‘I don’t usually talk about work here,’ Caroline informed me. ‘This is Charlie’s time and his place.’
‘Sorry. I had a thought. I didn’t know who else to ask.’
She eyed the folder in my hand. ‘Have you had supper, Ben?’ When I hesitated, she said, ‘Come on,’ and led me to the kitchen. As I followed, her hand sought out the tail of her shirt and selfconsciously adjusted it over her rump.
There was a small round table in the kitchen with places set for two. Caroline called to Charlie to set another place.
‘Are you sure there’s enough, Caroline? I didn’t mean to impose.’
She showed me a baking dish lined with eight chicken breasts.
‘All for you two?’
Charlie shuffled into the room in stocking feet to explain. ‘She makes too much so we can keep eating it all week.’
Caroline waved the spatula at him in a menacing way and turned back to her cooking.
The kid shared a little smirk with me. He liked Caroline’s cooking even if it meant a week’s worth of chicken. I smirked back to let him know I understood that.
‘Sit down, boys,’ Caroline ordered.
I sat opposite Charlie while Caroline filled the plates over the stove. ‘Rice?’ she asked, ‘salad?’ There was something oddly moving about the whole exercise. A suggestion of intimacy, of caregiving. ‘What will you drink? I have milk, apple juice, Cran-apple, orange juice, water, beer – no, sorry, I don’t have beer. I have some wine. Do you drink wine?’ I told her I did, and Caroline searched around for the bottle. She gave it to me to open.
‘I’ll have wine,’ Charlie said.
‘You’ll have milk.’
Dinner passed quickly. I complimented Caroline on the chicken, which gave her an opportunity to needle Charlie. ‘See? Some people like my chicken.’ For the most part, though, Charlie and I spoke while Caroline listened. An amused smile – a sort of half Elvis – played at the corners of her mouth as her son held forth on a variety of topics. She spoke only to correct his manners. (’The Bruins suck!’ ‘Don’t say suck, Charlie.’) Hockey and movies seemed to be the twin passions of Charlie’s life. Without much prodding he would recite the latest comedy film verbatim from start to finish, mimicking all the voices. He was going to spend Thanksgiving with his father, and Christmas and New Year’s with his mother. He hated everything about school, and the sum of his knowledge about the Great State of Maine was that it was located somewhere between Greenland and the polar ice cap. Or so he told me, with an Elvis smile of his own. Throughout the conversation, my eyes sneaked over to Caroline. The simple fact of Charlie’s presence seemed to soften her. Not her manner so much; she could still be stern with Charlie and prickly with me. No, the change was more physical. It was a relaxation around the eyes and mouth – the slightest, barely perceptible gentling of her features – which transformed a merely attractive woman into one who was very nearly beautiful. No doubt it is a sign of advancing age when a man finds that motherhood flatters a woman, but there it was.
After supper, Charlie dutifully cleared his plate and put it by the sink, then he disappeared to watch TV – tactfully, I thought. Caroline moved to the sink to do the dishes, which I placed in the dishwasher or dried.
‘So,’ she said as she washed, ‘what was it that was so important?’
‘I think Danziger was reopening the Trudell case.’
To my disappointment, Caroline did not seem impressed. She did not even look up from the dishes. ‘Why? Because he had the file? I have files that are older than Charlie. It doesn’t mean anything, except maybe that it’s a case you don’t want to let go.’
‘Exactly Maybe Danziger couldn’t let it go.’
‘Too late. That case was dismissed – what, ten years ago?’
‘About. But jeopardy never attached. The judge threw the case out before it got to trial. So there was no legal reason why Danziger couldn’t reopen it.’
‘My, my, “jeopardy never attached.”’
‘Isn’t that how you say it?’
‘That’s how you say it. Have you been moonlighting as a lawyer?’
‘No, but we can read up in Maine, you know.’
‘Whole books?’
‘Shoor, if they ain’t too long.’
She smiled carefully and handed me the baking dish to dry.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? Jeopardy never attached.’
‘Yes. But even if you’re right, even if Danziger did want to reopen the Trudell case, there’s still no evidence. There’s no proof that Braxton shot Trudell. None. All the evidence got thrown out along with the warrant. Some cop made up an informant, wasn’t that it? What was his name, Ragu?’
‘Raul.’
‘Raul. So why would Danziger reopen the case?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d found some new evidence.’
‘Doubtful. Look, Ben, cases go wrong all the time. Guilty guys walk. It happens, it’s part of the system. Bob Danziger knew that.’
‘Yeah, but this was different. Trudell was his friend. You can see it in that photo. Artie Trudell wasn’t just another victim to Danziger.’
‘There’s still no evidence. It’s an unprovable case.’
‘What if Danziger didn’t think so? What if he thought the case could be saved?’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. What if Danziger thought Raul was real? If he could prove that Raul really did exist – that Vega hadn’t lied on the search warrant – then the warrant would be good and all the evidence would come back in. Braxton would finally get nailed for killing Trudell.’
‘Ben, if there really was a Raul, the cops would have produced him in the first place. They wouldn’t have let a cop killer walk just to protect an informant.’
‘Julio Vega said he looked for Raul but he couldn’t find him because Raul took off.’
‘Yeah, well, Julio Vega is a liar.’
‘Maybe Danziger didn’t think so.’
‘Maybe, but with these cases the simplest explanation is usually the right one.’
I grunted. ‘Ockham’s razor.’
She looked at me as if I’d belched.
‘It’s the rule in logic that the simplest explanation is the right one.’
She turned off the water and stared.
‘What? Hey, this isn’t a golden retriever you’re talking to. I told you, we read books in Versailles. I was even going to be a professor once.’
‘Yeah? In what?’
‘History.’
‘So what happened?’
‘My mother got sick.’
‘Sorry. Is she okay?’
‘No. She passed away. It’s a long story.’
‘I’m sorry’
‘No, really, it’s okay. She died the right way, if that’s possible.’
‘Alright. If you say so.’ She laid a wet, sympathetic hand on my arm. ‘Well, in any event, you’re not a history professor now; there’s no sense in digging up a ten-year-old case.’
‘Except that Danziger was digging it up.’
She shrugged, reluctant to concede the point. ‘So what is it you want to do?’
‘I want to talk to Julio Vega.’
‘I wouldn’t even know where to find him.’
‘Boston PD would know. Vega hung on long enough to draw a pension. They must have an address to send the checks to. You could ask them.’
‘Julio Vega.’
‘You can find him for me, Caroline. As a favor.’
She rolled her eyes a little. ‘Yeah, sure. What can it hurt?’
After Charlie was in bed, Caroline and I sat on her sofa drinking the rest of the wine. Caroline did not drink much, maybe two glasses, but a boozy flush came over her. She apologized for the mess and made a halfhearted attempt to straighten up.
‘Franny told me you’re divorced.’
‘Did he?’
‘Of course, he was half in the bag at the time.’
‘That sounds like Franny’
/>
‘And your husband, was that how Charlie . . . ?’
‘Yes, Ben, that’s where babies come from.’
‘So what happened?’
She sighed. ‘We were very young and very stupid. We were in law school together. I got pregnant. We thought that meant we were in love.’
‘There must have been more to it than that.’
‘We only lasted eighteen months, so I guess there wasn’t much more to it, was there?’
‘Do you see him anymore?’
‘When he picks up Charlie or drops him off. It’s not hostile or anything. It’s just, we have nothing in common anymore except Charlie. We’re like strangers shackled together.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He’s . . . he’s very ambitious.’
‘Do you ever see him in court?’
‘No, he gave up on law ages ago. You can only make so much money charging by the hour. You only have twenty-four to sell every day.’ She caught herself sliding into cynicism and she shook it away. ‘I shouldn’t – I don’t mean to sound like that. He’s not a bad guy.’
‘Maybe you’ll do it again someday.’
‘What, get married? Absolutely not. I did my eighteen months.’
‘What if Mister Right comes along?’
She snorted.
‘I mean it.’
‘Oh Ben, that’s sweet. Look, I hate to burst your bubble here but you might as well know: Mister Right is like the Easter bunny or Santa Claus. It’s something you grow out of.’
‘It’d be a shame if you were wrong, if your Mister Right was still out there somewhere.’
‘Ben, think about it: if there was a Mister Right for everybody . . . Well, I didn’t meet Mister Right, put it that way. Maybe I would have if I’d waited. I guess I’ll never know. You can’t look back.’
‘I think that’s right. You can’t look back.’
‘I thought you were a historian.’
I waved off the remark – waved off my whole former life. I didn’t care to think about it. In my mind the thought was germinating, very quietly, that all this retrospection was a waste – an irresistible waste, but a waste just the same. We move through time like a man in a rowboat, looking back even as we move forward.
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘even historians shouldn’t look back.’
‘Agreed.’
She raised her glass for a toast, and I had the strongest urge to kiss her then. To put my hand behind her head and lean forward for a de luxe, don’t-look-back, CinemaScope sort of kiss. It was what she seemed to want.
But Caroline said, ‘It’s just a shame we can’t have little boys without men.’
‘Yes, it’s unfortunate,’ I said, emotions in full retreat.
‘Anyway . . . I already have my baby, so I guess I’m through with all that.’
‘Men are good for other things too, Caroline.’
She did not seem convinced.
20
The next morning, John Kelly and I were back together. I needled him for skipping out on the tedious chore of sorting Danziger’s files, but I did not ask him where he’d been.
The address Caroline provided, the last known residence of Detective Julio Vega, was a bungalow in Dorchester, a misplaced beach house dropped on a tiny lot in a run-down block. The front yard was sand with pimples of crabgrass sprouting here and there.
‘You speak to him, Ben Truman. I’ll have a look around back.’ Kelly held the nightstick behind his back and strolled around the side of the house.
I knocked on the door, then stepped down off the stoop to wait. Stiff shafts of crabgrass scratched my ankles. I knocked again, louder.
A man finally opened the door and stood there, behind the screen door. Heavyset Hispanic guy in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Bloated stomach. Pale skin, the color of concrete. This could not be the same guy I’d seen in the photo, the handsome Latino with the mustache. The guy looked me up and down but said nothing.
‘I’m looking for Julio Vega.’
‘What are you? A reporter?’
‘No, I’m a cop.’
‘You’re a cop? You don’t look like a cop.’
I raised my badge holder. The man opened the screen door, took it, and retreated back inside to examine it.
‘Are you Julio Vega?’
‘Lot of Julio Vegas, man.’
He was scrutinizing the badge, holding it close to his nose, his body swaying a little. ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Ver-sales, Maine?’
It took everything I had to resist congratulating him on the correct pronunciation. Instead, I asked him again whether he was Julio Vega.
‘Who sent you here?’
‘Nobody sent me. I found your name in Robert Danziger’s files.’
He glanced around the yard, then opened the door and tossed the badge back to me. ‘I got nothing to say, Chief.’
‘Would it help if I came back with a subpoena?’ That sounded cool, I thought. A little stagy, maybe, but cool. ‘There’s a grand jury being empaneled. They might like to hear from y—’
He snorted and disappeared into the house. The door closed with a click.
I looked around the scrofulous little yard feeling foolish and self-conscious. It didn’t matter that there was no one there to see it – embarrassment is a reflex, evolved, encoded. It no longer requires an audience.
I knocked again.
This time the man opened the door with a clear drink in his hand. He scowled and rattled the ice cubes. ‘Now what are you gonna do, Joe Friday, break down the door?’ It was dawning on me – belatedly – the man was drunk.
‘Don’t close the door on me again.’
‘You got that subpoena?’
‘I’ll get it if I have to.’
‘Good. Bring it to me. I’ll wipe my ass with it.’
He closed the door again, leaving me to wonder where exactly this interview had gone off the rails.
Kelly came around the corner, spinning the nightstick. ‘So?’
‘I don’t think he wants to talk to us.’
‘No? Did he say that?’
‘Well, those weren’t his exact words.’
Kelly stepped onto the little concrete stoop and knocked on the door with the truncheon. When the door reopened, Kelly looked down at Vega and said politely, ‘We need to ask you a few questions, Detective Vega. It won’t take a minute.’
Vega thought it over, shrugged, and said, ‘Come on,’ then he shuffled back into the house.
Kelly gave me a look. What was so hard about that?
We followed Vega to a dim room cluttered with trash and yellowed newspapers. There were a few pictures around, all of which seemed to have been sitting undisturbed for years – grinning nieces, old Kodachrome grandparents. Vega gestured toward an ancient armchair, the seat cushion cupped out, the upholstery worn slick and dark. A stained antimacassar hung over the chair back. I was careful not to let my head touch it when I sat. Vega dropped into the chair next to mine, facing the TV. Without the screen door between us, I got my first good look at him. The man was a ruin. He was barefoot, and his toenails had sprouted into angular points. The enamel had a scaly, mineral appearance like yellow mica. I felt myself gawking at those toe-nails, then at a spongy-looking pink scar on Vega’s left wrist, then at his tangled, overgrown hair. The former detective topped off his glass from a fifth of Cossack vodka. There was a heavy glass ashtray on Vega’s armrest. He picked up a cigarette from the ashtray’s edge, saw it was out, relit it.
‘Chief,’ he said, ‘let me give you a word. You’re a cop, I’m a cop. There’s a way you treat people. With respect. You don’t treat a cop like he’s some shitbird you find in the street. That ragtime about subpoenas and grand juries, you save that for the bad guys. You talk to a cop, that’s your brother you’re talking to. You give respect. I earned that. Go ask your friend here.’ He gestured toward Kelly with the cigarette.
I said, ‘You’re right.’
‘Fourteen years, I ear
ned that. I don’t care what you heard.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re a cop, I’m a cop. That’s the only reason you’re sitting here. Respect.’
He shook the ice in his glass, sipped again. Vodka in his right hand, cigarette in his left. He breathed through his nostrils as he drank, working quietly, concentrating. ‘There’s a way you treat people. You ask the old man here.’
Kelly ignored him. He was ambling around the room in his longlegged way, looking over the accumulated mess. He held the nightstick behind his back as if it were a rolled-up guidebook to the items on exhibit.
Vega and I watched the TV. Football highlights, a running back skittering away from tacklers.
‘You like football, Detective Vega?’
‘I like Barry Sanders, man. Look at him.’
We watched.
‘He’s too fast, Barry’s just too fast.’
‘Detective, I need to ask you about Bob Danziger.’ This brought a glance before Vega returned his attention to the TV and held it there. ‘What I need to know is, why did Danziger have a file on you in his office? A Probation file.’
‘There’s lots of files on me.’
‘Lots of files, but Danziger only had one, your Probation file. I figure maybe it’s nothing, he was just watching your case for personal reasons, because you know him. Is that it?’
‘Don’t ask it like that. Good detective doesn’t ask yes-or-no questions like that. You keep it open, keep it open. Let ’em talk. Look for inconsis’cies.’ He was still staring at the TV, or pretending to. He was drunk and yet not drunk – or just drunk enough. ‘If you’re talking, you’re not listening, you’re not learning shit. You get him talking, that’s the way. Isn’t that right?’
‘That’s right,’ Kelly seconded. ‘Ask again, Ben. Do it the right way’
‘Okay Tell me about Raul.’
Mission Flats Page 17