison chaplain. The true criminals of the world actually feel at home in prison, because they know they’re in the right place. They may not like it, but they know they’re home. I look forward to stamping your passport.”
“I believe our walk is over.”
“I didn’t come out here to warn you that I’m about to arrest you. You’re right, this isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“I trust you can find your way back? It gets dark out here rather fast. There’s not much artificial illumination to light the way.”
They had stopped walking at an intersection marked by a cheap, two-story housing complex that looked in danger of falling over. A host of rundown sedans and pickups were crammed into the parking lot, and a group of shifty-eyed men were drinking on the concrete balcony, eying the two men.
Preach leveled his gaze at Bentley. “The girl, Blue, you sent Cobra after.”
“I don’t know—”
“Shut up.” Bentley went rigid, as if no one had ever spoken to him like that before. Preach continued, “She was in the woods that night but didn’t see or hear a thing. You have my word on that. There was something on the camera, but it was too dark to make out. We used video enhancement software to build our case, and she knew absolutely nothing about it. Still doesn’t.”
“You telling me this to hear yourself talk?”
“I’m telling you this because no matter what happens to you and Cobra, if you or any of your people touch a single hair on her head, I swear to God I’ll spend the rest of my career making sure you’ll regret it. Trust me when I say it will be the worst decision you’ve ever made.” “That’s a noble sentiment, detective.”
“She’s innocent. Let her live her life.”
“What happens if you’re not around to protect her anymore ?” Preach backed away, very slowly, boring into him with his eyes. “Not one single hair.”
42
ONE MONTH LATER
Neutral ground.
That was what Preach thought of Ari’s request to meet him after work at Café Driade again. As before, she was making a statement. Someplace along Highway 15-501 in Chapel Hill, neither in Creekville nor in Durham. A place that belonged to her past but maybe not to her future.
He sensed the Ari he had once known, the carefree law student with dreams of changing the world, the cool girl with the ripped jeans and flashing eyes and chip on her shoulder, the iconoclastic traveler who had overcome an awkward and lonely childhood with strength of will and good literature, was in the midst of a transformation. A chrysalis set to emerge.
Would Ari settle happily into her new role as an attorney? Or would she fight it tooth and nail, longing for the freedom of her past life? He knew she was still caught in between, figuring out who she really wanted to be, what she really wanted from life.
That was okay. It was all okay.
He just wished he could be a part of it.
The past was never fully truthful, he thought. Nor was it complex. Just like witnesses in a murder trial recalling the scene of the crime, cherry-picking details, the human brain selects what details from past relationships it wants to remember. Not only that, it takes a position. Bombarded by information, weeding out extraneous info, our former lovers are viewed either through a rose-colored prism or through a shattered lens.
He knew how Ari thought of him now, and it made him sad. Even if they couldn’t be together, he didn’t want her to remember him in that way.
It was cold and gusty outside. Luckily, he found a table in the corner across from the counter, tucked beside a pair of wood-paneled French doors.
When Ari arrived a few minutes after eight, strolling into the café with her dark hair askew, observing him with a gaze both earnest and defiant, a woman who wanted to trust the world but didn’t, Preach felt a thorn of shame and regret stabbing him in the side. A surge of attraction coursed through him as well, one so strong it harkened back to the early days of their relationship. He realized that, along with all the other mistakes, he had even taken Ari’s unique beauty for granted.
Dressed in high-heeled black boots, gray slacks, and a chartreuse wool jacket he had never seen before, he thought her transformation to new woman was complete until she turned the chair across from him around, facing backward, and sat with her arms crossed on the table, leaning forward as her mouth curled into a sly smirk.
“Howdy, stranger,” she said.
“I see you’re picking up the local lin
go.”
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
“Now that isn’t the Ariana Hale I know.”
Her smirk broadened. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“From an attorney? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I would expect a seasoned police officer to say.”
“How did we ever get along?”
She shook her head sadly. “I have no idea.”
He was surprised by her playfulness. He had expected her to tell him when she was coming over to collect her things.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked, rolling his beer between his palms.
“Maybe in a minute,” she said, looking him in the eye. “If I decide to stay.”
He let the bottle come to rest between his palms. “And what does that depend on?”
Instead of answering, she held his gaze so long he knew she was testing him in some way. Finally she said, “One thing I love about the Triangle ? I can wear jeans and a sweatshirt to a coffee shop and still be one of the best-dressed people.”
“I think you’ve far surpassed that.”
She plucked at the lapel of her coat. “Work clothes don’t count. I’m talking about Saturday morning, roll out of bed and get a latte clothes.”
“Then yeah, you’ve got that covered. Though I never thought you cared about that sort of thing.”
He wondered if that would offend her, but she said, “You know, when I first got to know you, all blond and handsome and wounded, I thought you’d be one of those guys who knew everything there was to know about women.”
“And?”
“How wrong I was.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said.
“Oh, it’s not just you. You’re probably better off than most. Guys don’t know much of anything about women, period. No matter how dressed down a woman is in public, never let her tell you she isn’t aware of what the other women are wearing. It’s not that I care about being the best dressed. I just don’t like to feel pressured.”
He waited for the hammer to drop, the one where she told him exactly how stupid and callous he had been.
“It’s a good place,” she continued, still riffing on the local scene. “Both urban and rural. Progressive but tied to history. You get all the seasons. Durham, especially, has a good mix of people. This area . . . it feels real. I respect it for that.”
Where was she going with this, he wondered? Was she about to tell him she was settling down with a corporate attorney in the suburbs ?
Her expression darkened. “Have you ever come across someone like him before?”
It took him a moment. “You mean Bentley?
She pressed her lips together, nodding, as she twisted one of her silver thumb rings. Her nervous tic.
“No,” he said slowly. “Not quite.”
“He played me—played on my emotions—in a way no one ever has. I feel like he’s this Pied Piper of crime or something. I think he believes in what he’s doing on some level, in that help-his-people bullshit he spews . . . but he’s as ruthless as anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Is there any progress on his case ?”
“We had to drop it. After Mackenzie recanted, we didn’t have anything.”
Though bitterly disappointed, he was not surprised. A week after her confession, though she stayed true to the rest of her story, Mackenzie had refused to testify against Bentley before the grand jury. She said that Cobra, not Bentley, had recruited her and supplied her with drugs. Citing her fear of reprisal from Los Viburos, she said she had made up her initial testimony about Bentley, and that it had always been Cobra.
The gang assassin, who had survived the gunshot wounds, did not contradict her story. In fact, he confirmed every single bit of it, with no deviation.
Someone had gotten to them both, Preach knew.
And it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who that was.
“Her initial confession holds no weight ?” he said.
“Not if we go to trial and she stands in front of a jury and says the opposite. She’s terrified, despite the fact she’s staring a murder charge in the face.”
“He must have threatened her family,” he said.
She looked up at him. “I’m not giving up. We’ll get him another way.”
Preach lowered his eyes, torn. He wanted very much for Ari to never go near Bentley again, not even with an ironclad case. He wanted her to quit her job and leave town and not be within five hundred miles of that sociopathic bastard. But instead, knowing that was her choice to make, he said, “Be careful, Ari. I mean it. You don’t want to stay on the radar of someone like that.”
“He made me feel abused, Joe. As if I was an object he could order around. A piece on his chessboard. How many other people has he manipulated? Murdered? I want him to go down,” she said, with a glint in her eyes that took him aback.
“Just don’t provoke him, okay? Let us take him off the board for something big. That’s our job.”
Her palms were pressed into the table. Finally she relaxed, stepped away from her chair, and went to the counter for a drink. She returned holding a glass of red wine, turned her chair the right way around, and sat with her legs crossed. Modern jazz notes floated softly in the background, interrupted at regular intervals by the grind of the coffee roaster.
Instead of questioning the significance of the glass of wine, he said, “What about Cobra? How’s his case going?”
“Oh, he’s going down hard.”
“I wonder why he took the hit for Bentley? He doesn’t seem like the type to scare.”
“My guess ? He has a five-year-old son.”
Preach reflected on the day he had chased down Cobra and shot him, then gave a slow nod.
“I haven’t been paying attention to the Creekville news,” she continued. “How did the council vote on Carroll Street?”
“Not to tear it down. Over the last month, we’ve kept a police presence there 24-7. The crime rate fell off a cliff.” Preach took a swallow of beer. “Though I get the sense Bentley can absorb the financial hit.”
“You think it’s a good thing ? For the people who live there ?”
“I think it’s there or somewhere else.”
She swirled her wine with a troubled expression. “What about Blue ? Is she doing okay?”
“Can you believe the filmmaker she stole the camera from pressed charges? After all Blue went through?
“What!?”
“The judge counted Blue’s jail time—when I kept her locked up at the end—as time served. He also persuaded the principal to let her back in school with no repercussions. She’ll graduate, I hope, and after that . . . I don’t know.”
“I can tell you care about her.”
“She’s had it rough. And her father . . .” he sighed. “Life just isn’t fair. There’s some good news, though.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Another local filmmaker heard about the case. She’s making a documentary about the trailer park, with Blue playing a part. And she’s taking her under her wing and teaching her how to direct.”
Ari clapped a hand to her mouth. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “She’s a tough girl. I think she’ll be okay.” They sat without speaking for some time, sipping their drinks as they stared in different directions.
“Ari,” he said.
“Mmm?”
“What’s next?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why’d you ask to meet me tonight?”
She tensed, one hand gripping her wine glass, the other fidgeting on the table. “You hurt me, Joe.”
“I know. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
After a moment, she said, “I’m not sure what I want yet. And I don’t know, maybe you’re over me already.”
“I’m not.”
Her eyes flicked upward, finding his. “I wanted you to be that guy, you know? The one. The perfec
t one. But you’re not. You’re just a . . .a guy”
He stared back at her, knowing she was right, wishing he had something to say.
“But none of us are perfect. We can never know for sure what another person is thinking or feeling, not even our partner. Nor would we want to. Doubt is part of human nature. I think it takes getting hurt to realize that and to be able to live with it. Maybe some people never doubt, I don’t know. Maybe some relationships are perfect.”
“They’re not,” he said simply.
“I don’t think so either.” She took a moment to swirl her wine. “A few days ago, I stopped by the Trader Joe’s down the street. I go there sometimes, if I’m out this way.”
“I know.”
“I saw Claire.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I walked by her, not expecting to talk, but she stopped me and told me something.”
“That she was sorry?”
“Um, no. I don’t think that crossed her mind.”
“Then it was definitely Claire you saw.”
“Yeah. She was pretty arrogant. But she told me you stayed true, despite everything she threw at you.” Ari’s smile was distant. “She said no man could resist that kind of temptation—not unless he was in love with someone else.”
“She thinks a lot of herself”
“Claire really is beautiful.”
“She’s skin deep, Ari.”
She smirked. “So are most men. Anyway, there are plenty of people who choose to do the right thing, even if they’re not in love with someone else. Or even for all the wrong reasons.”
“That’s true.”
“You know what I think? After giving it some thought?”
He shielded his anticipation with a sip of beer. “What’s that?”
“I think a relationship untested is one waiting for a test.”
“And?” he said, guardedly hopeful.
“I think you failed.”
He sat back in his chair.
“It wasn’t a zero, though. Just a sixty-five or so.”
“A sixty-five,” he repeated, absorbing her words. “Is there any hope of extra credit?”