Fever Dream (34 page)

He brought his head up like one of those big animals on nature documentaries. Half-turned. Eyes hooded.

“Interesting question. You always so direct?”

“Depends.”

He grunted. “Look, this is an important case. I want hands-on involvement, that’s all. You, if anyone, oughtta understand that.”

“True enough.”

“Speaking of hands-on, they’ve set the memorial for those bank victims for noon today. So that’s where I’ll be if you need me. Sinclair wants every person in the DA’s office to attend the ceremony. From ADAs to secretaries.”

“Big photo op for the candidate.”

“Damn right. I learned a long time ago, life is politics and politics is life.” He tugged on an earlobe. “Ya know, maybe you and me oughtta go have a drink sometime. Just kick back and shoot the shit.”

Before I could answer, the elevator doors opened and Parnelli stepped inside. I stayed rooted in the corridor.

“Comin’, Doc?”

“I’ll catch the next one.”

“Suit yourself. And let me know about that drink.”

Parnelli smiled easily, as the doors closed on him with a hushed rumble.

***

I turned and headed back the way we’d come. I’d wanted a word with Eleanor. Turns out, she wanted the same thing. As I walked up to her, she closed her cell and leaned back against the maintenance door. Eyebrows raised in greeting.

“Danny, I’m glad you haven’t left yet. I just learned a couple hours ago that Treva’s planning to attend the bank employees’ memorial.”

“She is?”

“I only found out about it when I called Victims’ Services to check on how she’s doing. They said she told them she wanted to go. They’re sending a driver for her.”

“Makes sense. Those people in the bank were her colleagues. Friends.”

And
more
than friends, I thought. Though I didn’t say. If Treva ever wanted Eleanor to know about her relationship with Bobby Marks, it was up to her to tell her.

Eleanor’s brow creased with concern. “Poor Treva. It’s gonna be so hard for her to be there, filled with guilt for having survived.”

“Worse, for being the only one who did. Part of the trauma she’ll have to work through. Treva’s got a long road ahead of her, Eleanor.”

“I know. And I’m glad she’ll have you to help her.”

An awkward silence.

“Well,” she said finally, “I better get home and feed Luther. If he hasn’t eaten the sofa by now. What is it—2:30, three in the morning?”

“Something like that. I feel like I’ve lost all track of time.”

She hesitated for a moment, then laid her palm against the side of my face.

“You’ve done enough crime-busting for one night, Danny. You need to go home, too. Get some sleep.”

Eleanor lifted her hand from my face. I took it. She looked at me with those deep violet eyes. As though asking me to read what was in them. Break the code.

Then, suddenly, she put her arms around me. Strong, insistent. Her full breasts pressed against my chest.

Without a thought, I brought my own arms up to encircle hers. Then, turning, I kicked open the door behind her and pulled us inside.

It was a small room, more like a closet. Crammed with mops, buckets. Airless. Stifling.

Our bodies merged, as though welded together. I felt the heat pulsing from her firm, flat belly, the urgent thrust of her pelvis against mine. I pulled her face close.

We kissed, hungrily. Her lips soft, pliant.

I felt my erection then, my aching need.

She felt it, too. She flushed, gasping. Kissing me again, hard, as though desperate for breath, for life.

Then, just as suddenly, she wriggled from my embrace. Pulled back, eyes averted.

My arms fell away. The sweet, pungent taste of her mouth still in mine.

“Eleanor…”

She looked at me at last, her expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry…” Voice oddly clipped. Parceling out the words. “I…I don’t know why I did that.”

“Do we have to know?”

“Jesus, Danny, we’re…we work together, and—”

She took another step back. Then, flustered, she pushed past me and went out into the hallway again. I followed, but she kept her distance. Bristling.

“It’s this damn case,” she said sharply. “And Treva…Why the hell did
she
have to show up all of a sudden? I mean, I’m having a helluva time keeping my focus. Just working the case. Doing my job. That’s who I am. This goddam job.”

“It’s not all you are, Eleanor.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why I’m so fucking good at it. I give everything to it, and it protects me. That’s the deal. Don’t you get it? That’s the deal I make every day.”

“Then it’s a lousy deal. Lousy for you.”

I gripped her arms. Fuck it, let her try to pull away.

“You can’t lock yourself up behind some job, Eleanor. Believe me, I know. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

Her gaze turned steely.

“Maybe not for you. But it does for me.” A cool half-smile. Trying to regain herself. “Now let me go before I kick your ass up and down this hallway.”

I didn’t budge. Eyes on hers. I could do steely, too.

Finally, her smile thawed a bit. “Danny, please.”

A long moment. Then, nodding dumbly, I let my hands drop.

“Thanks,” she said. “Last thing I need is for Biegler to come out of his office and find us like this.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Especially since I didn’t know what the hell was going on between us, either. If anything at all. Other than stress, grief, loneliness.

Maybe I should pursue this with her, I thought. Talk about it. But I didn’t.

Instead, I said, “Don’t worry about Biegler. From what I saw back there, he’s got other things on his mind than us. Or the case, for that matter.”

She managed a wry smile.

“Yeah, he’s distracted, all right. His wife found out about LaWanda Collins, the policeman’s friend. Her prints being in his unmarked. Rumor is, Biegler’s moved into a hotel and his wife’s talking to lawyers.”

“Poor bastard. Never thought I’d say it, but…”

“Yeah, I know. Funny. I kinda feel the same way.”

We exchanged a careful look. She lightly touched my jacket sleeve. Gave it a reassuring tug. Then she turned and headed for the elevator.

I held back, staying where I was. Letting her take the ride down to the garage alone.

As would I.

Chapter Fifty

It was nearing four when I got home and fell into bed. But I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Mind racing, I kept replaying the events of the past three days. Looking for connections that seemed achingly, tantalizingly out of reach.

As with a patient whose symptoms didn’t quite add up, whose personal history was a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing, I forced myself to look at things from a different angle. Tried to find a new, fresh perspective that my own involvement often made difficult to achieve.

To no avail. By five, frustrated and on edge, I dragged my weary butt down to the basement. Wrapped my hands in training tape and put on the gloves. Pounded the heavy bag until the sweat poured from me like rainwater sluicing off a steep roof.

By six, I’d shaved and showered, and was watching the morning news as I dressed. The death of Wheeler Roarke and the arson fire at Stubbs’ farm was the lead, although, as the anchor reported, the facts surrounding these events were unclear. A brief statement from the chief’s office merely asserted that with the wanted fugitive dead, perhaps at the hands of his partner in the bank robbery, the focus of the manhunt would now be on apprehending Ronny Baxter. The motive for the apparent murder of former Harville Sheriff Henry Stubbs was, as yet, unknown. But the investigation was in its early stages, and more information would be forthcoming soon.

Not bad
, I thought. Just close enough to the truth to give the impression that the wheels of justice, however wobbly at times, were turning. Dangerous fugitive Wheeler Roarke was dead. His partner in crime had been identified and would undoubtedly be captured soon. The bloody carnage at the bank would be avenged.

As if to underscore the point, a companion story reminded viewers that a memorial for the slain bank employees was taking place at noon, and that the public was invited. Speaking at the event would be both gubernatorial candidates, Leland Sinclair and John Garrity, as well as the chief of police and the mayor.

Finally, the anchor mentioned the debate set for this coming Saturday, just two days away. Topics expected to be discussed included state-wide job loss and possible tax reform, as well as heated law-and-order issues. Both candidates would probably be asked their thoughts about Troy David Dowd, the Handyman, still awaiting execution. And, of course, their reaction to the deadly bank robbery.

Heavy news day. I clicked off the TV and reached for the land-line phone. First I checked my office voice mail, but thankfully had few messages of importance.

I did return one patient call. A formerly battered wife I’d referred to a women’s shelter the week before had left a message saying she was settled in. Moreover, she’d finally gotten up the courage to call an attorney.

We spoke briefly and set an appointment for first thing Monday morning. Regardless of what the police said they wanted, I knew I had to be back in the office next week. Back doing my real job. Seeing patients.

Which reminded me to check in with Treva. We’d spoken about getting together sometime today. I wasn’t surprised, given the early hour, that I got her answering machine. I left a message suggesting that, since she was attending the victims memorial at noon, we schedule a meeting somewhere nearby at two. I gave her the address of a Starbucks I knew in the area and asked that she leave me a confirming message when she woke up.

Then I checked the locks on the doors, left the house, and went out to my car. Before getting behind the wheel, I gratefully breathed in the clear morning air. Though the sun was up, it was giving off more light than heat. At least so far.

I’d just turned the key in the ignition when I had a sudden thought. Letting the engine idle, I took out my cell and punched in Angie Villanova’s number.

She picked up after two rings.

“Danny. Don’t tell me, you want a favor. And I haven’t even finished my friggin’ coffee yet.”

“I’m glad we communicate on such a deep, intuitive level, Angie. Must be in the blood.”

“Yank my other one. What do ya want and who do I have to sleep with to get it? Not that I’m averse to the idea.”

“Don’t worry, your virtue is secured. All I need is some info on ADA Dave Parnelli.”

“Yeah. Parnelli. I’ve met him. Kind of a prick.”

“Kind of. Could you get me some background on him?”

“Why don’tcha just Google him like everybody else?”

“I was hoping for something other than his résumé. Something deeper. Maybe you could ask around the DA’s office. Get a feel for the guy.”

She clucked her tongue. “Okay, tell you what. I’ll see what I can find out, and you agree to come to dinner a week from this Sunday. I’m making ravioli. My mother’s sauce.”

“It’s a deal.”

“I mean it, Danny. No excuses. No patient emergencies. None of your usual bullshit.”

“Is Sonny gonna be there?” Her racist, opinionated husband and I rarely got along.

“Like I got a choice. I married the bastard, right? He gets to eat here. So, you comin’ or what?”

“I’ll be there. Just get back to me about Parnelli.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, too. Asshole.”

***

An hour later, having braved crushing midtown traffic, I walked across the unusually crowded detectives floor at robbery/homicide. Crowded because, due to the intensity of the ongoing joint police-FBI investigation, the demarcation between day and night shifts had blurred.

Which meant more bleary-eyed cops, swilling more bad coffee, following more useless leads. A weary, overworked, over-extended police department feeling the strain of a long, grueling siege. With an impatient City Hall always bringing greater pressure, increased demands for results.

I passed a row of opened doors, nodding at the few detectives I knew—if only by sight—until I found Polk’s office. I’d come bearing gifts. Hot coffee and Danish. The good stuff, from the Italian bakery around the corner.

“Nothing but the best for my old pal Harry,” I said, placing the white paper bag on his desk.

Polk looked like hell. At least I’d gotten to go home, grab a shave and a shower. He’d obviously been here all night, since the 2
AM
meeting in Biegler’s office.

At first, he didn’t react to the bag on his desk. Didn’t even acknowledge me. Just kept shuffling papers on the messy, food-stained blotter. Then he adjusted his pale blue tie. Then he scribbled a note on the back of a crumpled business card.

Finally, he looked up at me with one bleary, blood-shot eye. “Okay, Doc. What the fuck do you want?”