The day was azure clear—an end to a spring afternoon like none he remembered in a long time. The Hudson, cresting high with whitecaps from the recent rain, roared, swift and urgent, below him. And as he turned his gaze left, toward the GW Bridge, a sliver of setting sun reflected off one of the suspension cables, blinding him. Pickle shivered.
Lance Burke rounded the bench and sat to Pickle’s left, blocking the light shard that had just pierced Pickle’s face.
“No. No. Sit on my right, Lance.”
Lance sighed, did as he was told, and moved to Pickle’s right. But the sun had dipped a fraction, causing the ray to move on to infinity, or another target. The moment evaporated, and Pickle grimaced as if disappointed. “Oh well. It’s gone now.”
“What’s gone?” Lance turned to consider his partner’s profile. “Pickle, are you going batty on me? First you go AWOL from work for a day. Then you call in and take a week of sick leave. Now you want a meeting in some godforsaken park on a bench, like you’re in an outdated film noir. Give me a crumb here. I’m dying from the suspense.” Lance yawned.
“First, film noir cannot be outdated. That’s an oxymoron. And second, this is not a godforsaken park. It’s part of the Metropolitan Museum of fucking Art.”
“Or the location of a mugging at gunpoint two weeks ago. Or the set for the next Bond movie, if that makes you feel any better. Take your pick.”
Pickle waited for his partner to release all the sarcasm he must have been collecting throughout the last week. He couldn’t blame him.
Lance poked Pickle in the shoulder. “I’m waaaaiting.”
Pickle twined his hands behind his head with elbows flapping to either side and stretched his legs in front of him.
“I was supposed to do some shit with the family today,” Lance said with irritation. “My wife is pissed. Not that you could relate. But go ahead—get comfortable. By. All. Means.” With each word, Lance flicked imaginary lint off his trousers.
Pickle sat forward and turned toward Lance. “Don’t rub it in. The family stuff. I’m sensitive.”
“Then why all the cloak-and-dagger? We’re cops, remember? We don’t do shit like that. What’s going on?”
“I met someone.”
“Ah.”
“And I think she might be the one.”
“Ah.”
“I’m serious.”
“Ahhhhh.” Lance’s voice swooned with disbelief.
“Okay—make fun of me. Then go fuck off.” Pickle got up and started down the path, but not before kicking Lance in the shin.
“Pickle, wait! C’mon back. I wanna hear.”
Pickle returned and kicked Lance again, harder this time.
Lance canted his leg across his knee and rubbed the skin. “Don’t abuse the father confessor. Bless you, my child, for you have sinned. I’m all ears. Who is she?”
Pickle pulled out his comb and slicked back his hair.
“Candice? From Property?” Lance prodded.
“Nope, not Candice. That fell apart, at least in a way. I prefer phone sex with her.”
“That’s a comfort. Then who?”
Pickle dug out a handkerchief from his hip pocket, blew his nose, and then stared in the direction of the bridge.
Lance eyed Pickle with suspicion. “Wait. Hold on. Not that crazy red-headed chick from the bridge. Malifawhozzitsname?”
“Correct.”
“Dear God. Say about three billion Hail Marys and you might survive this one.”
“Praying won’t change anything. She’s glorious.”
“She’s a dead-to-rights, fuckin’ crazy, whackadoodle lunatic.”
“She’s an angel.”
“Pickle. You were there. Googling the bridges? The sneakers? That joker who took a dive? The blue tape?”
Pickle took in a swift breath. “Did you find him?”
“Yeah, we fished him out down by Battery Park the next day.”
“But you didn’t call Junie to identify him?”
“We didn’t have to. His ID was still in his pocket. And he was in decent shape so the picture matched.”
“Good.” Pickle smiled, nodding in approval.
Lance twiddled his thumbs. “So. Tell me about the happy couple.”
“What’d you find out about them?” Pickle deflected.
“Nothing. You specifically told me to, quote, ‘Leave this one alone.’ So, that’s what I did.”
“Right. I remember. But now I need to know.”
“I just told you. I followed your orders. ‘No need to investigate,’ you said. ‘Simple case,’ you said. ‘Let me handle this,’ you said.”
“Good. I know. But just tell me what you found out.”
Lance pulled out a black notebook from his hip pocket and flipped through some pages. He zeroed in on a few cryptic notes. “They lived in Brooklyn—Greenpoint. He had some money—not a lot—but they’d blown through most of it.”
“Where’d he get the money? Was he rich? Trust fund?”
“Nope. His grandparents died about two years ago and left him a chunk. About a hundred grand, which is easy enough to munch through these days. It seems that’s just what they did.”
“What about her?”
Lance licked his thumb and pushed past a few more pages. “Okay. She’s most recently from Maine. Parents are dead—no sibs. She’s educated. Almost completed a BFA in art history from Bowdoin College. On a full scholarship, too. But she left in the last semester and never finished. Then she came to New York a little over a year ago. She’s twenty-nine years old, which surprised me because she looks more like nineteen. Here in the city she worked at the Met Opera Shop, and then as an usher for a short time, so she’s a bit of an artsy-fartsy type.”
Pickle’s eyes brightened. “She’s an artist, you say?”
“No, I said she was artsy-fartsy. But maybe it’s the same thing. You’d know better than me.”
“Hmmm.” Pickle grunted. “What else? What about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Dirt?”
“No, none. And I dug. He had an estranged family from New Jersey. They seemed like average folks, who were, by the way, devastated by the news of the guy’s death. But I don’t think there’s anything fishy there. My guess is it was the standard thing of the guy hating his parents for all the mundane reasons. None of which made any sense to his parents. Per usual.”
“No dirt. Are you sure?”
Lance slammed his black book closed. “Fuck, Pickle! Nothing. No prior acts, no arrests, no lockup in the loony bin. No weirdness at all. We even looked at his phone and computer. The guy was basically a boring sad sack—a depressive who couldn’t seem to get a grip. And he brought your girlfriend along for the ride.”
Pickle grabbed the notebook from Lance and began to flip through the pages. “There’s got to be more. Gambling. Porn. Something—”
Lance snatched it back and whacked Pickle on the head. “It’s very simple. He was living off this inheritance, met her, and they shacked up. He went through his dough. End of story. Until he offed himself.”
Pickle took out a breath spray, gave himself a shot and handed it to Lance.
“No thanks.”
Pickle pushed it into Lance’s palm.
“Okay. Whatever.” Lance took a shot and attempted to hand it back to Pickle.
“Keep it—it’s a present.”
Lance glared at him.
“Hey. I’m just looking out for you, Lance. Your breath is bad, and you should know these social skills.”
“I’m married with kids. I don’t need skills anymore.”
They sat in silence for several minutes. Kids played a ball game directly behind them and Lance’s foot jiggled with irritation each time their footsteps came near. Pickle propped his elbows on his knees with his fists under his chin and stared at a tug pushing a barge up the Hudson, against the current.
Finally, Lance broke the tension. “What the hell does all this have to do with
me?”
“I’m seriously considering early retirement.”
“Fuuuuck!” Lance groaned. “You can’t do that. You just met her. Even if the sex is phenomenal, what’s the rush? Pickle, this is crazy—”Lance stopped mid-rant and softened his voice. “Okay. Tell me something so I can understand. What’s she like?”
Pickle turned his body away.
Lance twisted him back. “I’m your partner, Pickle. I’m on your side. But you have to give me something. Have you seen her every day? Is this some kind of ramped-up speed dating?”
“To be honest, I’ve actually not seen her yet. Technically. She’s staying with Karen and Stan. I had dinner with them last night at the brownstone.”
Lance whistled. “Wow. So, let me get this straight. You want to retire early, all for a woman you’ve spent a couple of hours with. And to boot, she’s living in your brother’s house, which, by the way, you own half of, but don’t even live in. This is worthy of early retirement? No, this is beyond fucked up.”
“I just have a very intense feeling about her—Junie. It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
Pickle rubbed his eyes and thought about the question, which was, he had to admit, reasonable. He trotted out the list he’d been compiling in his mind for a week. “Well, she’s small. And lovely. And I like the sound of her voice. And she’s not pretentious. In fact, she seems unspoiled. Like from another century. A Victorian. Kind of like—”
“Wait,” Lance stopped him and squinted. “Downton Abbey?’
“That’s not Victorian. Look, I’m just attracted to her in a way that’s different. Like, I find her pristine. Like, she’s at arm’s length, unattainable. Like, it wouldn’t matter if I never had sex with her. You know?”
“Like, no I don’t know. Like, thank God for that. Like, I’m lost.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got for now, because as I said, we haven’t had any time together. But I’m seeing her tomorrow. We have a date. Sort of.”
“So, go on the sort-of date and see if you get off home plate. But you’re just a couple years from making your twenty. Why would you throw that away?”
“I’m not sure. It’s our work, I think. I want to be clean for her.”
“If you want to be clean, take a shower. But retiring is out of the question.”
Pickle hated what Lance was saying. He was logical and reasonable, and even correct. But those were middle-of-the-road concepts that didn’t reflect his current temperament: Pickle wanted to race around a track in reverse at a hundred miles an hour.
After several minutes, Lance proffered a new roadmap. “Consider this. Take three weeks. Or double it—take six if absolutely necessary. Get this woman out of your system—or into it—whichever comes first. Then we’ll talk.”
A worm in Pickle’s brain told him this was an apple he should bite on. Everyone was entitled to a breakdown or breakthrough, and if he was honest with himself, Pickle wasn’t sure which was the truth.
“Okay. I’ll wait. Fix it for me at work. Six weeks, though.”
“You got it.” Lance cuffed him on the shoulder and walked away.
Pickle looked back to the Hudson and noticed the tug hadn’t pushed the barge more than a quarter mile. The river held a camouflaged power, and he recognized the disguise.
12
KAREN HAD STOPPED OFF AT A STARBUCKS TO chug down a triple espresso and use the ladies’ room, clean up, reapply makeup, and regroup from her lost day. It was after seven by the time she reached the brownstone, where she found Stan in his robe, standing at the kitchen counter rearranging the spice bottles. He tilted his head toward Karen, grunted, and then continued with the task of assessing and selecting. She knew his challenge too well: he needed to decide if the spices should be arranged in alphabetical order, or alternatively, in the order most frequently used. But there were complications. If he chose the latter, he’d then have to anticipate which spices were used the most and the least. Stan didn’t cook, so that would be an abstract choice, which never pleased him. In either case, the flakes needed to graduate up and down, and be pleasing to his eye at any given moment. Karen girded herself for a discussion on the verisimilitude of minced stalks of shrubbery. She tossed her purse on the sofa, and waited.
Stan squinted at the bottles. “Which way, Karen?”
She positioned herself under the centered lighting fixture, took a few steps back for perspective, and pondered the art of the flake. “Make them alphabetical.”
“But that’s boring. There’s no whimsy.”
“Then do the ‘as used’ option if that makes you feel any better,” she said dismissively.
“You’re placating me, and this is crucial. It’s the first thing I see when I enter the kitchen. It has to be right, and I need you to care.”
“I really don’t care about your urge for whimsy tonight, Stan. Anyway, why are you focusing on the spices? Do something with martini glasses—an object that has some tangible meaning in our lives.”
Stan swatted the bottles back toward the tiled backsplash with his bad arm. They chimed a xylophone melody and a few ricocheted forward and fell to the floor, spinning like pinwheels. Stan loped around the kitchen trying to corral them with his good arm, and ended up tipping over, landing on his back with his head next to the trash can. He peered up at Karen, expecting assistance. She shook her head.
Stan stuck out his tongue. “I can see I’m not going to get anything useful from you, which is typical.” He heaved himself up and brushed phantom dirt off his robe lapel. “By the way, which subway was stalled? I didn’t hear anything on the radio.”
Stan missed very little and Karen, anticipating a grilling, was prepared. She took a deep breath and summoned up the phony script she’d memorized on the way home. With Stan, the more complex the lie, the better.
“It was the L train.”
“What in God’s name were you doing on that train? I forgot there even was an L. It’s so far down the alphabet.”
“It’s weird, I know. But I got a call early this morning from a potential client in Brooklyn. They said the L was close to their house. I guess the MTA doesn’t care enough about that particular train to bother with an announcement. But eventually I got there.”
“Anything interesting?”
“It’s not up our alley. They seemed to have plenty of money but it’s not what we like to do—too traditional. I should have vetted it out more fully before I took the time, but you never know. Brooklyn’s so hot right now. It was a bad impulse on my part.”
She added that detail, admitting to sloppy judgment, at the last second. This would further placate Stan by adding a fresh notch to his belt of brinksmanship.
“Speaking of martini glasses, can I have a status update about our mutual passion for a minute?” she asked.
“What passion would that be? I wasn’t aware we had one.”
“Don’t be hateful and sarcastic. I’m referring to our drinking.”
“Hateful, certainly, but not sarcastic,” Stan bristled. “Neither of us has had a drink since the accident. But since you bring it up, I’ll add these crucial details. I’ve been off the pain pills since yesterday. Today I reached for the Stoli exactly twice and resisted. My fingers are still shaky, but with Herculean effort, I’ve managed to shave. If I take one more walk around the block to ‘clear my head’ as you’ve advised every half hour, I’ll start popping pills with a beer chaser. I’ve been inside all day, avoiding that female inhabiting the lower level. And I managed to organize the cleaning supplies by size and color. Which was practically impossible. Can I get some credit around here?”
“Fine. I get it. You’re sober. Happy?”
“It’s all in the details. Now, let’s get back to you. Why were you so late tonight? Should I be suspicious? You could have met someone and had a drink. Come here. Let me smell your breath.”
Starbucks espresso sizzled down in her gut like a spatula pressing meat to a fire, and Karen’s stomach
ached. She walked over, stuck her face into his, and gave him a powerful puff directly up his nose.
“No booze—but a lot of coffee. You’re exonerated,” he relented.
“Small mercies.” She looked around. “Where’s The Doodles?”
“Downstairs. With her. That dog is one more breathing entity that’s abandoned me for that creature. You’ve adopted her as a surrogate daughter, and Pickle seems to want to get his paws around her, too.”
“Shhhhh. She’ll hear you. The radiator vents,” Karen whispered and pointed to the back wall of the kitchen where the heat came up.
“Oh, don’t worry about that—listen.”
She hadn’t noticed until Stan pointed it out, but faint music, which Karen couldn’t identify, filled the air. “What’s she playing?”
“Just every single dreary post-Brahms composition in existence. Mahler. Wagner. And Schoenberg. Before the tone row, of course. All day long. No wonder she wanted to off herself.”
“You’re cruel. Be on notice that I find you very unattractive at this moment. I’ll see how she is.” She started toward the stairway.
Stan hopped over to Karen to intercept her and pulled her into the living room, where he directed her to sit on the sofa. He sat next to her and arranged his robe with modesty. “Now, my darling. Don’t crush a vulnerable man’s heart. It’s not nice. Especially when my entire world has crashed down on me. August, or whatever her name is, can wait. Anyway, I’ve been waiting for you. Are you game?”
Karen shivered. “Maybe.”
“What would tip you over into the ‘land of yes’?”
“I’m not sure. Right now, I hate you too much.”
“Hatred is the fleetest of emotions. Just brush it away. But be quick about it.” Stan reached over and tickled his forefinger across Karen’s waist. The sensation felt like a knife and the coffee in her belly turned viscous. Her insides began to swell.
“I might consider a tryst,” she said.
Pickle’s Progress Page 9