Retirement Plan (23 page)

Morgan looked at him, puzzled. “How do you know about that?”

“Henry Zimmerman.”

“What? When?”

“He called me after her escape—after the D.B. across the street. He told me to cut you some slack.”

“Damn him.”

Redick touched her arm. “No. Don’t be upset with him. If I’d been the partner I should have been, I would have known. You would have told me yourself.”

The coffee was strong, but by the third sip, it started going down smoothly. In fact, she felt a little better. “Thanks.”

When he turned and stared out the window at the gray sky, she studied him carefully. He’d gotten up early enough to eat or have a nasty protein shake, whichever. He hadn’t had too much to drink the night before. His mouth probably wasn’t dry and his head didn’t ache. He had a bottle of cold water sitting on the floor next to his chair. He’d drink half of his coffee, then sip on the water and make it last most of the day. In addition to that, he wasn’t sweating and his hair didn’t feel like he hadn’t washed it in two weeks, because he didn’t have any hair.

Redick said, “Why the big smile?”

She laughed then, but stopped when a searing pain shot through her right temple. She closed her eyes and with shaking fingers massaged the spot.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

He stood. “Let me get you more coffee.”

“It’s too strong.”

“I’ll put some sugar in it. Or I could make some fresh.”

“I’ll be okay.”

But he stepped across the room, picked up the pot, and headed for the sink to rinse it. Then Morgan heard Mrs. Owens call to him, “Let me take care of that, Red. You have a job to do.”

She looked at him as he sat in the folding chair next to her. “Red?”

He nodded. “If you ever feel we’re on a first-name basis, I’d like for you to call me Red. It’s a nickname I got when I was a kid. Back then, I had red hair. Anyway, it kind of stuck and I kept it even when the red hair was mostly gone. It’s close enough to Redick.”

Morgan dug around in her bag for a bottle of aspirin. She set it on the TV tray and waited for the fresh coffee. It actually smelled pretty good, but when she put the blue mug to her lips she gagged. It took several minutes to get the aspirin down and finish the second cup.

Mrs. Owens came up behind them and said, “My son brought me doughnuts yesterday morning. I can’t eat a dozen. You two have some with your coffee.”

They both thanked her and let the open box sit between them.

After a few moments Redick said, “How did you end up, of all the things in the world a woman could be, a homicide officer?”

“My dad was a cop. I never seriously considered any other line of work. Okay, my mom wanted me to go to college, so I did and took pre-law. But it wasn’t for me.”

“Why not? Sure would pay better.”

She didn’t answer but stared at the doughnuts. How could she explain that the wanton woman next door cut short her first attempt at college in Texas? Actually, Chelsea didn’t make her quit. It was her desire for Chelsea that made it hard to think about much else. She’d tried college again while working as a meter maid right after her father’s death. So she’d come up through the ranks the hard way. But she was happy with her work—until lately.

“What?” Redick said. “Don’t need the money?”

She chose one of two glazed doughnuts and took a bite. Still chewing, she said, “Truth is, the law isn’t about justice.” She swallowed and started to take another bite, but hesitated and said, “I thought as a good lawyer I could make things come out fair. But the law is only about some kind of dance criminals do through the legal system. I started to see that the only justice was in the streets—making cases that would hold up through the court system. Even then, there’s no guarantee. Sometimes really sick shit happens and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Redick scooted to the edge of his folding chair and picked up the bottle of water.  His eyes were still on the building across the street, his voice so soft she almost didn’t hear him say, “I know.”

Her headache was starting to clear. Dry as it was, she finished the glazed doughnut and hungrily reached for a cinnamon roll. Across the street, wind whipped at the striped awning in front of the shabby hotel. An old man came out of the door, looked both ways carefully, then left the building and walked down the street to the McDonald’s on the corner. Morgan checked her watch. It was 10:17. He walked back a few minutes later carrying a bag. She brushed the sugar from her fingers and picked up the clipboard to record the activity. She looked at a list of notes about the comings and goings of the people who lived in the hotel. All things considered, they didn’t go out much. With Tia Johnson out of the drug business, there hadn’t been much of that kind of activity over there either.

After a while, she broke the silence. “So, how did you end up in Homicide?”

Redick smiled. “Believe it or not, I grew up on Don Johnson and
Miami Vice.
I just knew that was the life for me. From the time I was twelve all through my teens, I could see myself living on a boat with a pet alligator, driving a Ferrari, having shoot-outs with bad guys once a week, and, pardon the expression, getting all the pussy I wanted. Then when I was eighteen years old, a marine recruiter convinced me the best way to the job I wanted was through the military. Sonny Crockett was a Vietnam veteran, if you recall.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Not a fan. I see it on reruns late at night sometimes when I can’t sleep.”

“Well, I have DVDs, five seasons, if you want to see more. I’ve watched that pilot episode so often I know most of the lines by heart. You know, at the end, Sonny’s on his way to stop this dealer, who they had once, but he was let go because of some screwup. It’s night and the top is down and Phil Collins is in the background singing “Something in the Air Tonight”—a totally haunting sound. And Sonny stops the car at a pay phone and calls his ex-wife and asks her if what they once had was real. Man, that gets me every time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. See, it shows his humanness, his vulnerability. Before
Miami Vice
all the cop shows were like
Gunsmoke
. The cops were tough. They were cold “just the facts, ma’am” kinds of guys, who always solved the case and got their man. They were sure of themselves and sure of the women they had. Can you see Marshall Dillon making a call like that to Miss Kitty?”

“No.  There weren’t any phones—”

“Plus the drug dealer gets away. They fail. It was a new kind of program. Before that the good guys always won. But the bad guys get away, and Crockett and Tubbs are left standing there with nothing. And on the next episode they’re right back at it. That’s real life. Nobody has 100 percent clearance rates. We sure don’t. I’d like to get this sniper, but the odds are against us.”

Listening to Redick carry on, Morgan automatically picked up the last doughnut. Before she bit into it, she said, “He’ll make a mistake.”

“This stakeout’s a waste of time. We both know it. Ward knows it.”

“So, what else have we got? You know, I feel like we have something, but we just can’t see it. Like we’re close.” 

Redick glanced at the empty doughnut box, then at Morgan. “Feeling better?”

“Yes. A little.”

They were silent for a while. Behind them Mrs. Owens was watching a show with Christmas music. Maybe it was a commercial. Up and down the street below, red ribbons whipped in the wind. One room at the St. Peter’s Hotel had blinking white lights around the steamy window.

Redick started talking again. “There was this one great episode with Willie Nelson—they had some pretty big guest stars. Willie plays this retired Texas Ranger come to Miami to get revenge for the death of his son. Final scene is a shootout in a cemetery…”

This
Miami Vice
thing confirmed Morgan’s belief that Redick was more than a little OCD. She simply nodded and asked, “Any regrets? I mean, with your choices.”

“Naw. Once I was in the marines, I found I was happy with it. I like the structure and discipline. It gives me the illusion of control.”

Definitely OCD. Morgan chuckled. “Don Johnson.”

“You tell that to anybody and I’ll deny it.”

Morgan caught something from the corner of her eye. “Who’s that?”

Redick leaned toward the window for a better look. “This could be our guy.”

Morgan stood and craned her neck. He was younger than she’d thought he’d be, wearing a baseball cap and a fatigue jacket. “That’s him all right.” She turned, started to grab her coat, then changed her mind and sprinted out the door and down the stairs behind Redick.

The kid was talking to an old man, waving his arms in the air angrily. It was the old guy who made them. He said something to the kid, who turned, and when the kid saw them, he ran.

Morgan heard Redick swear softly, and then he was gone. Morgan fell behind, so she tried to figure a way to head the kid off. After the first cross street, instead of following Redick, she cut off at the alley that ran between the buildings. She knew this part of town. While some alleyways didn’t go all the way through, this one did. The light was gone, and she could only see the shapes of garbage dumpsters on either side of her. This was a calculated risk. If the kid didn’t turn, Redick would be on his own. But if he did, she had to get to the intersection before they did.

She pushed harder and her foot slipped on something—probably garbage. She grabbed the cold metal of a dumpster to steady herself, and as she started out again, she felt something cold and sticky on her hands. She exited the alley and made a wide turn left. At the next corner she stopped with her back against a rough brick wall, drawing deep breaths as quietly as possible. She could hear them coming. The kid, approaching her corner quickly, was widening the distance between Redick and himself. Morgan bent over, both hands on her knees, sucking in cold air. Sweat from her forehead ran into her eyes. She waited a few seconds, then kicked her leg out and the kid went flying.

He landed on all fours.

She leapt on top of him, and he went to the ground with an “Ooof.” Her handcuffs were out, and she struggled to get them around his wrists. Sweat dripped from her face. Her eyes stung and she felt faint and nauseated. Behind her, Redick said, “Let me have him.” She snapped the cuffs closed and started to stand. Then her guts convulsed and vomit sprayed out her mouth and nose. She put a hand up to stop the half- digested doughnuts and coffee from covering the back of the suspect, but it was no use. She felt Redick lifting her, heard him say, “Easy, girl.”

The kid, his scraped face oozing blood from the rough contact with the pavement, tossed his grungy blond hair out of his eyes and tried to look around. “Jesus Christ. Did she puke on me? God damn. It stinks!”

Redick nudged the kid’s side with his boot and said, “Shut the fuck up or I’ll let her at you again.”

Chapter Seventeen

The day after a quiet Thanksgiving, Lois finally got to the yard work and cut up broken limbs with the electric chainsaw. It had been a twenty-fifth anniversary gift from Sophie, who believed that nothing says lovin’ like a power tool. Lois treasured the saw and regularly trimmed the trash tree that grew next to the fence at the back of the lot. It was in the rat-bastard Randy Harris’s yard but hung more on Lois’s side of the fence than his.

She liked that Harris knew she owned the saw. Sometimes she hit the chain-link fence with the blade, and the chain jumped the track and had to be repaired. But there was something satisfying about having this big power tool and using it where Randy could watch her.

When she finished stacking the dead branches near the street, she sat on the carport and prepared the lawnmower for the winter, which took less time than making a space in the tool shed to store it. When she came in for lunch, despite the cool weather, her clothes were damp with sweat and the arthritis in her knee throbbed. As she limped through the kitchen, she brushed a kiss on Sophie’s cheek. “I’m going to get out of these damp clothes and shower before I eat. Give me ten minutes.”

“You want leftover turkey or leftover turkey?” Sophie called after her.

“Cold meat loaf.”

“Jesus, Lo, I threw that out two days ago to make room for the turkey.”

Lois shrugged. “Then just give me what you’re having.”

In the shower, as the warm needles of water beat down on her shoulders, Lois closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She thanked God for Sophie, a woman who pleased her far beyond what Lois could ever repay, far beyond anything Lois had even known to ask for.

Sophie had paid a high price for their life together. Her family had disowned her, but that hadn’t deterred her. More recently it had taken a lot of courage to fight Lois about letting Ruby come home this last time, but it had been the right thing. Lois could see that now.

Their life with Ruby had become a comfortable routine. She and Sophie kept the house quiet during the day while Ruby slept—not that there was all that much noise before. But it pleased Lois to do this for her. Once in a while, quite by accident and despite years of experience to the contrary, Lois felt as hopeful about Ruby as Sophie did. By five o’clock she would join them in the living room to read the paper and watch the news. After that she helped Sophie prepare dinner, and then Lois drove Ruby to work. Each payday, after buying cigarettes (Lois wasn’t happy about that, but she had decided to choose her battles), Ruby paid one hundred dollars on the money she owed.

Lois had hesitated about taking Ruby’s money until Sophie said, “She needs to pay us more than we need to be paid. Let her do this.” So they took the money. For now, most of it was in a savings account, but it had been awhile since they had a job, and truck and house insurance were looming the first of next year.

Lois toweled herself dry and then, in a terry robe, went into the kitchen. There she filled a glass with ice water and sat at her usual place. Today’s mail was lying on the corner of the table next to a stack of stuff that always seemed to be there. Except today the stack looked smaller.