Idyll Threats (12 page)

“Everything okay?” Nate eyed my plate. I'd only eaten the salad.

“Fine.” I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “Hey, Nate, is the Nipmuc Golf Course a spot where people meet to um…” How to phrase this?

“Get intimate?” He dried a glass. Held it up and examined it for spots. “Nah. The woods above the golf course. And the old cabin, owned by the Sutter guy near Hought's Pond.” Christ. Why bother with my detectives? Nate was better informed.

“What if the couple were, say, alternative in lifestyle?”

He leaned against the bar, his ponytail tickling the taps. “Gay?” He chuckled. “Not much of a scene in Idyll. New Haven, yeah. They've got a club there. Gotham Citi. Just opened up.” He was better than a detective. “This have anything to do with the murder?” He was also too quick by half.

“Naw. Just some local color.”

I suspected he knew better, but he didn't argue. He dried another glass. “If you want to know more about that scene, you should talk to Elmore Fenworth.”

“The guy who writes about the aliens he claims we're hiding in the station?”

He set the glass down. “That's Elmore. He has passions. But he also pays attention, lots of attention. Just don't mention JFK to him, or he'll never stop talking.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I paid my bill. “My laundry ready?” My bag was navy-blue canvas and had a red tag. I often picked it up and left money on the counter.

“Lucy's in there,” he said. Lucy was the part-time help and Idyll's contribution to the Goth movement. She had purple hair, a powdered kabuki face, and torn fishnets, and she wore all the black eye makeup sold at Washerman's Drug.

I walked into the Laundromat and found her reading
Beyond Good and Evil
. “Nietzsche fan?” I asked.

She shrugged, exposing a bit of freckled shoulder. “Everyone thinks he's the ‘God is dead' guy.”

“He is.” I pointed to my bag.

She hefted it up with a grunt. “He wrote other stuff, too.”

My father had taught Nietzsche, though he wasn't a fan. “‘Madness is something rare in individuals—but in groups, parties, peoples, ages, it is the rule,'” I said. It had resonated when I began policing. Madness seemed common to groups.

“You know Nietzsche?” She was young beneath that makeup, impressionable too.

“I'm the police chief. I know lots of things.”

She snapped her gum. “There was a problem with your laundry.” She pulled a hanger off the rod behind her. “Your jacket. It had a stain. Wouldn't come out. I tried everything.” On the shoulder were three tiny brown spots. “Blood, right?” she said. “I tried cold water, dishwashing liquid, peroxide. It wouldn't come clean.”

“Thanks for trying. How much do I owe?”

She gave me a number. I handed her a bill and said, “Keep the change.” Her wide smile cracked her white mask.

I exited the laundry. The rain was a damp memory, the world shining anew. I glanced at my jacket. Cecilia North's blood couldn't be removed. Why wasn't I surprised?

At the station, everyone but Finnegan was present, sorting through Cecilia North's life. “We've got new information,” I said. That got their attention. Billy, hovering at the edge of the pen like a lovesick schoolboy, perked up. I waved him over. “A Mrs. Ashworth was walking her dogs the night of the murder. She saw two men on the golf course.”

Revere whistled.

“The description isn't great. Two white men, one tall, and the other probably medium height. The tall man had a large belt buckle, the kind cowboys wore on the telly.” I gave an impression of her accent on the last five words.

“She British?” Revere asked.

I nodded.

“Ooh, laddie, your accent's shite,” he said. His was better. Show-off.

“Mrs. Ashworth just got back into town. She'd left the morning we found Miss North. So that explains the delay.”

“Two white men. One with a big belt buckle,” Wright said. He cracked his fingers. “Needles in a fucking haystack.”

“So find me the needles,” I said.

“She mention a gun?” Revere asked.

“No. Her look at them was brief. She claimed one of them was urinating on the course.”

“What?” Billy asked.

I passed on Mrs. Ashworth's information, skipping the shoe-tying bit. If they figured the men were gay, they'd start hunting.

“So, drunk perhaps?” Revere asked.

“Maybe.”

“How do we find them?” Billy asked.

Revere shook his head. “Lots of legwork, kid.”

“More door-to-doors?”

Wright groaned. “You got it.” Under his breath, “Fucking needles in a haystack.”

I'd left work an hour ago. And I'd been driving since, heading down roads not yet explored. Idyll was small, population-wise, but the town covered forty square miles, almost twice Manhattan's size. You could spend a lot of time turning down random roads. My mind did its cop thing: assessing threats as I drove. There were few. Most of them in the form of potholes.

Wright had taken Billy with him on door-to-doors today, looking for anyone who saw our two men on or near the golf course. When they'd returned, I'd had to listen to Wright bitch about the town's blind and deaf population. And about how Billy kept slowing the investigation down with his good manners. No cup of coffee refused. No picture of a child or grandchild left unadmired. Revere offered to take Billy with him on the next outing. Mostly to silence Wright.

I could narrow the search, if I told them what I knew. That the two men they were searching for, their needles in a haystack, weren't as common as they thought. But what would the response be? And were the men stronger suspects than Gary Clark, our victim's co-worker? He had an alibi, but so did two dozen men I'd put away over the years.

You don't have to protect those men
. I could hear Rick in my head.
They're grown-ups. They didn't have to go outside for fun and games.

I wouldn't be persuaded by his ghost. Not yet. If we didn't find them by the week's end, I'd give the men more information. Maybe let Finnegan talk to Mrs. Ashworth. He'd connect the dots.

It was time to go home. But I didn't want to. I drove down a rutted
road they didn't feature on town postcards. Skinner Street. Why did I know that name? It came to me. Because Luke Johnson and his mother lived on it. I could make good on my curfew threat. I parked halfway in the driveway of number 116. I couldn't go farther. A rusting boat dominated the space, abandoned to the pitted land of the Johnson plot. The dirt yard was decorated with appliances. The ranch's shutters were in the process of falling off, and the windows boasted curtains that resembled beach towels. Probably were beach towels. A light outside each door attracted moths. I stood underneath the front one and rang the doorbell. Silence. I waited and pushed it again. Nothing. I opened the screen door and knuckled the wooden one behind. Mrs. Johnson opened the door. She clutched a ratty pink bathrobe at the neck. Her eye makeup had migrated south, flecks of black like a trail of ants marching toward her cheeks.

“Good evening, Mrs. Johnson. I'm here to check on Luke.” She loosened her grip. Under her robe, she wore a stained tank top and tiny, pink shorts that had lost their elastic grip. She'd had a C-section. I looked away.

“You really meant it about his curfew, huh?” she asked.

“I did. Is he here?” The air smelled bad. Like burnt tomato soup.

“Luke!” She yelled, not bothering to aim her shout inside. “Luke!” Her beer breath assaulted me.

“If he's not here, I'll send someone to take him to juvenile court tomorrow.”

She smoothed her limp hair. “He's here.”

And lo and behold, he appeared behind her. “What?” he said. He rubbed his eyes.

“Police,” she said.

“Seriously?” He peered around her. “I didn't do nothing.” The words were automatic. He looked behind him, quickly, and then back at me.

“Hi there, Luke. Remember me?”

He glanced behind him, and I peered around his mother to see what had him so anxious. I didn't see any drugs or alcohol. Just a mess
of clothes and a sloppy pile of unread textbooks. Beside them a pair of muddy boots and a baseball bat. “What do you want now?” he asked.

“Just checking that you're obeying your curfew.”

His shoulders fell, and he relaxed his stance. “Yeah, well, here I am. Stuck at home, again. Playing video games I've played a million times before because someone drank my birthday-present money. Again.”

Mrs. Johnson turned to him and said, “Enough about that. I told you I'd buy you a game next week.”

“It's always
next
week.”

Before I became embroiled in a family counseling session, I bid them good night and returned to my car. It smelled of food. I'd spent more time in it lately. If I weren't careful, it would start looking like Finnegan's. The mayor wouldn't like that. What was it he'd said? I was supposed to treat my car like a lady. Little did he know that my usual approach with women was to ignore them.

What now? I could grab a drink at Suds. But lately the locals had gotten chatty. Who were we investigating for the murder? When would it be wrapped up? Did I favor gun-restriction laws? Did I like those black-and-white cookies they ate in New York? And Donna often worked nights. I couldn't handle her flirting.

I could drive a few towns over, watch a movie, and enjoy the anonymous shared darkness and silence. But it felt like giving up. I had to go home sometime.

My house had become contaminated with too much thinking. Too many memories. My mind kept reaching for Rick. I'd unlock my gun safe and see his key ring and the guilt would consume me. If I'd gotten Rick clean, if I'd had a gentle word with our super, maybe we could've quietly sent him to a facility. Rehab. More cops than you know go. And relapse. But it would have been worth a shot. Instead, I kept my lips sealed.

Why did I keep Rick's secret? Simple. He kept mine. He had my back. So when he slipped up, what was I supposed to do? Narc him out? No. Not me.

And when he stole drugs from a crime scene. Why did I stay silent?
Not so simple. Part of me worried he'd retaliate if I told. Tit for tat. I wanted to believe he wouldn't betray me. But I wasn't dealing with Rick. I was dealing with a guy inches away from junkiehood.

First rule of junkies: they only care about getting high.

Why did I remain silent in the face of his worsening addiction? Because it would bring about the end. Our partnership wouldn't survive that much truth. Out in the open. Exposed. The both of us.

He might be alive if I'd gone to our super and told him what Rick was doing. But I kept Rick's secret and managed to believe I was doing him a favor.

It's amazing the lies we tell ourselves. Amazing what we'll believe.

The funeral day was sunny and eighty-seven degrees. A breeze stirred the heat and brought the smell of cow dung closer. The cemetery was filled with people fanning church programs near their faces. The living almost outnumbered the dead. Sudden deaths attract people who don't show at regular funerals: hairdressers, grocery clerks, and the librarian who'd once helped with a school research project.

A cow mooed, long and low. I surveyed the onlookers: white, middle-class people staring at the minister, the casket, or anywhere but. The family huddled together, shoulders touching. Sad and strange that all four of Cecilia's grandparents had outlived her. The grandmother who'd had hip surgery used her husband as a crutch, her face collapsing as she cried. Snuffling noises emerged from behind her lace-edged hankie. Cecilia's mother and sister cried too, silently. Tears slid down their faces. Dripped onto their dress collars. Had Cecilia cried like her grandmother or like her sister and mother? Billy might know. He stood near the family in his dress uniform, hands at his waist, grim-faced.

The mourners returned to their cars. I followed the last of the stragglers to the Norths' home and stepped past knots of people on the lawn. In the living room, Cecilia's sister, Renee, stood in a huddle of her peers. She was Cecilia's height, but blond. Her eyes were brown, half hidden by swollen eyelids, like raisins poked into dough.

Voices were low, but there was a speed to the conversation. People speculated about who had killed her. I recognized a sharp-faced young
man wearing a well-cut, dark suit. The ex-boyfriend, Matthew Dillard. Now that he was alibied, he had my sympathy.

People gave me wide berth as I passed through rooms, looking for the bathroom. A line of women stood outside it. I turned back and went to the dining room. A long row of casseroles sat on the buffet. Oversized plates of cold cuts crowded the room's giant wooden table. Bread loaves were squished between supersize containers of mayo and mustard. The lemonade dispenser sweat giant water beads. The Norths had air-conditioning, but it wasn't strong enough to withstand this crowd. I'd put money on someone fainting before this ended.

A thin, middle-aged woman in a black-and-white checked dress came through the rear door and stabbed a casserole with a slotted spoon. “Help you?” she said when she saw me watching. Her tone implied she'd rather not.

“Hello, I'm Police Chief Lynch.”

Her lips formed a thin line. She said, “I'm May Hanover, Susan's sister.” Ah, the aunt. She looked a bit like Mrs. North and Cecilia. The symmetry of the features, mostly. Her eyes were dark brown, like her hair.

“You live nearby?” I asked.

“No. Maryland.” She checked the other food. Stirred some veggie dip.

“Did you see Cecilia much?”

“Every Thanksgiving. I'd travel up here and see the girls.” She adjusted a container of toothpicks near the cheese plate. The cheese looked near melting. God, it was hot. Was her dress wool? It looked it.

“Would you like to step outside?” I asked.

“I should—” She glanced at the food. There was too much of it. “Just a second.” She came back twenty seconds later, armed with cigarettes and a lighter. She led me to the backyard. It looked like my own, shaggy and untended. We walked until we reached the edge, marked by a tall wooden fence decorated with bird silhouettes. We stood below a cutout hawk. She snapped her lighter, lit her cigarette, and took a long drag. “Cecilia smoked,” I said.

“Did she?” Her voice implied ignorance, but her face wasn't up to the lie.

“You knew.”

She blew smoke toward an overhanging tree. There was a nest inside the crook of its branches. The nest was made of straw, and contained a bright-red string. A ribbon?

“I knew,” she said, “but her parents didn't.”

“What else didn't they know?” The nest. Were there baby birds inside? Should we be standing so close? If the parents thought we'd tainted the chicks, they might abandon them. I'd read that somewhere.

“They're good parents.” Her lips flattened again.

“Yes, they are.” The Norths had never struck me as otherwise. “So Cecilia told you secrets?” I asked.

“Not exactly. I used to be the cool aunt, but I've aged out of that.” She patted her skin, calling attention to wrinkles. She looked good for a woman her age. “But she'd sometimes ask for advice.”

“Such as?”

“Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?” Was she joking? She finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground. “She'd been unhappy at work.” She looked at the others gathered on the lawn. They sipped from plastic cups and broke into sudden fits of sharp laughter.

“No one else mentioned this.”

She shrugged. “I doubt she told anyone. She was good with secrets.”

“Did she say why she was unhappy?”

She pushed her chin forward. “Her supervisor sounded like a pill, and there might have been something—I don't know.”

“Something?”

She lit a second cigarette. “I got the impression she thought that not everything at the company was on the up and up.” She inhaled and held the smoke.

“And you didn't mention this because…?”

She exhaled a cloudy stream. “You think she was killed by an insurance company because she knew too much? Give me a break. She was
a Human Resources assistant. If I'd thought for a minute she'd been in danger, I'd have said something.”

“So you don't think her death had anything to do with her job?”

“No.” She stomped on the half-smoked cigarette.

“What then?”

She flicked her thumb over her lighter, creating a spark and a flame. “I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A golf course at midnight is a strange place to be.”

“Tell me something I don't know.” She rubbed her lips. “I need to brush my teeth. I don't even like cigarettes. The taste, like kissing an ashtray. But the calm, you know?” She stared at the house. “Cecilia actually liked smoking. But then, she was young.” Her tears trembled on her lower lids. “She was a sweet kid.” The tears fell.

She shook herself. “I'd better get inside. Check on the food.” She touched my arm, and the heat of her hand felt unpleasant, like a burn.

Above us, a bird cheeped. Returned to the nest? Or safely tucked inside all this time?

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.

“Thank you.” She left.

I stood and surveyed the crowd. Our victim had a lot of friends. But the one I'd hoped to see, the man from the cabin, was absent. I thought about Cecilia, cadging smokes and sneaking out to meet an older, married man at night. We weren't dissimilar, she and I. She had been scrappy, not one to back down from a fight.

I stayed another half hour, cruising the Norths' house, overhearing stories about Cecilia. Things I learned:

1. She liked to sing but was tone deaf.
   
2. She'd asked for a unicorn two Christmases in a row until she received a note from Santa that explained that unicorns were mythical creatures.
   
3. She responded to Santa's note with a dictated letter of her own saying she'd heard rumors that
   he
   wasn't real, but she believed in
   him and so maybe he should look into the unicorn thing more closely.
   
4. She loved animals and was always rescuing strays and convincing people to adopt pets, including salamanders and rats.
   
5. She'd told her sister she'd already picked out the song she'd dance to at her wedding, but she wouldn't say what it was in case it jinxed things.
   

I reviewed this list as I drove home, the air conditioner blowing chill air at my groin and hands.

At home I contemplated watching the game. The Yankees were playing tonight. Maybe I'd go to Suds. Or maybe I'd stay home and watch
Apollo 13
. I liked Ed Harris. He had the bluest eyes.

I removed my suit and headed for the shower. Its black and pink tiles a reminder of how little I'd altered this house. But renovating a bathroom was costly and inconvenient. And I could ignore the colors. Though it was still hot, I took a scalding shower. Tried to cleanse myself of the funeral, of the weeping family, and of the people who pointed as I walked past. Did they think we were taking too long to solve the murder? Did they have any idea what was involved? I rubbed harder. Then I soaped lower. My cock was up for some exercise. I pictured Ed Harris. Ran my hand along my dick and imagined his tongue was my fingers. Stroked with one hand while the other pressed the pink and black tiles, keeping me upright. Ed Harris, Ed Harris, his mouth wet and hot and Ed Harris, Ed Harris, Dr. Saunders. I grunted and convulsed. My cum hit the metal faucet, the drops white and viscous, like glue. I rinsed myself front to back, breathing hard, pleasantly empty-minded for the first time in weeks.

The bathroom's wheezy ceiling fan didn't remove much moisture. I hummed along with its loud mechanical breaths. The mirror was steamed over, drips streaking the glass. I toweled my hair as I walked to the bedroom.

Dressed in boxers and a fresh T-shirt, I sat in my recliner. I reached to my side and opened the file I'd copied at the station, my eyes peeled
for witnesses. It's not good practice to make copies of in-progress case files and bring them home. I'd punish anyone I caught doing it. But I owed it to Cecilia North to close her case, and if bringing files home was the way to do it, so be it.

It is better to beg forgiveness
. Rick's words echoed in my head.

“Amen, Leprechaun,” I said, looking toward the gun safe, where his key ring was. I looked down and began reading the crime-scene notes. “Amen.”