"Freeman," he said. "Is that Jewish?"
The question was spoken, but mouthed into the air, like he was just pondering the possibility. I tightened my mouth. This time I did keep it shut, and waited for Richards to arrive.
When a dark SUV finally pulled up, I popped the handle to get out but the movement rattled the patrol cop. He was back leaning on the open door of his cruiser and fumbled his pad and reached for his holster.
"Calm down, son," I said, raising my palms. "I know these people."
"Hey, hey. Tranquilo Taylor," said the Cuban detective climbing out of the SUV's driver side.
"This man is the infamous Max Freeman," he said with a flourish. "Both a friend to, and a pain in the ass of all law enforcement."
Detective Vincente Diaz came around the truck with his junior executive smile in place and his hand extended.
"Max, Max, Max. Long time, amigo. Sherry said she had seen you and here you are, in the flesh and hip deep in the middle of another of your investigations."
He shook my hand vigorously and as usual I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or friendly.
Diaz had partnered up with Richards when she came into the detective bureau. The wiry strength in his small hands offset the pleasant, white-toothed smile.
"Hey, Max. What, fishing is no good out in the jungle? You got to come slumming in our pond?"
"I know you better, Vince," I said. "Your partner tells you everything."
He looked at me with that playful raised eyebrow.
"No, no, no. Not everything, eh?"
Richards was coming around the SUV, looking at the patrol officer.
"We got this, Taylor," she said.
"Yeah, well, I still got to take a photo for the field investigation file," he said, showing the old Polaroid he kept in the back seat.
"Believe me, Taylor," she said. "Neither your L.T. nor Chief Hammonds want to see this guy's name on an F.I. card."
The cop shrugged and facetiously muttered, "Yes, ma'am," and got back into his car, put it in gear and backed away.
"Max," Richards said, finally acknowledging me.
"Detective."
"You got something for us, or is this just a coincidence?"
"I do have some bait out. No bites yet," I said.
"Couldn't have been out there long."
"Actually, I wasn't sure where the current might take it."
"But this lovely area is a possibility?"
"Always."
Diaz was watching us, like a fan at a bad tennis match.
"You two going to go on like this for a while? Cause I'll go roust some dumpster divers or something else more productive if you want?"
Richards smiled.
While all three of us leaned against the box of my truck, Richards told me the sheriff's office had moved to step up their presence and visibility in the zone. Although detectives were rarely called to the street without a specific crime, the honchos had sent down word to have certain suspicious situations checked out.
"Like…"
"A white guy in a fancy truck sitting alone watching the busiest dope corner in the county," Diaz finished my response.
"I got to think you're off on this theory of yours, Freeman," he continued. "Our guy doing the rapes has to be some low-life just shagging girls when he can. He's got to be some zone cat and if these people would just wise up and help us out with some information, we'd have his ass sitting on Old Sparky up at Raiford."
He made sure his voice was loud enough for the handful of residents still on their front steps to hear. Two more cars started turning down the street but quickly straightened their wheels and rolled away.
"My esteemed partner believes your theory about a local acting as a hit man for the insurance companies is marginal," Richards said.
"How is some moke from in here going to hook up with that kind of scam anyway?" Diaz broke in again. "These are not your rocket scientists of crime out here. Even if your motive is right, Freeman, the two cases are in no way linked. Your guy is too smart. Maybe out-of-town work. Carlyle there would call up and spill on anybody who was out here fuckin' with his territory by bringing in more scrutiny by us," he said, pointing to the empty stool the dealer had abandoned.
"Carlyle?"
"Yeah," Diaz grinned. "The dealer. His momma probably named him so he'd grow up tough. Instead he grows up and takes on the illustrious street name Brown Man and makes it as a drug peddler just to get her back."
"You ever have a conversation with Carlyle?" I said.
"One-sided," Diaz said.
"So he's not real forthcoming with information?"
"But he'd still give up some cheap local out snuffing old ladies just to keep his trade moving."
"And nobody's got a C.I. who's close to him?"
Diaz looked around again. Some of the neighbors had wandered back into their homes, some had pulled out lawn chairs as if an early evening show was only minutes away.
"What can I say, amigo? You see these people out when the drug shop is open? No. They're afraid," he said. "Carlyle got his territory set, for now. And believe me, the last thing he wants is local trouble."
As we talked I kept cutting my eyes to Richards, caught her watching. The sun was well down but the air was still warm.
"You two done tilting at windmills for now?" she said.
Diaz shook his head.
"Hard as nails and literate too, man," he said. "You ever have a partner like this, Max?"
Richards was silent, listening for my answer.
"Hey," I finally said. "Cervantes was Hispanic. What do I know?"
The radios on both of their belts ran a simultaneous string of static and then squawked, "Fourteen, Echo One."
Diaz snatched the call, lowered the volume and walked around to the front of the truck. Richards and I stood in a quiet that seemed oddly uncomfortable.
"The skeptic," she finally said. "He only wishes he didn't care."
I grinned and looked at her. Even in the dark her eyes were showing color.
"You got something going?" she said.
"I got a long shot out," I said.
"No. I mean tonight."
"Uh, no," I said. "I mean no, not really."
"Come by later?"
"Sure," I managed.
"I'll make some coffee," she said.
"Okay partner," Diaz interrupted. "We got to hit the road."
Richards turned away and started toward the SUV and Diaz shook my hand.
"I hate to say it, Freeman, but I'll see you," he said with a grin. "Be careful, man."
Eddie slipped between two buildings and into the alley, running from the cold spot on the back of his neck.
He rounded the corner of Twenty-seventh Avenue and pushed the cart east, the loose wheel spinning maniacally, his shadow cast out in front from the last light pole. Who was the white man in the truck? And how could he see him?
Eddie liked routine, and his routine was going to hell. Mr. Harold didn't show. He couldn't get his dope. Momma wasn't talking and now a white man's eyes had looked into him and Eddie was wondering if his invisibility was also gone.
He shrugged up into his coat. A car rolled past, the bass from its stereo rippling through him. He pushed on to Second Street and then cruised the back alley of the row, stopping at Louise's Kitchen where he found a plastic bag of bread heels hung up on a hook above the dumpster. Louise put it out there because she knew the bums would root through her garbage if she didn't make it easy for them. So she hung the bread up away from the rats. Eddie knew when the bag came out and he was surprised to see it still there. He sat on the bottom of the steps leading up into the back of the restaurant, chewing through several pieces of the bread. The smell of the alley did not register. His own odor, rising up from his collar all warm and ripe from the body heat trapped under his coat did not register. Mr. Harold, Eddie thought, an idea pulling at him.
23
When Eddie crossed over the railroad tracks, he had officially cros
sed over to the east side, and he knew enough to be careful on the east side. By now it was dark, but the street lamps and still-lighted windows in the business buildings pushed Eddie to the shadows. When he made his way to a spot under the Intracoastal bridge he sat there for an hour, tucked back against cold concrete. He wished he'd gotten the heroin before he tried this. He was feeling the need in his stomach. Just a single pop would do.
The smell of the river was a blend of salt and gasoline fumes and damp pilings. Above he could hear the roll of cars on the bridge surface, humming along the concrete and then singing when the tires hit the metal grating in the middle. He checked the time on the watch from deep in his pocket, left the cart and started over to the parking lot of the county jail.
He stayed close to the fence, moving from tree to tree. The east- siders thought landscaping made things look nice, so there was always a dark shadow to slip into. He scanned the lot. Most of the light glowed up off the eight-story white stone facade of the jail. But Eddie could still make out the colors and makes of the cars. The fourth row down and in between the two light poles was Mr. Harold's Caprice.
He knew that the doctor worked the middle shift and would be getting off at 11:00 P.M., plenty of time.
He found a way through the fencing, a gap left open by workers at an adjoining construction site, and moved low and slow along an inside row to the car. He peered up over the line of hoods and watched a single, twirling yellow light moving along the front sidewalk. That was the thing about those security carts, you always knew where they were.
When it disappeared, Eddie moved to the driver's-side door of the Caprice and reached into his pocket for the old tennis ball he'd brought from his cart. He turned the ball in his fingers to find the shaved side and located the small hole that he'd punched into its middle with a nail. Then he positioned the hole over the round key entrance on the door lock. Holding the seal tight with one hand, he took one more wary look around, then banged the ball with the heel of his other hand. The air from the ball rushed into the lock system hard enough to simultaneously pop up all four of the door buttons. Eddie opened the left passenger door and climbed in.
The inside smelled of cigarettes and paper. A box of files sat in the back but there was still room for Eddie behind the driver's seat. He flipped the overhead light off, locked the doors and waited, his nose twitching with the smell of stale nicotine.
Eddie was in the backseat less than an hour when he heard footsteps on the pavement. Mr. Harold fumbled with his keys and then unlocked the doors. He tossed a briefcase onto the front passenger side and was already halfway in when the smell caused his face to screw up and he felt a huge hand clamp onto his upper right arm and pull him in.
The doctor whimpered once before his eyes snapped around to Eddie's and then quickly changed from wide-open shock to a narrow questioning.
"Jesus, Eddie. What the hell are you doing here?" said Harold Marshack, his voice jumping from surprise to consternation. "Didn't I tell you not to come here?"
Eddie stared at him and for the second time in only a few hours, another man's eyes looked back. The psychiatrist could see the edge of panic there.
"Hey, it's not safe for you here, Eddie," Marshack said, his voice now going calm and pitched as if he were speaking to a child.
"You didn't come to the post office," Eddie said.
His big hand was still holding the doctor's arm, a soft grip for Eddie, painful for the recipient. Marshack again changed his voice.
"I'll admit I wasn't sure what to do, Eddie," he said, now patting the big man's hand, hoping to ease the hold.
"A man was killed, Eddie. At Ms. Thompson's. What happened, Eddie? Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Eddie knew the sound of those words. He'd heard that voice that said "Stupid Eddie" all his life. When he was a kid they lured him into the circle with the mock friendship just to steal his money or humiliate him for laughs. The women, the police, even Momma's preacher. Be nice to Eddie, then when his grip loosens, steal what he has. Eddie wasn't stupid.
"I do not know," he said to the doctor.
"Eddie, there's a problem," Marshack said, patting the big man's hand again. But the hand stayed.
"What? I did my job. I need my money," Eddie said. "I did what we said. I need what's mine."
The psychiatrist was quiet, thinking over the possibilities that might be running through his former patient's head.
"The woman's not dead, Eddie. She's still here. The old man's gone but Ms. Thompson is still alive. The police came, Eddie. She isn't dead."
Eddies first reaction was to think "liar." They always lied to him. But his second reaction was to replay the night in his head. The pillow on Ms. Thompson's face. The old man coming out of the bathroom. Eddie's hand on his throat, feeling the bones fold. He'd made sure, damn sure, that the old guy was gone and then laid him out on the bed. Ms. Thompson did not move. She was gone, too. He was trying to see it in his head. No one could lay that still, that quiet, specially the old ladies.
He could feel the doctor's eyes on him.
"I do not know," he finally said. "But I need my money, Mr. Harold."
The doctor could feel the pressure on his arm. The big man's grip tightening with tension.
"OK, Eddie, sure. It was a mistake. We're still friends, right?" He worked his free hand into his jacket pocket and came out with his wallet. He opened the fold and riffled the bills inside with his thumb. In the dim light Eddie could see the corners of twenties flashing.
"Hundreds," Eddie said, his tone gone flat. "I got to have hundreds."
The big man's hand tightened again when he said it. His blunt fingertips had found the artery running under Marshack's biceps. They cut off the flow of blood, and the doctor was losing feeling down in his hand.
"Sure, Eddie. Sure. What was I thinking? In the glove box, the envelope, like always."
Marshack tried to move his arm, to reach for the passenger side. Eddie let his grip loose and the doctor reached over and twisted the lock.
24
I found Richards's house, rolled slowly past and pulled a U-turn at the intersection and parked across the street. It was a quiet neighborhood of small bungalow-style homes built back in the '40s in what was then a small southern town growing up at the mouth of a river to the ocean. The older houses were mostly wood clapboard with enclosed screen porches and they all sat up on short pilings to get them up off the moist ground. I could smell the oleander in the air and could make out the shapes of live oak canopies backlit by moonlight.
It was almost eleven. I'd been here before. I'd convinced her I was a restaurant idiot and taken her to dinner, her choice. We'd gone to movies she suggested. There was the one with the kid who sees ghosts. The ending had made her quiet afterward. Finally, while we were sitting in a coffee shop afterward, she asked if I believed in such things. "Everybody's got ghosts," I'd said. Brilliant, Freeman. When I'd dropped her off her good-bye caught in her throat.
A few weeks after I'd been late making it in from the river and we'd missed the start of a show she had tickets for. But she didn't seem to mind and we ended up sitting here on the back porch, talking about the past. The cop stuff was inevitable, but she avoided the subject of her husband and I stayed away from my family. Part of the wall was mine. Part was hers.
I rapped lightly on the screen door and waited. Nothing. I knocked a bit harder but it sounded like a hammer in the quiet. Through a window I could see soft light in a back room, so I stepped off the porch and found the wooden gate to the yard. I flipped the metal latch to make some noise and followed a path of flagstones. I could see the glow of aqua light before rounding the corner, and then her silhouette against the light of the pool. She was running an aluminum pole with a net on the end over the surface and was wearing shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt.
"A little late for maintenance," I said.
My voice made her jump, but only a little.
"I thought you'd stood me up, Freeman,
" she said, turning her head but keeping a grip on the pole. "Figured why waste a good wine buzz."
She made a final pass with the net, capturing a few more leaves that had dropped from the oak that dominated the yard, and then laid the pole aside.
"You're ahead of me," I said.
"I only offered coffee, Freeman. But I'll let you indulge."
She stepped up onto the wide, wood-planked porch and headed toward a set of French doors. When I started to follow she turned quickly and said, "I'll bring it out." I had still never been inside her house.
Her yard was thick with tropical plants, broad-leafed banana palms and white birds-of-paradise. The pool reflected up into some Spanish moss hanging from the closest oak limbs. Few of the plantings were native, but the effect was a soft, green, isolated place. The porch included a huge woven hammock stretched across one end.
In a few minutes she came out with a bottle and two wineglasses.
"Hey, it's not your wilderness," she said, reading my appreciation. "But it isn't bad for the city."
She filled the glasses and sat down on the top step, stretching her legs and putting the bottle next to her.
"Diaz doesn't think much of your theory, but he likes you," she said.
"Is that good?" I said, sitting down.
"Sure. It means he won't bring your name up to Hammonds for a while." She was looking into the pool.
"Hammonds approved the stepped-up patrol in the zone?"
"Yeah. But I'm not sure if he was shamed into it or if it was politics. The black city commissioner has been rattling the cages, and the newspapers are finally starting to run stories about 'A pattern of unsolved rapes and homicides in the minority community,' " she said with a pretty credible television news anchor's voice.
"I don't read the papers," I said.
"What? No delivery on the river?"
She was smiling and the space inside the circle it always created felt comfortable. I took another swallow of wine and leaned back, propped myself on my elbows and looked up through the oak. Night-blooming jasmine was on the air, mixed with a slightly sharp odor of chlorine.
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