by Davis Bunn
“And there’s been another killing,” Matt said, still talking to the back window. “An arms dealer. The guy who supplied the bombs that got Mom and Simms. He’s gone.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Sol took another step toward him. “Matt, listen to me. There’s a killing every day. That’s Baltimore. Somebody got another dealer. Arms, drugs, so what? Go look at yourself in the mirror. You’re coming apart.”
Sol started to take another step. Matt raised his arm. Not pushing. There was no need with Sol.
Sol stared in horror at Matt’s hand.
Matt looked at his own hands. They were stained as dark as old blood. “It’s gun oil, Sol.”
“Matt, I’m talking to you as a man who’s known you since before you were born. Give it up. Let it go. You’re too close to all this. It’s not worth it.”
“I can’t do that, Sol.”
Sol sighed an inaudible protest and left the apartment. Matt stood there a moment longer, staring out the window at the campaign staffers staring in. Then he turned and went back to the bathroom.
He wanted to throw away all the clothes he was wearing, but settled for packing them into a plastic garbage bag and tying it shut. He brushed his teeth and gargled and showered twice. But he came out still certain the smell clung to him. He dressed in starched denims and a knit shirt and running shoes. Knowing it was not fashionable enough for dinner, but not able to work at finding anything else just then.
As he was leaving the house, his phone rang. Matt waited for the machine to answer, thinking it might be Connie.
It was Judy Leigh, the journalist. “Matt, me again. I really need—”
He picked up. “I’m here.”
“Where have you been?”
“England.”
“Really? On the case?”
“I can’t talk about that yet. Soon. I hope.”
“What about today? There’s a cordon up around the Seltzer tower; you know about that?”
Matt swallowed hard. “I can’t talk about that either.”
There was a pause. Then, “Okay, it’s my turn anyway. I’m having a tough time running down the structure of Camden Trust. That’s who is holding your father’s business. Everything is being operated through a law firm in D.C. They’re not talking. They didn’t like the fact that the paper contacted them for details. Not a bit.”
“If your boss is one of the shareholders and he hears you called, you could be in serious trouble.”
“Credit me with some sense, okay? I brought in an intern from Maryland U. I listened in, fed him the lines. Made his month, playing big investigative reporter, rattling the legal cage.”
“You want to see if your boss reacts.”
“If he comes back to us again, we got him,” Judy agreed. “Oh, and I heard something from a contact in Rolf Zelbert’s campaign headquarters. If elected, he intends to wrest control of the police from the city. Claims Baltimore is out of control and the current system isn’t working. He wants to beef up the Homeland Security presence, bring in a new commissioner who would work closely with the feds. Make one unified anticrime force. City, state, and federal acting together.”
“Can he?”
“Sure. A century and a half ago, Baltimore was so rough we were known nationwide as Mobtown. The national elections of 1850 got so rowdy families and whole companies fled the ensuing murder and mayhem. Afterward the state and federal governments placed the city’s police under their direct control, the only time such an action has been taken in America’s history. This remained in place until 1976, when William Donald Schaefer became mayor. But the legal structure is still there. I got all this from Zelbert’s staffer.”
“I don’t see how it could tie in.”
“No. Me neither. But I thought I’d let you know. Seeing how you’ve helped this reporter a time or two.”
Lucas just had time to run by home, shower and change, help Katy dress, and speed off for dinner with the Bledsoes. Not even his partner’s illness could stop the routine of Thursday dinners. Which was ridiculous only on the surface. Sharla, Clarence’s wife, had not invited him just so he and Clarence could eat meat loaf and talk cases and football. Which they did. Sharla wanted Lucas and Katy to have a regular taste of family. Which was the first thing she said when he protested that they should wait until Clarence was feeling better. “Since when does family wait for the good times, Lucas?”
“I just don’t want to be a bother.”
“You just hush up with that mess. Hello, honey. What a pretty bow.” Sharla hugged Katy so hard and long Lucas got a swollen throat. Strange how little things were hitting him where it hurt these days. “What’s new in your life?”
“I got a gold star in school today.”
“Why am I not surprised? You go on back; Tony’s in the playroom making a mess with something.” Tony was their five-year-old grandson.
“I like Tony.”
“I know you do, honey. Go brighten up the boy’s life.”
The two of them watched her head back to the playroom, listened to her chat with a child who would soon grow up and leave Katy behind. Lucas had been watching it happen with her playmates for twenty years, and it had never seemed to bite like this evening.
Sharla waited until he turned back to say, “I had a talk with Ian Reeves today.”
“I didn’t know you and the pastor were friends.”
“We’re on a board together. Downtown kids. He’s worried about you, Lucas.”
“Here it comes.”
“Now don’t you get all huffy on me, mister. Not unless you aim on eating in the kitchen tonight.” Sharla was a timeless woman, tall and intelligent and softly defiant. Her hair was copper and determinedly straightened, her nose aquiline, her eyes almond and very aware. “Ian had something important to say about Katy.”
“I don’t want her to go into a home.”
“We all know what you want and what you don’t want. But what we don’t know is what’s best for Katy.”
“She needs a family, Sharla.”
“Lucas, listen to me. I am not here to argue. I’m just going to ask you one question and then I’m not going to say anything more. And I don’t want you answering me either. I want you to think.” She settled a hand on his arm. Waited until she was sure he saw nothing except her. “How much family has Katy been getting for the past eighteen months?”
She gave him another portion of that measuring look, patted his arm once more, and then said, “There. You see how easy that was? Now, go tell my husband he better be up and dressed and shaved unless he aims on eating in the kitchen with you.”
A voice at the top of the stairs said, “I heard that.”
“My two misbehaving boys,” Sharla said and returned to the kitchen.
When Lucas entered the bedroom, Clarence said, “I would’ve called and warned you. But she told me I’d be on bread and water if I did.”
Lucas pulled the chair over close to the bed. “How you doing?”
“Ready to go. I been fine for days now. Now tell me what’s going on.”
So Lucas laid it out. Doing what he’d been doing for years, talking it through with this trusted friend, letting a step-by-step passage through the case help him see it better.
Clarence heard him out in silence. He was back on the bed, dressed in starched Levis and a freshly pressed short-sleeved shirt. Neat and pristine even when ill. When Lucas finished, he said, “That was a fine move, getting the goods on the Aryan like that.”
“I thought so too.”
“Good to know your new partner’s got more going for her than looks.”
“Connie’s not my partner, Clarence. She’s a rookie doing gopher duty.”
“’Course, you’d never let the fact that she’s a drop-dead stunner cloud your judgment. Not even a tiny bit.”
“I’m treating her like just another cop, Clarence.” He had to smile. “And she’s loving it.”
Clarence coughed once. Trying to keep it trapped inside. Even
so, the sound made Lucas wince. His partner wiped his mouth and observed, “Other than what the rookie’s done for you, sounds like the only real progress is based on work by your two tame feds.”
Lucas gave him nothing. “I was just thinking how you light up a room.”
“That’s the other guy. I’m his evil twin.”
“Matt is very good,” Lucas conceded. “He’s got the makings of a top officer. Not to mention the fact he gives Connie a run for the money in the eager department. I just hope they don’t rework him down in Washington, turn him into just another backstabbing federal roadblock.”
“I don’t hear the same glowing report on the Brit, what’s his name?”
“Pecard. No, you don’t.” Lucas waited out one long beat. Then he asked it again. “How are you doing, Clarence?”
This time his partner let it sit for a while. His eyes were tinged with yellow and his color was almost gray. “They want me to hang out here another week.”
“If that’s what they say, you—”
“They’re talking desk, Lucas.” He paused for a cough that sounded like an ailing cement mixer. “Desk or early off. I don’t want either.”
“Who’s talking to you here?”
“Headquarters sent over a doc; she had me redo all the tests. They say maybe both lungs are scarred.” The expression on Clarence’s face approached terror. “I don’t know what to do.”
Lucas settled back in his chair. Focused on the wall beside the bed because looking at the pain in his partner’s face was too hard just then. “You want me to talk to you like a partner or a friend?”
“Your call.”
“When June got sick the last time, we started counting the days. Closer to the end, we started naming the hours. The last couple of days, it was minutes. Trying to hold on to each and every one, afraid we might miss one heartbeat of happiness, one breath of love.” D’Amico lowered his head, remembering. “You’re the best partner I ever had. But I tell you the truth. If taking desk means you gain another few years to enjoy with Sharla and the kids, grab hold with both hands. I’d give anything . . .”
He stopped because he had to. And sat there looking at the floor between his feet until he felt the hand on his shoulder.
He looked up to find Sharla standing there, biting hard on her upper lip. The woman stared at him for a long, burning moment, then said in a hoarse voice, “Don’t you ever again ask me what you’re doing here in this house.” She drew him up and hugged him hard. “Why the Lord didn’t make more men like you I will never understand. Now y’all come on down to dinner.”
Matt walked the six blocks to Mount Vernon. The Japanese woman at his dry cleaners accepted his garbage bag without a qualm. He left and walked through the gathering night, not headed anywhere in particular, just walking. At quarter of seven he turned onto Charles Street. The place was full of lights and fragrances and happy faces. Music streamed from cafés. People took advantage of the warm night, filling the sidewalk tables and standing outside the bars. The talk was cheerful, the feeling alive. He arrived at the restaurant on time and saw Connie standing on the sidewalk outside the front window. He stepped closer to the building he was passing so as to study her unseen. She wore a pleated red skirt that stopped well short of her knees and a jacket of something that shimmered in the passing headlights. She moved in time to music pouring from the neighboring café, swinging a little red purse with both hands. Matt left cover and started forward.
When she saw his jeans and knit shirt, she grinned. “You didn’t have to dress up all formal just for me.”
“Connie, I’m sorry, I just . . .”
“Hey.” Using the same voice she had that afternoon. Soft, accepting, warm. “Why don’t we go inside.”
She gave her name to the server, who showed them to a table by the large front window. A bar ran down the back wall, with a wood-burning pizza oven in the corner. The place was loud and packed and full of life.
Matt looked around and said, “This is great.”
“Really?”
“It’s so good to be out tonight. That doesn’t make any sense, I know.”
“Makes all the sense in the world.”
He studied her face. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Go from cop to child to woman. In your face. And your eyes. You change.”
The waiter came and handed out menus neither of them saw. When they were alone again, she said, “I’m a walking advertisement for multiple personality disorder. I know it. There’s nothing I can do about it. What can I say? I’m a woman. It goes with the territory. Part wolf, part dove.”
He started to say something more, but she stopped him with a touch to his hand. “No, Matt. No questions. I was the one who did all the talking when we were on the phone. Tonight it’s your turn.”
“I told you. I don’t talk.”
He expected any of the dozen responses he had known before. Hostile, suspicious, angry, demanding. Instead, she just looked at him a long moment, then said, “Best book.”
“Excuse me?”
“The book you grab when you’re down and you’re looking for something to remind you that life really can work out the way you want.”
He did not have to think. “Touching the Void.”
“I give that a pass.”
“Two guys climb the western face of the highest mountain in South America. One of them breaks a leg. The other almost dies getting them down.”
She tilted her head. “I’m trying hard to understand here. How is this supposed to help you get through a really bad day?”
“They risked it all to face what had always before been considered unconquerable.”
She waited. “And?”
“I read a page.” He felt the sweat bead. The internal conflict tore at him. He desperately wanted to shut up. And wanted even more to talk. “Just one page. That’s all it takes to feel their wild hunger for the unknown. Putting everything on the line. Hanging on the verge. Staring down into the void. And carrying that home.”
She leaned closer still. “You know what? I like that.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Matt. I like it a lot.” She reached for his hand. “I never did feel comfortable around guys who hanker for the normal life, whatever that is. Listening to you say that makes me want to go buy a ticket to somewhere we’ve never been, hike to a hidden lake, spend a month exploring the ruins of some lost kingdom.”
He stared at the hand on top of his. Pearl-tipped fingers, long and graceful. But strong. He could feel the calluses, see the muscles in her wrist. “Machu Picchu.”
“Where?”
“Peru. Andes. A place like you were describing.”
“Was that one of the colored dots on your map?”
He wished every word he spoke to her did not feel like his last confession. “Absolutely.”
The waiter returned then. She asked if Matt wanted her to order for them both. He nodded, not lifting his gaze from her hand. Part of him heard her order duck sausage pizzas and spinach and Roquefort salads. The other part was elsewhere.
When the waiter left, she asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“FLETSE.”
“What?”
“The new federal law enforcement training center outside Savannah.”
“Wow, Matt.” Her smile displayed an easy joy. “You romantic guy, you.”
“Sorry.”
“No, hey, I really want to hear about it.” She tightened her hold on his hand, as though fearful he was going to pull away. “This is my passion too, remember?”
“The guys down there call it Club Fed. They have a saying you hear your first day inside, ‘Happiness is FLETSE in my rearview mirror.’ They’re right.”
“Tough, huh.”
“Tough,” he agreed. Her grin was gone, but the light was still there in her eyes. Drinking him in. Like what he said was just so very important. “Sixty federal agencies use it for training now, everybo
dy but the FBI. The DEA is there but split off. Everybody else is lumped into the same squads. Classes run eight to five, six days a week. Outside of that is physical training. Sunday you hunker down and study, because Monday mornings you’re tested. Fail one test, you start over with the next incoming squad. And you don’t want to start over.”
The waiter came back with their salads. Connie held to tight impatience during the interruption. “Tell me everything.”
So he did. Through the salads and the main course. While a band cranked up downstairs. On through coffee. He told her everything but the reason he had been thinking about it in the first place. He described how the classes and the fieldwork were jumbled together at a super-intensive pace. Locksmithing, forced-entry procedures, hostage raids, copter jumps, forensics, handcuffing, arrest strategy, team strikes, undercover ops, criminal analysis, boat ops, surveillance. He described the lingo and the jokes. How the place had once been swamps and now all the water was trapped in lakes, how some mornings the ducks were out of the lakes and waddling around the jogging paths. How punishment details on those days were dreaded events, because teams were sent into the lakes to net the gators and haul them back over to the surrounding swamps.
He told her about Billy Bob, the fictitious culprit used in every attack and arrest situation. He told her about the northern guys being indoctrinated into grits their first morning, how they were graded on what amount they could keep down.
Matt talked and he watched her, and it warmed him more than he thought possible to make her smile. So much he could almost wipe away the image of himself standing by the barracks’ lone telephone that last day, calling the last lady in his life, listening to himself beg for another chance he didn’t deserve.
When he finished, she bolted in with another instant question. “Secret talent.”
“What?”
“The special ability nobody knows about.”
“That would be karate.”
“No, Matt. It’s not secret anymore. Something else.”
Her potent mixture of eagerness and perfume and energy made it almost easy to say, “Close your eyes.”
She set down her cup, planted her elbows on the table, leaned forward, and shut down.