Payback (11 page)

A moment later the doorbell rang.

More flowers
, I thought. But when I peered through the window, I saw Detective Martin standing on the porch. He was brushing down the front of his jacket as if he remembered what I had said the last time he was here. Again, he looked tired and a little disheveled. I was beginning to think he always did.

He looked up and saw me through the window staring out at him. Since there wasn’t enough time to run around the house to try to find a place to hide the gun, I decided to leave the backpack on the dining-room table. Surely he wouldn’t go rooting through my stuff and find my illegally purchased firearm. My luck couldn’t be that bad.

I pulled open the door, and the detective jumped, looking guilty.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said.

“See what?” I asked.

He looked down at himself, as sheepish as a five-year-old caught swiping cookies, and resumed dusting himself off. “My cat hair removal system,” he said.

I was actually too nervous to grin, but I found myself doing it anyway. “Ah, yes,” I said. “Waldo.”

He nodded. “Fucking feline.”

We stood at the front door staring at each other. When we both finally decided to speak, we did it at the same time.

“Sorry, I—”

“Hope I didn’t—”

Then we both shut up again.

To break the tension more than anything else, I stepped aside and swept my hand across the threshold in an exaggerated salami-salami-bologna bow to usher him in.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and stepped through the door. Barely.

“Don’t stop there,” I smiled. “Keep going.”

So he did.

Feeling rebellious, I led him all the way across the living room to the dining-room table and pointed to a chair. “Sit,” I said. “Please.”

He sat. The greasy backpack with the Smith and Wesson in it lay on the table in front of him. He eyed the filthy bag curiously, then apparently decided to try to ignore it.

He cleared his throat. “I’d like to spend some time with you, Tyler.”

This time it was my turn to jump. “I—I don’t understand.”

Looking horrified, he waved his hands in the air, more like a traffic cop than a homicide detective. Splashes of color stained his cheeks. “No! Good God, no! I mean I want to spend time with you while we retrace your steps the night of the… of the… well,
that
night. I think it might free up some of your repressed memories if we put you back at the scene.”

“My memories are repressed?”

His eyes never left mine. “You know what I mean.”

I didn’t tell him I had returned to the scene already. I didn’t show him the cuts I carved in the palms of my hands with my fingernails when I did. I didn’t tell him my little trip down memory lane didn’t open up any revelations about what took place there in that filthy bathroom on the last night of my happily married life, although it sure as hell freed up a new batch of anger. I also failed to mention that new surge of anger had prompted me to buy what was now tucked away inside the greasy backpack lying on the table in front of him.

And to my sudden horror, I realized he was absently fingering the strap of the backpack while we were talking. What would he do if he knew what was in there? Would he confiscate the weapon? Would he press charges, seeing as how I must have broken several standing gun laws when I bought the damn thing?

Or would he look the other way?

To get him away from the backpack, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “All right. Let’s go.” I gazed through the dining-room window and saw the sun beginning to set. “It’s almost the same time of day,” I added, as the memories already began flooding back. Franklin trembling at the door, trying not to explode. Spence beside me, our wedding bands new on our fingers. The taste of Spence’s come still on my lips, making me love him all the more.

I shook my head, jarring the memories, even now trying to push them away. It dawned on me this might not be such a bad idea. Maybe I
would
remember something new.

“Do you want to drive to the park?” I asked.

Chris scooted his chair back and stood. “No. Let’s walk. Let me just get comfortable.”

He stripped off his jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, then pulled his tie away from his neck, tossing it over the jacket. He casually popped a couple of buttons at the throat of his shirt, revealing a scatter of dark chest hair.

“Ready,” he said with an easy smile. It was the first time he had ever truly seemed comfortable around me. I couldn’t imagine why, but it made me like him even more than I already did. I realized at that moment that Detective Christian Martin was probably a very nice guy, in spite of his line of work.

My heart gave a lurch when he focused on the backpack. “About time you retired this thing, don’t you think?” he asked. “It looks like it has more miles on it than I do.”

I forced up a chuckle. “You may be right.” And to change the subject, I countered his question with one of my own. “Anything to report on my case? Anything new?”

He blinked. “Your case. Uh, no, I’m afraid. Not really.”

“Too much time has passed,” I said. I could feel the anger setting in once again. Jesus, I couldn’t seem to get away from it for two minutes.

Chris clutched my arm. “That’s not true, Tyler. It just takes one break. One witness to come forward. One anonymous tip.”

I could tell by the expression on his face that my smile wasn’t exactly blinding. But then, none of them were these days. “Or one incredible stroke of luck,” I added to his list.

“Yes,” he said solemnly, studying my face. “A little luck wouldn’t hurt either.”

Words

T
O
MY
amazement, I found myself enjoying the walk with Chris through the familiar neighborhood streets. He talked lightly of how things had changed in San Diego since he was a boy. I was surprised to learn he had grown up in a house less than six blocks from my own. His parents had sold the home while Chris was in college. They now lived in a retirement village in Del Mar. Detective Martin owned a small condo downtown, close to work.

The shadows were deepening as we approached the gate to Doggie Park. In the distance we could hear the yapping of happy dogs, each and every one of them taking advantage of this small window of opportunity to run leashless and play their little hearts out with others of their ilk before their masters dragged them home. Listening to the dogs brought a smile to my lips and at the same time made my heart ache. I was hit with a sudden rush of loss once again, not for Spence this time, but for Franklin. I wondered where he could be. Had he found a new home? Had he died somewhere alone, wondering all the while what had happened to his two masters? Had he asked himself why they abandoned him the way they did? Did he wonder where they had gone?

Chris must have noticed my change in demeanor. He dragged me to a stop just inside the gate. Gently gripping my shoulders, he turned me toward him and eyed me closely. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

I gave him a brief shake of the head. “No, it’s all right. I was just thinking about Franklin. Wondering what… whatever became of him.”

Chris nodded as if he understood. And since he was a pet owner, maybe he did. He seemed to also know there was nothing he could say to make me feel better, so he didn’t try. He merely turned to face the fence behind us and slapped the top rail, inviting me to join him. “Sit with me,” he said.

We perched side by side atop the fence, just as Spence and I had done two months earlier. Just as I had done the other day. Our knees brushed together. Uncomfortable with the contact, I pulled away.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled. I wasn’t sure why.

Looking out over the lawns and seeing the red sunset quickly fading to starlight on the horizon, I remembered that fateful night, the things Spence and I had talked about, the unfamiliar weight of the rings on our fingers, the excitement of knowing that because of the rings, our lives were now more intertwined than ever before. Inseparable, that was us, Spence and I. Or so we thought.

Chris waved a hand, encompassing all the people in front of us, most of them standing around chatting with each other while their dogs raced around like lunatics. “Do any of these people look familiar to you? Chances are the people who bring their dogs here do so on a regular basis. Maybe a few of these faces will ring a bell.”

I did as the detective asked, never mentioning to him I had been here only a few days ago. I studied the faces in the gloaming, and as I did, the security light high atop the public bathroom blinked on, illuminating the park, casting sharp shadows across the grass. Still, I simply stared out at the people in front of me, offering no comment, dredging up no memories. The silence hung between the detective and me like a layer of fog. Finally he swept it away with a question.

“You look better,” he said. “Is your hand healing? How does it feel?”

I gazed down at the hand like someone had just attached it to the end of my arm and I had never really noticed it before. I flexed my fist. “The fingers still ache sometimes. Maybe they always will.”

“Hopefully not,” he said. “When are you going back to work?”

The question took me by surprise. I realized I hadn’t thought about work once—not once—since the day my boss phoned. And Joey. Good old weaselly Joey.

“I guess I’ll go back when I can’t stay away any longer,” I said.

Chris’s face softened in understanding. “Makes sense to me.” He pointed to a tiny Chihuahua making amorous passes at a German shepherd. We both laughed. “No inferiority complex there,” Chris chuckled.

As quickly as his laughter flared up, his face sobered. He turned to me, and said, “It’s not good cutting the world out of your life, Tyler. It’s not good letting your grief get the better of you.” I started to protest, but he raised his hand to shush me. “I’ve learned a few things about grief in my line of work. I’ve learned how it can destroy a person. Grief and hatred combined make a deadly cocktail, Tyler. It’s a one-two punch that leaves you reeling. Some people never recover from it. I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

I looked away—back to the dogs, back to the city skyline on the horizon. Anywhere else but at the sympathy in Chris’s face. For some reason his compassion infuriated me.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, my voice emotionless. Empty. But immediately I was drawn back to Chris’s face, Chris’s eyes. Something in the empathy I saw there made me wonder things about him I had never considered before. What kind of life did he lead outside of work? What must it be like to see the terrible things he saw day after day, then go home to—who? A cat? One fucking cat? And why was he really seeking me out this way? Was it really to jog my memory? Was that truly the reason he came to see me today? Was that really the purpose behind our getting together?

Or was he simply lonely? And that begged the other question. Was he gay?

“Are you married?” I asked because I didn’t have the nerve to ask the other question.

He studied my eyes for a moment, then responded, “No.”

“Girlfriend?” I asked.

The slightest smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. “No.”

A yip at my feet made me look down. A Pomeranian stood by the fence looking up at me. His fluffy tail was nothing but a blur. One happy dog.

Then a memory kicked in. A memory from that night. The young woman with the Pom. I remembered her words and spoke them out loud. “He’s the only male in my life who ever made me happy.”

Chris looked bewildered. “What did you say?”

I pointed down at the Pomeranian still standing there looking up at me. “That’s what the owner of the Pom said just before she left the park. That night. She told me her dog was the only male who had ever made her happy. Spence told her he knew the feeling, only he was talking about me, not Franklin. Then the woman laughed and said, ‘Good night, boys.’ As if she understood about us.”

Chris’s eyes flashed. “
This
dog?” he asked. “The owner of
this
dog?”

“I think so.” I lifted my eyes to scan the park. Would I recognize her again if I saw her? I was pretty sure I would. “She was here just before the attack. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she saw the men go into the bathroom. Maybe she can identify them.”

My pulse quickened as I scanned the faces around me.

“Do you see her?” Chris asked. “Do you see the woman?”

“No. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.”

We both jumped when an old lady came out of the shadows behind us and slapped me on the arm, startling me so I almost fell off the fence.

“Suzie likes you,” the old woman said with a laugh, scooping the Pom into her arms. She was dressed in overalls and wore a sunbonnet on her head as if she had interrupted her yard work to take the dog out for some exercise.

It was almost fully dark now. The woman gazed out over the park, what could be seen now in the circle of light cast by the security lamp. “Which dog is yours, young man?”

I stared at the woman, disappointed. It was the wrong dog. The wrong person. “I—I don’t have a dog,” I said.

She giggled. “Then you’d better get one.” She snuggled her face into the Pom’s coat and lifted her hand to say good-bye. Her eyes were sparkling. Still giggling to herself, she strode through the gate and set off down the street, her little Pomeranian bouncing around at her feet.

“That wasn’t her,” Chris commented, apparently reading the disappointment in my posture.

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t her.”

“Shit,” he said.

I nodded. Shit indeed.

The park was thinning out, only two fat Corgis and an older gentleman remained. Soon, as the darkness deepened, even those three strolled through the gate and disappeared into the city. The two fat Corgis pulled the old man along at the end of their leashes on short stubby legs. Only Chris and I remained behind, sitting atop the fence in the moonlight, staring out over the empty lawn. Night sounds moved in to swallow the silence. A cricket chirped. A night bird chortled in the canyon behind the far fence. A distant siren wailed somewhere down the hillside.