Endangered Species (16 page)

“Yes.”

“And you'll be there for me.”

“Yes.”

“If I were sick? If I needed someone to support me?”

George gave me a puzzled look. “Robin, what are you talking about?”

“It's simple. You're telling me I can trust you. To me trust means being able to rely on someone. So can I rely on you? Will you always be there for me whatever the circumstances? If you can't say that, then I think you should stop with the trust bullshit of yours.”

“Robin, you're asking for a big . . .”

“Commitment. Exactly. And I've never seen that coming from you. This Belize thing is the first time you've mentioned taking a vacation together. We don't usually celebrate holidays together. You go down to the Bronx to do that. I don't see you asking me to come down with you. So what you're telling me is a load of crap.”

George's eyes flashed. “You're the one that's full of shit. I never thought you wanted to come down. You've never given me the slightest indication that you were interested, and as for the vacation thing—forgive me, but I didn't think you golfed. You're just doing what you always do. Turning things around and blaming me. Well, you should look at yourself for a change.”

“That's not true.”

“Isn't it? All right, let's talk about your level of commitment.” George put up his left hand and touched each finger with a finger from his right hand as he made his point. “You don't listen to what I say. Ever. Or take my opinions or feelings into consideration. But you want me to treat your opinions seriously. That's not fair. Half the time I don't even know where you are. When I ask, you get annoyed. The fact that I'm asking because I worry about you doesn't seem to occur to you. You treat my concern as an intrusion. And you're always busy. You're always tired. You're always stressed. You don't have time to do the simplest things, like feed yourself, let alone me—once in a while. I never come first. Ever.”

“I . . .”

George held up his hand before I could say anything else. “You started this, now let me finish what I have to say. It's not that I'm asking you to cook me dinner every night or take my shirts to the laundry or see me every night of the week. I'm not. But I would like to come first once in a while. I would like you to make time for me. Planned time. Not. come rushing in—like this evening—when things haven't gone well and you need some propping up.

“There's nothing wrong with just spending time with someone, you know. That's what a relationship is. And one last thing,” George said as I opened my mouth, “you can't expect me to jump every time you snap your fingers. Just because you've finally decided you want to change the terms of our relationship doesn't mean that I do now. Maybe I've come to like things the way they are. Have you ever thought of that?”

Instead of answering, to my mortification I burst into tears.

It was probably low blood sugar.

I
yawned and checked my watch again. Twenty minutes had gone by and no one had come in to take my statement. First they had sent a squad car to my house to bring me down to the Public Safety Building—now there's an optimistic name for you—and then they'd stuck me in a room by myself and made me wait. Which was supposed to do what? Make me nervous? Intimidate me? Well, the only thing it was doing was getting me irritated.

I slumped further down in the uncomfortable, dilapidated wooden chair I was sitting in. It had the dreary, institutional look of furniture used in prisons, churches, and schools, as did the scarred green-topped table in the middle of the room. I contemplated the No Smoking sign pasted on the wall in front of me and read the graffiti scribbled around it, mostly sad musings from people who wanted recognition and were never going to get it.

When I was tired of doing that, I started biting at the cuticle on my thumb. When I'd ripped it off, I began on the next finger. I knew what I was doing was going to hurt later. It didn't matter. I couldn't stop myself. I found my mind drifting back to George, something I'd been doing since I'd woken up, despite trying not to. Maybe it was because I hadn't had a chance to talk to him since last night. He'd left by the time I'd woken up. Instead of him, I'd found a note on his pillow.

It had read: Had to get an early start. Took Zsa Zsa out for her morning walk already. Will call you at the store later this afternoon. Coffee's in the coffee machine. There are bagels in the breadbox and cream cheese in the fridge.

And that was it. Cheery. Upbeat. Businesslike. He could have been talking to his departmental secretary. He hadn't signed the note, Love, George. He hadn't signed it at all. There was no mention in it of last night's conversation, no mention of my breaking down. George hated scenes. He liked cool. He hated losing his temper. He liked intellectual jousting. I'd made him lose his temper and sobbed hysterically when he had. I wondered if he hated me for that?

Maybe George thought if he didn't mention it, the scene had never happened: kind of like the old philosophical chestnut about how if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it does it still make a noise? Fuck, yes. Or maybe he wanted to pretend what I'd said had been a late-night dream. Or the kind of thing that happened when you'd had too much to drink.

One thing was for sure. I couldn't feel worse if I had spent the night tossing back shots of Scotch. I rubbed my temples. The pounding headache I'd woken up with was beginning to subside, the Advil I'd taken had seen to that, but I could still feel it there, lingering, ready to jump out again at the slightest excuse. After I'd read George's note, I'd staggered into the bathroom and glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked awful. My hair was matted and sticking up in odd directions. My eyes were red, the lids puffy from crying. My complexion was mottled. It also seemed to have developed a greenish tinge, which went so well with my red hair. My stomach was queasy. I felt as if I wanted to throw up. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and combed my hair—all of which helped. But not enough.

Emotion may be good for the inner soul, but it sure didn't do much for the outer person, I'd decided as I walked back out into the bedroom. Since it was after eight already, I put on my clothes and went home, intending to change there. I'd gotten as far as the front door when two detectives I didn't know had swooped down on me. They'd been waiting in a car parked across the street from my house. I'd just been too distracted to notice. So much for letting me to come in on my own.

They'd allowed me to put Zsa Zsa in the house before they'd hustled me downtown. On the ride all I could think of was that I should have showered at George's house. At least then I would have felt semihuman. Not to mention not looking as if I'd spent the night sleeping out on the street.

The coffee they'd offered me when I arrived didn't make me feel any better. It was bitter, weak, and stale, a difficult combination to achieve. Maybe bad coffee is one of the tactics they used to soften people up. If it is, it was sure working for me. I'd managed to take three sips before I had to stop. What I needed was something solid in my stomach.

I was just about to ask for a doughnut—they had to have one of those here, right?—when the door opened and a man I hadn't seen before walked in. He was bulky, in a highschool-quarterback-gone-to-seed kind of way, with a bad hairpiece and a self-important look on his face, the kind that people who spend too much time in positions of power and start believing their own PR tend to get. Right behind him was someone I had seen before.

Quite recently.

Chapman.

I startled. Then I recovered. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

He grinned at me. It was the grin I had noticed first. A schoolyard grin. Cocky and self-assured. The kind of grin that said, Aren't I clever and aren't you the dumb schmuck?

I noticed Chapman's clothes next. Gray suit, black, polished shoes, white shirt, narrow, conservative tie. Fed clothes. The nametag in the plastic holder clipped on to the breast pocket of his jacket confirmed my guess.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. The first guy, a detective, introduced himself. I don't remember the name he gave me because I wasn't paying attention. Then he introduced Chapman.

“Agent Chapman,” he said, emphasizing the word agent. “From Fish and Wildlife. He wants to talk to you about possible violations of the Lacey Act.”

One thing was evident as I watched Chapman walk around the detective and perch on the edge of the table in front of me. The guy was definitely enjoying himself, which was more than I could say for myself.

“You know what the Lacey Act is, don't you, Ms. Light?” he asked, while he swung his right leg back and forth like a metronome. It was an irritating gesture, but then I'm sure Chapman knew that.

“Yes, I'm familiar with it,” I replied, trying to keep a strictly neutral tone to my voice. Had this guy been setting Eli up, and me along with him? Was that it? “Isn't it the law that protects cats from scum-sucking assholes?”

Chapman flushed. “Try again.”

“Sorry. I must have gotten my statutes mixed up.” I pretended to think. “Oh, I know,” I said after a minute. “It's the trafficking in endangered or protected species that have been illegally caught. Do I get an A?”

“You might.” Chapman straightened his tie and leaned forward. His cologne, the same scent I'd smelled in the bar, washed over me again. “I'm glad you reported the contents of the suitcase last night.”

“Are you?” I met his eyes. They were expressionless, giving nothing away.

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?” His smile dared me to say something about our previous meetings.

He knew that I wouldn't. There was no point. All I had were unsubstantiated allegations. He had the weight of the federal government on his side.

“I'm surprised you got here so fast, Mr. Chapman.”

“I'm based in this area.” His jaw muscles tightened a bit.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. I suppose you want to know why I'm down here?”

“I thought I was going to give a statement about what I saw last night.” I folded my hands in my lap.

Chapman's smile wavered slightly, then came back full kilowatt. “I was hoping you could tell us some more about the suitcase as well.”

“The suitcase? I'm afraid I can't do that,” I replied, forcing myself to give his smile back to him.

Chapman leaned a little further forward. I hoped he'd fall over, even though I knew he wouldn't. “And why is that?”

“Obviously, because I don't know anything.”

“Obviously.” He straightened up and ran a finger down his tie. I noticed his nail was bitten down to the quick. “But you
will
call me if you hear anything.”

The sound of his foot hitting the table leg filled in the silence.

“Won't you?” he said more sharply when I didn't answer.

I nodded. He smiled again. I returned the favor, even though my stomach felt as if it were twisting into a figure eight. Then Chapman left the room and the local guy took over. All told, I was in the police station for the better part of an hour, although the meeting seemed as if it had gone on for days.

I had just gotten out and was standing by the curb in front of the Public Safety Building, fishing around in my backpack for my cigarettes and waiting to cross the street, when a green Cherokee pulled up beside me.

“Hey, Light!” the driver called.

I looked over. It was Chapman. He made a come closer motion with his fingers. “Let's go for a ride.”

Of course I didn't have to go with him. The man wasn't holding a gun to my head. I could have walked away. But I didn't. I figured that Chapman and I were going to have this conversation. It could be now or it could be later. But it was going to happen. I preferred it happen sooner rather than later. The more information I had, the easier it would be to figure out a way to do something about that sonofabitch.

I opened the Cherokee's door and slid in. A faint hint of bubble gum hung in the air, then I smelled the leather from the seats. There was a fancy CD player in the dashboard. I was just about to ask him if it had come with the car when Chapman roared away from the curb without checking to see if anyone else was there. I gasped as he missed an oncoming Civic by inches.

“Jesus,” I couldn't stop myself from saying, “you almost hit that car.”

Chapman laughed and sped through a yellow light. “I'm not worried,” he told me. “The accident would have been on your side of the vehicle.”

“You really are a sweetheart,” I observed.

“I know. That's why you love me.” His jaw went up and down. I realized he was chewing gum. “Apropos of which, you missed our date last night. I was hurt.”

“I was busy.”

He blew a bubble and popped it. “I just bet you were.”

“Why did you lie about your name not being Chapman?” I asked as he nosed the Cherokee through downtown traffic. An old woman, dressed in rags and wildly waving her hands in the air, dashed in front of the car. Chapman slammed on the brakes and cursed.

“I didn't lie. I suggested. You ran with the idea.”

“Why bother?”

“It amused me.”

“You like games?”

“Let's just say I'm good at them.” Chapman gave me a speculative look. “You're not wired, are you?”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Unbutton your shirt and let me see.”

“Fuck you.”

Chapman braked suddenly. I lurched forward. My head almost hit the windshield. “Do it,” he barked. A car beeped in back of us. Chapman ignored it. “Go on,” he prodded. “Either that or get out of the car.”

What the hell, I decided, complying. At least I was wearing a bra for a change. I opened my shirt. “Satisfied?”

He grinned salaciously and started up the car again. “Not bad.” By now the single beep had grown to a chorus. “Now you can ask me what's going on,” he told me as I buttoned up.

I reached in my backpack, got a cigarette out, and lit it. “Is that why you picked me up? Because you wanted me to know?”

“In a way.” He blew a bubble and popped it.

“That's very considerate.”

He smiled again. He could have been a thirties magazine illustration for the wonders of modern life: straight white teeth, regular features, clear eyes. If he was subject to bouts of self-doubt in the middle of the night, it didn't show. “I've got a different idea.”

“What's that?” We were heading toward the highway. I studied the gray sky. It gave the sensation of pressing down on the city, bending it under its weight.

“Why don't you tell me what you know first and I'll tell you if you're right or wrong.”

I shrugged and took another puff of my Camel and looked around for an ashtray. There wasn't one. I opened the window and threw it out. The tobacco was making me nauseous. I really needed to get something in my stomach. “Why not?”

We headed up the ramp onto 1-81. Chapman pointed the car north toward Watertown. Traffic was sparse and he threaded his way around the cars that were on the road. I guessed we were doing about eighty-five miles an hour by now.

“So?” Chapman prompted when I didn't continue. He blew another bubble, a bigger one, and popped it. A small strand of gum stayed on his lip. He picked it off.

“It's not very complicated. When you came into that room earlier I figured that you'd entrapped Eli, but that's obviously not the case.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you would be trying to charge me, too, if it were. Incidentally, have they arrested him yet?”

Chapman checked his rearview mirror and switched into the left lane. “Not as far as I know. Not that I really give a fuck if they get that fat slob or not.” And he smiled that smile of his again, the one that made you think you hadn't heard him correctly, before motioning for me to go on.

“I figured, working for the people you work for, having the contacts you must have, you set up this deal and then used Eli as your mule.”

Chapman didn't say anything.

I read the expression on his face. “That's not right, is it?”

“You're partially correct. Eli was doing this in a low-level kind of way. He'd been doing it for a while. Not very successfully.” Chapman broke off talking and concentrated on the road as the car next to us pulled ahead and moved into his lane. Chapman sped up and bore down on the pickup truck. I grasped my seat and involuntarily stiffened my legs against the coming impact. Soon there was less than a car length separating us. The truck finally gave it up and moved over. I exhaled. “Can't let someone get up on you,” Chapman said as he adjusted the rearview mirror. Then he went on with his explanation. “Eli was smuggling poison frogs and albino boas into Japan. But he's such a screw-up he couldn't even do that right.”