American Blood (28 page)

Marshall said, “Make me a cake, too?”

The Ray-Ban Man smiled. “We’ll fly one up from Quantico.”

*   *   *

After the Bureau guys had gone they sat in Ashcroft’s car, Ashcroft at the wheel with a pastrami sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other. He liked a good deli.

Marshall said, “Do you even know what his real name is?”

“Who?”

Marshall looked at him. “Mr. Sunglasses.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What is it?”

“He swore me to secrecy.”

“Jesus Christ, Lee.”

Ashcroft kissed a drip of mayonnaise. “Some of these fed guys get funny about their privacy. I dunno. The guy’s very sorta … you know. Particular.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

Ashcroft took a bite, followed it with coffee. Every few seconds he checked his mirrors.

“Shit, you’re jittery. We’re not having an affair.”

“Yeah, well. If there’s someone watching I’d prefer to know about it.”

“There’s nobody watching. I guarantee it.”

Ashcroft didn’t answer.

Marshall ran a hand through his hair, let that sit between them a while. He said, “Eddie’s got a debt with them. They’re chasing him for it. Lloyd told me.”

“Ah, shit. Eddie your uncle?”

“What other Eddie would I be worried about?”

Ashcroft said, “How much?”

“Sixteen grand.”

Ashcroft tilted the sandwich a few different ways, lining up a good mouthful. “Should I ask why he owes it?”

“No. You better not.”

Marshall looked out the window, listened to him chewing. He said, “If NYPD gives me the money I can clear the debt.”

“Marsh, Jesus.”

“It’s only sixteen K. Asaro has me on two a week, I’ve been booking that as evidence for nine months, just take a little back.”

“Marshall, I can’t.”

Marshall turned and looked at him. “So what can you do? Let’s try and be positive, if we can.”

“Ah, Christ.”

Ashcroft tossed his sandwich on the dash, wax paper on vinyl sliding to the corner. He cradled the cup in his lap and looked at his side mirror. “I’m trying to get you out, okay? I’m doing my goddamn best.”

Marshall didn’t answer. He climbed out slowly and was very gentle with the door.

*   *   *

Round two was at the Hilton on West Twenty-sixth Street. Afterward they lay in bed in the dark, no noise from the street, and across the ceiling the city lights cast long and random through the gap between the curtains.

Marshall, head on one arm and Chloe in the other, said, “Does anyone wonder where you are?”

She arched her back. “I doubt it. I don’t have a bedtime anymore.”

He said, “What about your credit card?”

She turned and lay against him. Just a darker shape in the dark. Her breath on his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You put the room on Visa. But who gets the bill?”

“I do.”

“So it’s private.”

“Yes, Marshall. It’s private.”

“I just wondered.”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “How do you pay for it all?”

“I have money.”

“From your father?”

“How else do you think I could afford this?”

“I don’t know.”

Quiet a little while. He watched the lights and then he said, “Do you ever wonder how he made his money?”

“No. I know how he made his money. Buying property and then selling it for a profit.”

Marshall didn’t answer.

She said, “Why are you even asking me this?”

Marshall didn’t answer.

She said, “Normal cop suspicion? Or cynicism or whatever.”

“Something like that.”

She said, “You think he’s hiding something?”

“Everybody’s hiding something.”

She propped herself on an elbow and looked at him. She ran the other hand through his hair. “What are you hiding?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Marshall said, “Yes it is. I don’t know if people hide how much they know about me.”

She didn’t move, this vague rendering above him in the dark. She said, “That night you called me. How did you get my number?”

Hard to lie in this context. She could feel his warmth, his heartbeat, his breathing. He kept it vague. “I’m a police officer.”

“I didn’t know the NYPD was that efficient.”

He said, “Depends on the situation.”

She laughed gently through her nose, and he smelled alcohol from earlier. “Did you tell them there was a girl you wanted real bad?”

“Not quite. I didn’t want that on the file.”

She didn’t answer, and he thought she’d let it go. Her hand was on his chest. Maybe nothing, maybe tracking rhythm, listening for the truth.

At length she said, “Are you hiding how much you know about me?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know very much.”

Marshall gave it a moment and said, “There’s only one thing I want to know now.”

She lay down again, her head on his shoulder, lips on his skin. “Which is?”

“Would you ever leave here?”

No movement, but he knew she was holding her breath: no cyclic warmth on his neck. She said, “I don’t know. It would depend why. And for whom.”

Maybe this was too far, too soon. He said, “What about for me. Because I asked you to.”

Still holding her breath. “I thought this was just fun.”

“It is.”

“So that’s a pretty serious invitation.”

“You can still think about it. If you want.”

She didn’t answer. He watched the ceiling, and after a few seconds she started breathing again.

THIRTY-SIX

Wayne Banister

Back at the motel.

Regret was always a delayed effect. Getaways took some concentration. It was often an hour before the don’t-be-seen imperative gave way to other thoughts. Not that he wanted to confront it, but the quiet made it weigh on him. You’ve just killed two people, trapped a kid with a dead body.

He rationalized it based on past experience. Not that he thought it was right, but he’d learned to apply some moral relativism: the world had given him much, much worse. Whatever wrong he’d dealt was negligible in the grand scheme of horror.

They’d been married eight years when she started getting symptoms. Night sweats, back pain, weight loss you could notice week-to-week. She called it early: cancer. He told her don’t be stupid. He ascribed it to job stress. He said relax. He came on too glib: most people would kill to get that slim. But then the tests came back: Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

Sweetheart, you’ve got a year.

He had good medical. It covered her exorbitant chemo and pill costs. But she was a fighter. Support groups talked in terms of life lived: you’ve had thirty-five wonderful years. She saw the flipside: you’ve got forty-something more ahead of you. She couldn’t die and miss out.

She researched and sourced extra drugs. Trial meds lacking FDA approval. The monthly tab ran a solid four figures. He needed more work to meet the costs. The choice was obvious, given his training. He knew how to do it, and he knew how the system operated.

He killed a pimp off Rockaway Boulevard, out by JFK airport. The guy had snitched on one of Tony Asaro’s dealers, put the guy in federal for ten to fifteen. Tony wanted the pimp dead. Wayne got wind and put an offer in: thirty thousand, and I can make him disappear.

Tony accepted.

Wayne did the deed and caught the train home afterward. Shakes and nausea at the Broadway Junction transfer. He almost fell on the tracks, but a homeless woman pulled him back.

He remembered getting home early morning, cracking the bedroom door, hallway light across the bed and there she lay curved, thin beneath the covers and weak breath the only motion.

His head a crescendo: chants of What Have You Done drowned all else.

Sitting in his office with the muzzle of the .38 in his mouth and a round waiting. Taste of smoke and iron and the barrel shaking in his clenched teeth. He closed his eyes as he dropped the hammer. No last words and barely a last thought. He screamed down the muzzle and sat gasping when it clicked.

Dud load.

He took it as a sign. If there was a God, God would have killed him. The fact he’d made it through meant there was no higher power keeping watch. He knew unequivocally that the only rule is the rule you make.

She died in August, a month shy of their nine-year anniversary. He remembered the funeral, the hearse pulling away, petals lifting in its wake. Love of his life taken by an unjust world. He felt it set a datum for what was permissible. Whatever you dream of, someone has suffered worse. He called Tony Asaro, tears still in his eyes.

Wayne said, “Let’s make this a long-term thing.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Lauren Shore

Shrink day.

There was a room set up at police headquarters on Roma Avenue. She thought of it as the psycho suite. The therapist was one Dr. Cullen, prim and reserved, her office fittingly austere: paperless desk with the laptop computer that always sat closed, the two consultation chairs precisely square, every surface clean and clutter-free. In a sad attempt at warmth, a framed print of a vase with two roses adorned one wall.

Cullen sat down and crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt hem, propped her notes on her thigh. Shore still wasn’t used to it, being questioned and observed: a sharp inversion of her normal role. The note-taking was the worst part: this private log of flaws steadily accruing. Every week some new quirk to document. She smiled to herself. It could give someone a complex.

Cullen said, “I understand you had a difficult evening.”

Difficult evening. She had a flair for euphemisms.

Shore said, “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Are you sure you want to do this now? We can reschedule if you’d like?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“I’m actually quite surprised you made it in this morning.”

“I never left. I stayed the night at the office.”

“I certainly would have understood if you wanted to postpone.”

“It’s fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

The doctor lifted a page, read through prior jottings. “You’ve mentioned before it’s not stress or anxiety that keeps you awake.”

“Yeah.”

She glanced up, looked back at her notes. “But are you comfortable that’s still the case?”

“How do you mean?”

“I just want to make sure you’re not losing sleep as a result of something you’re dwelling on.”

Shore said, “I’m a light sleeper. Always have been.”

Cullen noted something, shorthand, appeared to underline it. “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“Well, I don’t know. You ask the questions.”

Cullen said, “I prefer to think of this as a discussion, and I can just prompt you to address things that could be beneficial.”

Shore smiled. “I told the story on repeat for about two hours straight last night, so I’d be happy to talk about something else today if it’s okay with you.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I’m blank. Pick something.”

Cullen nodded slowly, read back a couple of pages. The pen waved slowly in her hand. “Okay. Have you been drinking?”

“I didn’t really have time.”

“I meant in general.”

Shore nodded. “Yeah. Every now and then.”

“Do you feel you’re in control?”

“Control.”

“I mean: Do you ever feel that you can’t stop yourself?”

Shore said, “No.” What she should have asked: Do you ever feel that you
can
stop yourself.

“Do you ever get the impression you’re using alcohol as an escape?”

“Okay. I’m not quite sure why we’re discussing this.”

“Lauren, this is just a routine inquiry. I’m a bit concerned at your defensiveness.”

“Well no, it’s just you’ve obviously gone: police detective suffering trauma, must have an issue with alcohol. It’s not always the case.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m just trying to establish if it’s the case with you.”

“I don’t have an alcohol problem.”

Cullen made a point of noting that. She said, “Okay. Are you still sleeping with a loaded firearm in the bed?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you choose to do that?”

“I’ve explained it.”

“Yes, I remember. But I just want to confirm it’s a choice that is reasoned and pragmatic and not something irrational.”

Shore said, “I’m a drugs detective. People want me dead. I think it’s reasonably straightforward.”

Cullen appeared to write something to that effect. She stabbed the period with some finality. “You’ve been a narcotics officer eight years, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And have you always slept with a loaded gun, or is it just something that’s developed recently?”

She didn’t answer.

Cullen moved on. She said, “Have you rehung the photographs at home yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Do you plan to?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Have you spoken to your parents about any of this?”

“They wouldn’t understand.”

“What about your sister?”

“Same thing.”

“Do you discuss work with friends at all?”

“I don’t really have friends. I just sort of, well. Over the years I’ve seen less of them and more of work. But I guess that’s often the way it goes, doesn’t matter what your job is.”

“No relationship?”

“No. I don’t think I can risk it.”

“Can you explain that?”

“I’d rather be by myself than risk losing someone again. I think that’s the safest way. And I can deal with it.”

Cullen studied her a while, like she’d admitted she really couldn’t cope at all. She made some notes, separate lines, like annotating her last few responses. She looked up.

“Okay. Lauren, what concerns me a little is that you seem to be repeating the same high-functioning behavior from a few weeks ago.”

Shore smiled briefly. “High functioning’s the aim.”

“Not if it’s concealing a deeper problem. I want to be sure any issues are being confronted and processed rather than suppressed, so we’re not postponing a more severe event.”

Shore didn’t answer.

Cullen said, “Please bear in mind my comments will be considered when you’re reviewed for active duty.”