A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

  “Where are we going?”

  “Oh, I thought we’d tour the city, maybe have tea at three . . . where do you think we’re going?”

  “Didn’t I hear you say something about a boat?”

  “Yes. We’re meeting up with the patrolmen and the lifeguards at the marina, and then I suppose we’ll take a police boat out to the site.” He looked at me sideways. “I dunno, Johnny. Maybe they’ll make us swim out.” I continued to stare out the window.

  “So,” the smart-ass continued. “What did the report show on the canoe?”

  “Shell.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Blood was Crane’s. I was just getting to the other stuff when you so rudely interrupted me.”

  “Yeah, I hate how police work gets in the way of police work,” he said dryly. “Rob Chambliss is in the wind, Kevin Meyers is in the wind, Kim Monroe held on to evidence that could have kept Chambliss behind bars . . . things are going great, pal.”

  We arrived at Dock 52 in the marina. We walked through the shops in Fisherman’s Village to the water, where the police and fireboats were parked. I saw a patrol car parked up against the fence, and two patrolmen talking to a lifeguard. Alex and I walked up and introduced ourselves.

  “There’s a boat already out there, detectives,” the lifeguard informed us.

  “Anyone touch the body?” Alex asked.

  “No, sir. It’s hung up on the rocks pretty good.”

  “SID guys are already there,” the patrolman informed me. I recognized him. Jakes. From the market shooting. His obnoxious partner, Laborteaux, wasn’t with him—his partner now was a woman I’d never seen before.

  “Thanks. You and your partner want to take a ride, Jakes?”

  “Absolutely,” he said enthusiastically.

  “I’ll pass,” Officer Smythe informed me.

  “New to Pacific,” I asked her, sticking out my hand.

  “Yes, transfer out of West Valley.”

  “Great. Welcome.” I turned to Jakes. “Let’s go, huh?” We all boarded the police boat and headed out and around the break-wall that ran perpendicular to the channel leading into and out of the marina. Another police boat was idling away from the rocks. The waves were not fierce today, but every time a wave crashed against the rocks, it rocked the body, not to mention the boat we were in. I was surprised the body hadn’t come untethered and been taken by the current before now. I saw Pete Tabor on top of the rocks, and I really felt for him. The odor was strong, a dense ammonia smell that burned your eyes. And Pete was kneeling on the stuff that was causing the odor: bird shit. Another member of his team was down on the rocks, dressed in a wet suit and trying to lift the body into an orange basket for transport. Our pilot maneuvered our boat behind the break-wall finally, and the other boat followed. As soon as the body was up on top of the rocks, we all helped lower it down the other side and into the boat.

  The body was pretty banged up. The skin was white, water-logged. The face was distorted almost beyond recognition.

  Almost.

  “Ha. Well, ain’t this something?”

  “Yeah,” I said, confirming what Alex saw.

  “Jaw’s broken,” Pete informed us. “Blunt force, like a punch. Bruising to that side of the face . . . see?”

  “Yup,” I answered.

  “Front teeth are loose, head got banged up pretty good on the rocks. Won’t know COD until I get him on the table.”

  Alex chuckled. “Oh, shit. The hits just keep on comin’.”

  “You know this guy?” Tabor asked.

  “Yup,” Alex and I both said.

  It wasn’t easy to forget a guy like Rob Chambliss.

  ††††

  “Okay, so now what?” Alex, acting like I have all the answers. We stood on the dock while the coroner’s office dealt with Rob Chambliss’ body.

  “Well, this certainly puts a kink in our chain.” What else could I say, really?

  “We’re running out of suspects, Johnny.”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “That’s one way to solve a case.”

  Jakes was standing near the coroner’s van. His partner had just walked away. I joined him.

  “You seem to show up at all the hot ones, Jakes.”

  “Yeah. Lucky you.”

  “Where’s the partner you had a bunch ‘a weeks ago at the market shooting? Laborteaux, is it?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t work out.”

  “Happens. How long you been with Smythe?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Goin’ okay?”

  “Yeah. She’s alright.”

  I nodded and stared at the boats exiting the marina for a day out on the water, without a care in the world.

  “Just cuz’ he’s a cop, don’t make him a good person.” The veteran, talkin’ to the rookie.

  “Not sure how that’s helps me, detective.”

  “Remembering that will help you plenty.” I turned to him. “The guy’s an asshole. This wasn’t your failure, it was his.” I slapped him on the shoulder as I walked away.

  TWENTY

  The boy sat in his room, waiting. He knew that his father would be home soon. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He heard the front door open. He heard him greet her.

  Where’s the bambino?

  He’s in his room. Then her words were muffled. He crept out of his room and knelt at the top of the stairs.

  . . . took it down from the closet . . . it was loaded, for God’s sake . . . !

  Silence filled the house. I’ll take care of it, he said.

  The boy rushed back into his room as his father climbed the stairs. One . . . two . . . three . . . four (the one that creaks) . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . His heart pounded in his chest. The door to his room opened. His father stood in the doorway. He was still in uniform, but he had removed his gun belt. His badge gleamed in the light that was coming through the window as the sun set. His tie was straight and his shoes were spit-shined to perfection. He held a belt folded in his hand. The father glared at the boy, then set the belt on top of the high, six-drawer dresser near the door.

  I’ll be right back.

  He’d just wanted to look . . . to touch it . . . to feel what his father felt every day. He was in real trouble, and he knew it. His father came back down the hall. He entered the room with his gun in his hand, and closed the door behind him. Then he sat on the bed next to the boy.

  Why?

  The boy’s lip trembled. He didn’t want to cry. Not now.

  I keep it high up in the closet for a reason, Johnny. So, I want to know why you got up on a chair and took it down.

  I-I-I-j-just wanted to look.

  He saw the fear, knew the curiosity, in his boy. He saw curiosity kill more than the cat on more than one occasion.

  Well, there it is now. Look. Go ahead, pick it up. As he did, his father explained how to open the chamber of the revolver and unload the gun.

  What kind of gun is this? he asked.

  It’s a Smith & Wesson Model 10.

  How many bullets does it have?

  Count the chambers.

  The barrel was blue-gray and shiny, the handle dark wood. The gun felt heavy and too big for his hands. He emptied the gun. The bullets lay strewn over the white chenille bedspread.

  Six. Like me.

  Yeah. Six, like you.

  The boy held the gun in his hands. He didn’t want to anymore but he didn’t know what to do with it now, except hold it. It was just like the one his father carried at his hip every day.

  An empty gun’s a useless gun. That’s why I keep it loaded. You shouldn’t have done it, Johnny.

  The boy started to cry. The father tipped his chin up until he was looking into his eyes.

  A man owns up, admits his mistakes, and makes sure it gets fixed. The boy nodded. Load up that weapon, just like I showed you. The boy did as he was told.

  You’re a natural. He tipped the boys chin up again to look at him. You
did wrong, Johnny. He nodded again. Take the gun, put it up on the dresser and bring the belt over here.

  The walk to the dresser six feet away seemed endless. The boy sniffled as he lay the gun down on the white lace covering the top of the dresser, and lifted his father’s heavy belt in his hands.

  His father stood. Slowly the boy walked to his father.

  You scared? his father asked. The boy nodded.

  Think how your mother felt, seeing you with that loaded gun in your hands. He didn’t mention how the idea of losing his boy scared him more than anything else.

  The boy looked at the floor and nodded.

  Hand it to me.

  He placed the belt in his father’s hand.

  Thank you. He slipped the leather through the loops of his police uniform pants, and fastened the buckle. Then he placed his big hand on top of the boy’s head.

  Ask next time. He patted the boy on the backside and turned him toward the door. And get straight with your mother.

  I knew Karen wouldn’t be home until about 6 o’clock so I went home, showered, changed and went to the store for wine and some dinner. I wasn’t going to have her cook tonight because I knew she needed to pack. I pulled into the garage of her complex at ten after six and saw that her car was not in her stall. I let myself in with my key. She was home because her purse was sitting on the table in the entryway. I took the groceries into the kitchen and set them down, then I went in search of the lady of the house.

  I entered the bedroom and I heard the shower going. I opened up the door and leaned against the doorjamb. The shower was open—lots of tile and no doors. A half-wall separated the side containing the showerhead from the rest of the bathroom. The tile was all blues and greens, and it shimmered under the lights, the droplets of water magnifying the color. She was in the process of wetting herself down, and as she reached for the soap, she turned and noticed me.

  “This is a view most men only dream about, lady.”

  She smiled. “So, are you just going to stand there?”

  “The view is real good from here.”

  “I promise you it will be better in here.” I undressed quickly and stepped over the threshold into the shower. I slipped my arms around her waist from behind.

  “Ti amo, baby. Come sei bella.” I love you. How beautiful you are. I soaped my hands and lathered her from head to toe, lingering in all the spots I knew she enjoyed. I turned her around and pressed her against the cold tile. She gasped as I started to work my way down her body, but she stopped me.

  “Not yet.” She took me in her hands then she fell to her knees in front of me. She took me inside her mouth and worked the underside with her tongue. The heat of her mouth and the heat of the shower on my body melted all the tension away. She knew just what to do to send me over the edge, and she almost did. But I didn’t want things to stop just yet.

  I pulled her up and kissed my way down her body. I raised one of her legs and placed it over my shoulder, opening her up to me. As I tasted her, she moaned and ran her hands through my hair, and when I felt her at the precipice, I stopped and stood. I lifted her in the air, resting her legs on the low wall that separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom, and I entered her, never taking my eyes off hers. I moved slowly inside of her, feeling her tighten around me. What it felt like, being inside her, seemed impossible to describe. Trapped yet free, still yet moving, here yet . . . gone, I shifted and she gasped, and I knew I’d hit her G-spot. As the first waves came and she screamed my name I continued the slow teasing rhythm, prolonging her bliss until I thought she’d collapse. And then I released myself into her in one great flood of pleasure, holding her pressed against the wall long after coming down, not wanting to disengage. When finally we did, I washed her slowly, touching every inch of her again, her most erogenous areas on high alert now. I dried us both off, and then I took her to the bed and made love to her again.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked, when I could finally speak again, and I knew she could answer.

  “Shop.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Routine. I thought it would be a good time to have it in, while I was gone.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Well, lucky for you I brought food.”

  “Uh, lucky for you you brought food.”

  “It’s bad form to sass the hand that feeds you, cara mia.”

  “I lack manners, clearly.”

  “Clearly. Time I taught you some.”

  And I did.

  She came back into the room and set my wine glass on the night table next to me. I was sitting up, leaning against the headboard. One hand dangled casually over a raised knee, and with the other I reached for the glass and took a sip. She wandered over to the small glass table next to the white chaise that sat in front of the picture window in her bedroom, a good place for watching sunsets. She ran her hand slowly over what sat on top. At some point, between entering her place and now, I set my gun, still inside the holster, on top of the table instead of stowing it in the closet, as usual. My clothes were somewhere else . . . bathroom, maybe. She ran her fingertips over the leather holster, and then I watched her hand close over the grip.

  “Can I see your gun?” She was still naked. Her back was to me. The light from the outside shined directly through the window and on to her heart-shaped bottom. The knobs of her spine, the muscles in her back were muted, but I saw all of it. And it was a sight I would not soon forget. This much I knew. She turned her head, so that her back was still to me. “May I?”

  “I’m not comfortable with that, Gennaro.”

  “Why? I’m not going to melt. I just want to touch it. Please?”

  “It’s not a toy.”

  “And I’m not five.” She turned full to face me now. Light-colored hair, recently trimmed short, covered her mons. Her breasts defied gravity, in the most natural way I have ever seen. Her waist dipped in and then met up with hips that flared out, then dipped back in again once her legs began. She was beautiful, but never as much as when she was naked. The room still smelled of the love we had made, and her cheeks were still pink from our shared climax.

  “Please, Johnny,” she whispered.

  I stared at her for a long time before I spoke. “Pick it up carefully and bring it over here.” I sat up straight and tucked a leg under me. She lifted the gun and walked over, setting it down in front of me on the bed. She picked up a t-shirt from the foot of the bed and slipped it over her head. Then she sat down, the gun between us.

  “What’s all this about?”

  She looked at the gun, then up at me. “You wear it on your body all day, and then you bring it into my home. It sits in my closet, and even though I can’t see it, I know it’s there. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have stowed it properly.”

  “It’s not that . . . it’s . . . what you do is so foreign to me. I want to get . . . closer to what you do. Does that make any sense?”

  I smiled and cupped her cheek with my hand. “Do I need to say it’s not a toy?”

  “You did already.”

  “How about, ‘guns don’t kill people . . . ’”

  “Too cliché.”

  “Okay.”

  She jiggled nervously. “Take the bullets out,” she said.

  “No.”

  “But . . .”

  “You want to do this, do it right. An empty gun is a useless gun. Pick it up and unsnap the holster.”

  She took a breath, and with trembling hands, she picked up the holster, unsnapped the strap around the grip, and pulled the gun out.

  “Keep your finger off the trigger. It’s loaded.”

  “I know it’s loaded, John,” she snapped. “Shit. Now, what the hell do I do?” The gun lay flat in her palm as if it had the pox. I took her hand, turned the gun over, and positioned her hands around the grip, making sure that her finger remained over the trigger guard.


  “What kind of a gun is this?” she asked. She held it at arms length, bringing the bedroom wall behind me into her sights.

  “It’s a Beretta nine millimeter, semi-automatic pistol, double action.”

  She looked over at me and quirked a brow. “Is that all?”

  “What that means,” I continued, “is that I can keep shooting and I don’t have to recock the gun every time. The gun does that for me.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Yes. It takes the guess-work out. I can just fire away.”

  “It’s heavy.” I took it from her and I showed her where the first bullet was chambered. Then I removed the round from the chamber and the magazine from the gun.

  “Now it’s not loaded. Now you can pull the trigger.” She did, a few times. The first click made her jump, but she soon got the hang of it.

  I took the time to explain the components of the gun, and then I showed her how to load it.

  “It’s a lot heavier when it’s loaded, isn’t it?”

  “Um hum.” She held it up and pointed it to the wall over my head. “Is that it? Are we done here?”

  She brought her hands down, and then she turned the gun slowly in her hands. As she turned the gun over in her hands, she brought the barrel around toward her face. My heart stopped, and everything slowed. I grabbed her hand and jerked it so the barrel was facing away from her again. I did it hard, in anger, and a startled noise escaped her.

  “Never point it at yourself.”

  She stared at me, her mouth open in shock. “I’m . . . s-sorry.”

  “You weren’t thinking,” I whispered in her ear as my heart began to slow. I pulled her over until she was leaning with her back against me. I kissed her hair and wrapped my arms around her. I pulled the gun out of her hand and set it next to me on the bed.

  “It’s alright now.” I kissed her hair and pulled her tight against me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shhhh.”

  “I see what these things do to people.”

  “I know you do.”

  Her breath hitched slightly before she said, “Have you ever fired it at anyone?”

  “Yes.” I waited.

  “Have you ever killed anyone?” There it was. Her voice was soft, like a child’s. I stiffened involuntarily. I could dazzle her with words that would eventually add up to a lot of non-answers. I could baffle her with a lot of bullshit. I could lie to her and tell her I never killed anyone, but what would be the point? I’d killed two people on the job, protecting myself, my partner, and in the end, the citizenry. I killed a third time, as well, but would I ever tell her about that? Revenge wasn’t sweet. It lingered like a bad smell, permeating everything in life that you hold dear. I knew at the time that I would have to live with the consequences of my actions, but I never thought about having to share that part of my life with someone I so profoundly loved. Anyone else, and I could probably get away with burying it deep, once and for all. But not with her. Not with this one.