Idyll Threats (29 page)

“What about the Johnson kid?” Finnegan asked. “Only fourteen.”

I planned to have words with the DA. “I'll try to plea him down. He didn't shoot her.”

“Yeah, he only aided and abetted,” Wright said. “He admits he tossed the gun?”

“Yeah. His good friend Chris told him to.”

We stared at the board some more. Until I roused myself. “I'll call the DA. Tell him about Luke's new statement. Finnegan, you rattle the techs and see if those imprints of Chris's sneakers are ready.”

“Still can't believe you tricked him into leaving fresh prints at the course,” Wright said. Was that admiration I heard?

“Why didn't he toss his sneakers?” Finnegan asked. “They nailed him. Without them, we'd still be staring at our navels.”

Billy whistled low. “You know how much those things cost? New Air Jordans are almost one hundred fifty dollars. I'm guessing even Chris's parents might get mad if he lost those shoes.”

“Huh,” Wright said. “Well, thank you very much, Michael Jordan.”

Only in movies do cops go home triumphant after they've solved a big case. Real cops sit at their desks, piled high with debris, and hunt and peck their way through reports. I had all the other business of being police chief I'd put on the back burner. Mrs. Dunsmore reminded me that I had a meeting with the selectmen next week to discuss the budget, and I needed to create that bicycle patrol I'd insisted Yankowitz would be on. But every hour or so, another man would stick his head in the door and say, “Good catch, Chief.” And that kept me going until I had to leave, and well past quitting time.

When I woke the next day, everything felt different. More and less real, by turns. I looked around me and made a decision. After I'd had coffee, I drove to a stadium-sized Home Depot and filled a cart with supplies: a tarp, paint, rollers, putty knives, big sponges, and a million things I didn't know the names for and wasn't sure I needed but that the orange-aproned men who worked there insisted would “save me time and money in the long run.” Those men, with their easy confidence and scarred hands, were all about the long run.

I started on the room with the sailing-ships wallpaper. It didn't come off easy. I destroyed two putty knives prying the paper from the wall, cursing the idiot who'd applied the glue. But I had empty hours and the kind of loneliness that welcomes sore shoulders, tired arms, and a neck that cracks like a popcorn kernel after relentless manual labor. After a week of long evenings, I had a room with clean, white walls. When I'd removed the last of the adhesive, I thought about what it meant to hold on, too long.

I unpacked the boxes in the sewing room and found some photos from the old days. John and me on vacation with our parents, the year they took us to the Grand Canyon. A few pics from my old precinct, clearly taken with work cameras. Rick and me mugging in front of an FBI poster, thumbs to our chest, indicating what? We'd caught the guy? We hadn't. Or that we were the most wanted? The joke was forgotten to time. My smile was wide. I'd forgotten that face—that it belonged to me. And Rick. God. He looked like a baby, with his freckles and squinted eyes.

I put the photo of Rick and me on the living-room mantel. Then I opened the gun safe. Metal winked at me. The key ring. I picked it up and sat in my recliner. The cool metal coil grew warm in my palm. I exhaled hard, the noise like a steam train.

“Hey, Rick.” I looked at the metal ring as I spoke. The way some people talk to headstones. “I um…” I cleared my throat.

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't get you help. I should've forced you into rehab. Should've applied the cuffs and dragged your scrawny ass there. Stood guard til you got clean. I really wish I had.” Would it have worked? Impossible to say, to know. “It's been tough without you.” I closed my fingers over the key ring. “Really tough. You were the best partner I ever had. The best friend too.” The ring no longer felt cool, but the same temperature as my hand. I didn't notice it unless I squeezed hard enough to feel the coils. I sat in the silence, holding the key ring, not squeezing it. Just letting it be. Just letting us be.

I stared out the windshield at Suds. The bar was lit up and lively. Half the station celebrated inside. Earlier today, a judge had remanded Christopher Warren to Hartford Correctional Center. He'd stay there until he stood trial for second-degree murder. Cause for a party, or so the men had decided. “Come to Suds tonight, Chief! Drinks are on us.” How could I say no? I turned off the car. The engine ticked as it cooled.

The noise inside Suds was at post–victory game levels. Mostly caused by my men, who'd gathered in a crush near the tables at the back. The locals stayed near the bar, watching the action. Finnegan came over and clapped my shoulder. “About time you got here. Billy's competing against Wright in a free-throw contest.”

“Using what?” I lifted my chin. Over the sea of uniforms, I saw someone had attached a laundry basket missing its bottom to the wall. Billy stood behind a row of chairs, a squishy ball in his hands.

“This is going to get ugly,” I said.

Finnegan laughed. “Get?” He drank from his glass.

“Hi, Chief,” Nate called from behind the bar. I walked over to say hello. “Haven't seen much of you,” he said. His dark eyes searched mine.

“Been doing work on my house.”

“Ah, a handyman. Drink?”

“I wouldn't go that far. I've only just learned how to use pliers.” I held out my nicked and scraped hand. “And how not to use them.”

He slid my drink toward me. “You need help, let me know. I grew up helping my dad build houses.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded at the cops. “Never seen them so happy. Wish you'd warned me they were coming.”

“Causing trouble?” I asked.

“Nah. Just busier than expected. I had to call Donna in to help out. It's her night off.” I scanned the room, fast. “She's in the kitchen,” he said. “Want me to tell her you're here?” He flashed me a big grin.

I walked away. “How's it going?” I asked Yankowitz when I reached the action.

His eyes widened, and he made room for me. “Um, Wright's winning, eight to six.”

“Come on, Hoops!” Hopkins cried as Billy handled the ball.

“You got money on this?” I asked Hopkins. Billy's forehead was shiny. His lips wet. How many drinks had he consumed? And would they diminish or improve his aim?

“Yeah, I bet ten bucks he'd lose,” Hopkins said. “That money is safe as houses.”

Billy lifted the soft foam ball and tossed it at the makeshift hoop. It bounced off the wall and sank through the laundry basket. “How you like me now?” he shouted.

“If he makes this one, it's sudden death,” Yankowitz said.

“Worried?” I asked Wright. He stood nearby. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie. His button-down shirt was untucked.

“Nah,” he said. “He'll choke.” He drank from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He's never not choked.”

Billy tossed the ball. It sank through the middle of the white plastic basket. A cheer went up from those who'd taken the long odds and bet on him. Finnegan took the ball from Billy and explained that a coin toss would decide who shot first. After that, the first man to miss a shot lost the competition.

Billy called the coin. He chose heads. It came up tails. Wright told him to shoot first. Billy sank it. Wright bit his lip. “Lucky shot,” he muttered. He accepted the ball from Finnegan and got ready. There were calls of, “Don't muff it!” and “Come on!”

The door opened. A cold breeze made its way inside. I looked back. A tall figure stood, ramrod straight with a buzz cut. Revere. I scooted past the trash-talking cops and said, “You made it.”

He surveyed the scene and walked to the bar. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Laphroaig.”

He rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Your sainted Irish ancestors know you're drinking Scotch whiskey, you wretched heathen?”

“They weren't purists when it came to alcohol,” I said.

Revere ordered a Hooker Irish Red. While Nate worked the tap, Revere said, “So. Christopher Warren. What set you onto him?”

“He lied on the golf course. Said he saw a flashlight no one else saw. And every time I ran into him, he brought it up. Once he registered as fishy, I noticed his sneakers. From there, it was just a matter of forensics.”

He accepted his beer from Nate and set bills on the counter. “Drink's on me,” he said. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte.” I repeated it.

A roar went up from the crowd. We looked over. “Ha!” Wright yelled. “Take that, youngster.” He threw his hands into the air.

“Looks like Wright beat Billy,” I said.

“No surprise there,” Revere said.

“So, how are things at the Eastern?” I asked.

“Same old, same old. There's rumblings that the acting head might not get the permanent appointment.” He rubbed his nose. “Politics. It's all bullshit.”

Finnegan and Wright came over. “There he is!” Wright said. “Our favorite turncoat.”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” I said. “Detective Revere is an invited guest.”

“Invited to celebrate our solving a murder that stumped the staties!” Finnegan said.

“Hello, Wright. Hello, Wrong. So gracious in victory,” Revere said. “I'd expect nothing less. Or more.” Wright and Wrong. Not bad, for nicknames. Right up there with Wright and White.

Billy wandered over, a little off-keel.

Revere said, “Well, Chief, I got to hand it to you. You guys did all right.”

Billy interjected, “You're a good detective, Chief.” He pointed. His finger made circles as he rocked on his feet. He probably thought he stood perfectly still.

“You okay, Hoops?” Finnegan asked, one hand out, ready to prop if needed.

Billy waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Fine. Fine. This guy.” He stabbed his finger at me. “This guy solved the murder. And now that little shit who killed Cecilia can spend years in prison getting fucked in the ass.” Revere winced. “Serves the little homo right.”

“Billy,” I said, “I've told you. Chris Warren's not gay. He's a sexual sadist. He had girlfriends. And by all accounts, he abused them too.” Now that Chris was behind bars, lots of people felt free to share their feelings about him. And they weren't that he was so quiet and polite that they never saw it coming.

“Pervert,” Billy said. He swayed. Finnegan stepped closer. “Never convince me he's not gay.”

“Billy, it's done,” I said. “Enough with the gay slurs. Why don't you go ask Nate for some water?”

He belched softly. Covered his mouth. “'Scuse me.” Then he frowned and said, “When did you become such a faggot friend, Chief?” He giggled.

He was drunk. He'd had too many beers. He wouldn't remember half of what he said when he awoke tomorrow with sore eyes and a heavy skull. It would be so easy to say nothing. To let it go. But I'd been letting go of these things for years. And look what damage it had done. I'd resolved to stop running. Maybe now it was time to stop hiding.

“Hey, Billy.” I tugged on his shirtsleeve.

“Yeah?” He smiled, his teeth large and bright. A happy drunk now, all his animosity forgotten.

“I'm gay,” I said.

“What?” He reeled backward.

I pulled at his shirt. “I'm gay. A butt pirate. A faggot. Queer. Ass bandit. That's me.” I jerked my thumb toward my chest. A trail of sweat ran down my back, caught on the storm-predicting vertebrae.

He tugged away from my grasp. Looked to the others for help. Finnegan and Wright stood, wide-eyed and silent. Revere watched, a smile at his lips. He knew. Or had known. From his friends in New York? Maybe. Or maybe he was just a good detective.

Billy shook his head. Licked his lips and said, “Nah, you're playing with me.” He wagged his finger. “Can't be true.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“'Cause.” He hiccupped. “Because.”

“Because I don't fit the profile?” I shook my head. “You're such a rookie.” A tremor started in my hands. I flexed my fingers. I'd done it.

“How about that water?” Wright asked, jerking his thumb toward the bar.

“I don't—” Billy said, but he followed Wright.

Finnegan said, “Excuse me,” and headed for the cops.

My eyes followed Finnegan. He leaned into Hopkins and whispered something. Hopkins looked at me, then away. I looked around Suds. The cops, clinking bottles together. Billy and Wright, heads close, talking. Donna at the bar, listening to them, her eyes the size of coasters.

“Maybe I should go,” I said. I could start rehabbing my bathroom. I'd been reading those old Time Life series books on home improvement. Maybe I could see about replacing those pink and black tiles.

The door opened. And in walked Dr. Saunders, his hair disheveled by wind. He spotted me and waved.

“Oh, I think you should stay,” Revere said. He clapped his meaty hand on my shoulder. It felt like an anchor. “Definitely stay.”