Night Songs

by Penny Mickelbury

  “Miss Patterson is a friend of the Lieutenant’s,” Eric said and the lights went on for Bobby and Kenny. Cassie, describing the woman she believed to be the Lieutenant’s lover and the red Karmann Ghia convertible the woman drove.

  “Fuck a duck,” Bobby muttered under his breath, in imitation of his boss.

  “Son of a bitch,” Kenny whispered.

  “So since it appears that you both understand the relevance of securing Miss Patterson’s safety, here’s what I propose.”

  And Eric detailed a plan that would post one of them—Eric, Kenny or Bobby—outside the Patterson residence all night every night. The surveillance vehicle would be Eric’s new Blazer with its tinted windows and cellular phone. They would, of course, be expected to perform their other duties as usual, which meant excruciating fatigue would be the order of the day. When both Kenny and Bobby nodded their agreement, Eric again was irritated at Tim’s dismissal of him. With four of them rotating surveillance, it meant that one of them would have to be awake for almost twenty-four hours every fourth day instead of every third day. Well, maybe he’d try talking to Tim tomorrow.

  “Suppose they try it, Eric,” Bobby said quietly. “Suppose one of those fuckers tries to throw a knife into the Lieutenant’s... ah...into the Patterson woman. What do we do?”

  “Blow his goddamn brains out,” Eric said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mimi thought the ringing phone was a part of her dream, or perhaps a part of someone else’s dream, it sounded so far away. And besides, somewhere deep within her unconscious mind, she refused to accept that the middle-of-the-night ringing of the phone could become a habit. Gianna, on the other hand, awakened immediately, reached across Mimi to pick up the phone on the second ring, and put it to Mimi’s face.

  “Answer the phone, Mimi,” she hissed in that instantly awake state that Mimi hated.

  “Hullo,” Mimi mumbled.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Patterson. This is Detective Ashby.”

  Now Mimi was awake. “Just a moment, Detective,” she said, sitting up and passing the phone to Gianna and whispering to her that it was Eric Ashby. Mimi switched on the light and saw that all the color had drained from Gianna’s face.

  “Eric? What’s wrong?”

  “You’d better get over here right away. It’s Tim.”

  “Tim!” Gianna gasped. “What’s wrong with Tim and get over where?” she snapped as she grabbed the pen and pad Mimi gave her. She quickly wrote down an address in the middle of a groan that turned into a whispered curse. “I’m on my way,” she said as she slammed down the phone. She didn’t move for a moment, and neither did Mimi.

  Then Gianna turned to face her. “It seems that Officer McCreedy took it upon himself to go undercover to locate Cassie’s assailants.”

  “And did he locate them?” Mimi asked carefully.

  “Oh, yes, he located them. Though there may not be much of them left to prosecute.” Gianna climbed slowly out of bed and went to the closet. “I need clothes,” she said, grabbing a pair of Mimi’s jeans and a shirt.

  “Gianna—” Mimi began hesitantly.

  “Come on, Patterson,” Gianna said, usurping her thought. “You up to an exclusive story this morning?”

  They were dressed and out the door in less than three minutes. They took Gianna’s unmarked police sedan and while Gianna drove—lights flashing but no siren—Mimi used the car phone to call Tyler and she shocked Gianna silly when she advised him to call night city editor Henry Smith and have a reporter and photographer sent to cover the arrest of the neo-Nazis who would be charged with the assault on Officer Cassandra Ali.

  “You’re giving the story away?” Gianna asked, disbelief unmasked in her voice.

  Mimi shrugged. “I can work any ol’ time. I thought that tonight—this morning, rather—I’d just stand around and be supportive. In case you needed a supportive, uninvolved partner standing around, that is.”

  Gianna took her hand. “Did I happen to mention how much I love you?”

  “Not in the last three or four hours.”

  “Well, I do,” Gianna said.

  “You do what?” Mimi challenged.

  “I do love you, and anything else you think you want.”

  “That’ll do. For now.”

  Mimi closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the seat, thinking she’d grab a few moments of sleep on the cross-town journey. Until Gianna switched on the siren and accelerated the powerful engine. Mimi lurched forward and, eyes wide open now, watched as the traffic parted, watched as Gianna expertly maneuvered the speeding vehicle, watched as Gianna underwent the transformation of becoming the Lieutenant.

  It took less than fifteen minutes to get all the way downtown to a grungy, ugly area of Southeast, south of but in sight of the Capitol dome, into an industrial area that Mimi knew was home to several gay bars, as well as to a sprawling public housing project. What would neo-Nazi skinheads be doing in an area like this? But there they were, four of them lined up against a police cruiser, three of them in handcuffs. Gianna screeched the car to a halt between two other police cruisers, slammed the gear into park, put on the brake, opened the door and got out, all in one fluid motion, before Mimi had even opened her door. Gianna stalked over to a small knot of men, including four that Mimi had identified as belonging to a neo-Nazi group because of their heavy black leather jackets and boots and severely short haircuts. Surprisingly, two of the men seemed familiar to Mimi: One, sullen and sallow with several deep scratches on his face and blood flowing from his nose, and the other tall, muscular, with bleached blond, almost white hair, in a buzz cut. He looked fiercely angry.

  Mimi watched Gianna, watched her responses to the two men who had attracted Mimi’s attention. Gianna did a double-take when she saw the blond, then stared at him so intently that the anger left the man’s face and he lowered his eyes, almost in shame. Neither of them spoke.

  Then Gianna turned to the other man, the one with the scratches on his face and the bloody nose. She walked to within a foot of him and he said something and Gianna backed up a step. He said something else and Gianna slapped him with every ounce of power in her body. Then she backhanded him, again with such force that Mimi was certain she must have hurt herself. Mimi decided not to worry about the consequences and hurried over to Gianna. In that instant two other men moved in, Eric Ashby and one she didn’t recognize, each taking Gianna by an arm and leading her away. Mimi saw the pain and anger in her face and wanted to be near her, but she also knew better than to get in the way of Gianna’s work. She retreated, walking back to stand next to Gianna’s car where she could see all that happened and be nearby, just in case, but where she also was well out of the way, both of the police and of the reporter, to whom she had no desire to explain her presence.

  Gianna pulled free of Eric and the detective in charge of the investigation. “I don’t need to be restrained,” she snapped.

  “There’s a reporter here,” Eric said quietly.

  “I know that,” Gianna snapped again before she understood that he was not talking about Mimi. She got her anger under control and turned toward Tim.

  He met her gaze and came toward her. She was amazed at the transformation in him. In the black studded leather jacket with his hair bleached and the earring, he looked so much like the real thing that he made her uncomfortable. “Care to explain yourself, Officer McCreedy?”

  Tim winced, took a deep breath, and launched into his explanation which, quite simply, was that with Cassie unlikely to ever remember who assaulted her, it was important to find the perps before their wounds healed; otherwise, there would be no way to tell one of them from the other. Tim said he knew that a lot of the pseudo-Nazis— “I call ‘em that because they don’t really believe in anything but violence. They’re not political, just evil—” were a peripheral part of the leather scene. They were heavy into sadomasochism and didn’t care who they had sex with as long as it was rough. Which was why, Tim believed
, he would eventually find Cassie’s attackers at the roughest, sleaziest, leather bar in town, the Rough Trade Brigade. Tim said he’d seen the one with the scratches all over his face for the first time three nights ago, but he was alone.

  “I knew all I had to do was wait and he’d bring the others. So, I bought him a beer and talked a lot about hating queers, Jews, niggers, and the government.” Tim shrugged and nodded toward the three men now wearing handcuffs, courtesy of the Metropolitan Police Department, instead of the Rough Trade Brigade. “I just hope one of ‘em will roll over and give up the one who Cassie shot.”

  Gianna, still grim-faced, turned to look at Jack Tolliver, the one with the deep scratches down both sides of his face. Jack Tolliver, whom she’d questioned as a part of a murder investigation a year ago. Jack Tolliver, whose face said he’d done horrible things to Cassandra Ali.

  “One of ‘em will roll over,” Gianna said flatly.

  “Lieutenant—” Tim began, but she cut him off.

  “We’ll talk later, Tim.” She was in no mood to think about how to handle him, especially since she had herself just violated a whole section of the code book by assaulting Tolliver.

  She went over to talk to the detective in charge of the case, to offer her assistance if needed, and to ascertain, without stepping on his toes, how he would treat Tim in his report.

  “You tell me how you want it handled, Lieutenant, and that’s how I’ll handle it.”

  “I respect your judgment, Detective.”

  Gianna breathed relief. Tim would be safe, at least until she got around to dealing with him.

  “And just in case you were wondering,” the detective added quietly, “nobody saw you hit that piece of dog shit, including the newspaper reporter.”

  Gianna raised her eyebrows but she did not speak the question. “The reporter owes me, Lieutenant,” the detective drawled, and left her standing there rubbing the hand that was beginning to throb. She made a fist and winced at the sharp pain that shot up her arm.

  “Everything okay?” Eric said from behind her.

  “If I haven’t broken my hand, yes,” she said wearily.

  “What should I do with McCreedy?”

  “Send him home to bed,” she answered, “and you go home to bed, and I’m going home to bed—” She stopped and frowned. “Speaking of which, why did you call me at Mimi’s?” That had been tugging at her brain ever since the phone rang.

  “Because you weren’t home and I assumed that...anyway, I’d rather use the phone than the beeper,” he finished lamely, and then began to fidget when she fixed him in her hazel stare.

  “You’re full of it, Ashby, but I’m too tired to deal with it.” And, stifling a yawn, she waved at the detective in charge, and walked slowly to her car where Mimi was standing, waiting.

  Mimi noticed that Gianna winced in pain when she switched on the ignition, and when she shifted gears, but she kept silent. Nor did she comment when she noticed that Gianna was driving with her left hand. What she said was, “Who was the guy you hit? Why did he look familiar?”

  “Remember the demonstration outside Freddie’s? The Can You Keep a Secret people?”

  And it all came back to Mimi and they talked about that case for a few moments. Then Mimi said, “So. Did you break your hand?”

  “Maybe,” Gianna said quietly.

  “Wanna go see Cassie?” Mimi asked.

  And Gianna, using her left hand to steer, changed direction and pointed the car toward the Washington Hospital Center, smiling inwardly at how well Mimi Patterson was learning to handle her.

  The junior senator from Alabama was a tall, strikingly handsome man with coal-black hair flecked with silver, light gray eyes topped with bushy brows, and a gentle, but deep baritone voice heavily accented with the speech patterns of his native state. Senator Thomas Haldane also possessed the courtly manners ascribed to men of the South: He was polite and courteous and expressed genuine concern when Gianna apologized for not being able to shake his hand because of the damage done to her own, which was in a cast because of the two small bones she’d broken when she’d backhanded Jack Tolliver.

  Haldane invited Gianna and Eric into the white-columned colonial-style mini-mansion that was his home away from home. He led them from the foyer down a wide hallway, past a circular staircase and two sets of double French doors, to a rear sitting room, where he introduced them to Mrs. Haldane, every bit as attractive and charming as her husband, and to Todd, who possessed all of his parents’ good looks and none of their charm.

  Gianna had cleared her visit to Bethesda with the Montgomery County authorities, promising to keep them abreast of developments since she was on their turf, and since a public figure of some prominence was involved. Then she’d requested and gotten an arrest warrant, just in case. When she’d called Haldane to arrange the meeting, she’d been prepared to execute the warrant then and there, remembering Sergeant Marx’s description of General Andrews; but Haldane had been too disbelieving to be defensive. He was still disbelieving.

  “I must tell you, Lieutenant, that it simply is not possible that Todd is involved in what you suggest.”

  “I believe he is, Senator, which is why I recommended that you and your wife be present and why I also suggested that you might wish to consult an attorney.”

  “I am an attorney, Lieutenant—”

  Gianna cut him off. “Are you a criminal lawyer, Senator?”

  “I am not.” He bristled for a first time. “Nor do I need to be. My son has done nothing wrong.”

  Gianna shifted her gaze and her focus from the senator to his son and shocked them both. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney—”

  “For God’s sake, Thomas, do something!” Mrs. Haldane was the first to understand fully the implications of Gianna’s words, and she rushed to her son’s side. The boy clung to his mother and tears filled his eyes.

  “Surely that’s not necessary,” the senator exclaimed, rising to tower over Gianna.

  “I told you that this was a criminal investigation, Senator,” Gianna said coldly. to which Haldane responded just as coldly.

  “Then I withdraw permission for Todd to be interrogated.”

  Instead of replying, Gianna reached into her shoulder bag and removed the arrest warrant, which she silently gave to Haldane. The scowl of anger on his face turned to fear and he backed up a few steps and looked helplessly at his wife, who looked helplessly at Gianna.

  “What do you want Todd to tell you?” Mrs. Haldane asked.

  “Do you give up your right to remain silent, Todd?” He shrugged, wiped the tears from his eyes, and nodded. Gianna began the questioning.

  “Do you have a drinking problem, Todd?”

  Clearly startled by the question, he stuttered and stammered before he was able to answer. “Yeah, I guess so,” he mumbled.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad, I guess.”

  “Were you too drunk to drive last Friday night?”

  “No,” he said positively.

  “So you were driving your Jeep yourself? Not Clarke, or Geoff, or Errol?”

  “I never let anybody drive my Jeep.”

  “So you were driving when Geoff threw the knife?”

  Todd’s eyes grew wide and he swallowed hard several times and he opened his mouth to speak but no words would come out.

  “Is that the first time you drove when somebody threw the knife?”

  The black Jeep had been twice around the block, slowing to a crawl each time it came abreast of Mimi’s house, then speeding up to go past. Eric couldn’t tell who was driving or how many were inside. On the third pass-by, the passenger door opened and an arm emerged and flailed in the air, then the Jeep lurched forward and was half way down the block before Eric heard the shattering of glass. Fuckin’ tinted windows! Why did he get tinted windows? What glass was shattered? He peered throu
gh every window in the Blazer, front, back, side. No sign of the Jeep. Then an upstairs light went on in the house and, several seconds later, a downstairs light went on and almost immediately, the front porch light came on. Eric’s stomach tightened. He unsnapped his gun and freed it from the holster.

  The front door of the house opened and he could clearly see Mimi Patterson silhouetted in the doorway, wearing a long, multi-colored caftan. Then she stepped out on to the porch and walked to the right of the house and leaned in toward the window. That’s when he saw the shadow move. That’s when he moved. He flipped open the door of the truck and hurled himself onto the sidewalk, remaining in a crouch and close to the truck.

  The woman returned to her front door and, fully illuminated, stood staring at the shattered front window. That was when the shadow straightened and when Eric shouted and when the shadow threw something and when the woman whirled and ducked and when Eric raised his arm and fired once, twice, and then the shadow fell. Tires screeched and an engine whined and the black Jeep roared off down the street. A dog barked. A dying boy groaned. A dispirited, disheartened woman wept softly. A grimly satisfied police detective sighed heavily. Night songs.

  Mimi wrote non-stop for two and a half days. Tyler spent the time standing over her, proofreading literally every word as fast as it appeared on the computer screen. She was so drained of emotion that his hovering didn’t annoy her, which caused him to worry about her health.

  “Patterson, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I will have a fit and expire on the spot if you ask me that again, Tyler. I’m just wonderful, okay?”

  While Mimi would never know what instinct caused her duck when she heard Eric shout, she also would never forget the sight of the buck knife embedded in her front door at just about the level where her throat had been the instant before. So, technically, yes, she was okay. She wasn’t dead, so she was okay. But something inside her would never be the same again, and whatever that thing was, it was closely related to the thing that was missing while she wrote the story—and it was the thing that had always made her antsy and edgy and excited while she wrote a major story.