The Good Boy (10 page)

The first message is from the attorney’s office, 8:00
A.M.
“Mr. Murphy, this is Jill Martinak, from Dykema? I have Ann Marie Byers on the line. Will you please call at your earliest convenience? Thank you.” Ann Marie must be representing him.

The second call is from the station, nine thirty. “Murphy? Finn. Listen, Ann Marie Byers from Dykema is going to call you. Talk to her and then talk to me, okay? But don’t come down here. I’ve got reporters smearing their greasy faces against the fucking windows already. Jesus.”

The last call is from a private number. Noon. No message, just the sound of a landline hang-up. It could be anybody, though Pete thinks of Kitty. She never leaves voice mail; when she speaks, she wants to know there’s someone listening.

He pockets his phone and throws the ball to Butch some more, loose debris from a couple of newly cold-patched potholes making fetch a challenge, the dog’s footing unsure.

Why did Kitty call last night? Sure, White is the stated why. But calling Pete at home? And Sarah, the one to listen? Kitty promised: she said no matter what happened, she wouldn’t complicate things.

Which means either she figures the White arrest warranted a call or she knows something about the case—something important enough to call and
not
tell Sarah—essentially, leaving Pete another blank message.

He takes out his phone again. He should just call her, if he’s so curious. But the last time they spoke was final—at least it seemed final. Shouldn’t he leave it that way?

As he scrolls to her name on the display, the phone buzzes, another call coming in, again a private number. Maybe she’s calling.

Maybe he hopes so.

He throws the ball for Butch once more and answers, “Pete Murphy.”

“Mr. Murphy, this is Ann Marie Byers, from Dykema.”

“Yes,” he says, though he’s thinking
no
. He doesn’t want to do this now.

“Your sergeant has been in touch?”

“He has.”

“Good, then let me cut right to it: I’m sitting here with the interrogatory sent over by Mr. White’s counsel and I have to tell you, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I mean, it’s purely a fishing expedition—these things always are—but my god, Mr. Murphy. Might I ask: have you read
Moby-Dick
?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m looking at this, and it’s so convoluted and … personal, somehow … honestly? I can’t tell which one of you’s the whale.”

“Does the whale get harpooned at the end? Because I don’t think I want to be the whale.”

“That’s not—” she starts, the slightest condescension in her voice before she stops. “No matter. Listen. I’m going to do my best to make sure you come out of this without making so much as a ripple on the department’s vast, silent sea. But I need your full cooperation.”

“I don’t have to read some book to get what you mean by that. You think I’m guilty. You want me to lie.”

“Mr. Murphy, my job is to represent you in the civil suit brought against you and the department. My career depends on earning favorable judgment regardless of my personal stance. So my opinion about the truth, you see, is not nearly as important as my ability to eloquently articulate its relevance.”

“I can’t see through the phone,” he says, because she can’t dominate
these
proceedings. “But I’m going to guess that was a fancy way for agreeing that I should lie.”

“Yes but no: not to me. I want the truth. Your best defense, Mr. Murphy, is for me to know absolutely everything so that I may be the one to lie. I can assure you I’m very good at it.”

Butch whines; he’s been sitting at attention in front of Pete, ball in his mouth, waiting.

Pete takes the ball and he says, “I didn’t know White was in the car.”

“I mean the truth ab ovo.”

“Above what?”

“I mean from the beginning, Mr. Murphy. When you first came to know White.”

“I never said more than two words to the kid until yesterday.”

“But you
knew
him.”

Pete throws the ball, this time as high as he can; the angle is off, so when it comes down it bounces off a garage roof and ricochets, sending Butch on a search.

“The first I knew of White was when I served as dignitary protection for Katherine Crawford. The mayor’s office made the call after Kitty got a couple death threats due to a ruling she made that resulted in White’s brother’s murder.”

“What was White’s brother’s name?”

“Felan. With an
a.
Fel-an White.”

“How was he murdered?”

“He was shot by a Gangster Disciple named Juan Moreno. Moreno had been before Kitty on an attempted-murder charge for trying to kill another guy, Ervin Poole. Kitty denied the state’s attorney’s request for a source-of-funds hearing—you know, Moreno had priors for drug dealing, and they thought they could get him that way, like, where did a guy like that get a half-a-mil cash for bail?—but Kitty refused, and set bail according to the charge. It was low enough for Moreno to post that same day. Then he walked out of 26th and California and killed both White and Poole.”

“That’s when Crawford received death threats?”

“No. It was a few months later. Ervin’s kooky kid brother Elgin made this video—you probably saw it—the guy with a half-fro who makes up all the tutti-frutti words?”

“I don’t believe I have seen that one, no.”

“There’s this clip where he’s ranting at the
authorititties,
and it went viral—the kid became an instant Internet star. I’m not sure anybody cared what he was talking about, but apparently millions of people thought he was funny. Personally, I didn’t think he was funny at all. In fact I—”

“This video is what caused the death threats?”

“No. It was White’s mother, Trissa, who did that. Because after Elgin Poole got a few offers in Hollywood—a reality show with his girlfriend LaFonda Redding was one I heard about—Trissa decided she wanted some attention, too. And so she tried to sue Kitty for Felan’s death.”

“You can’t sue a judge.”

“No, but you can say whatever you want. God bless America, she told everybody with an eyeball that she was going to sue Kitty. The local press was mildly interested: they’d already decided Felan was a hero—an honor student and a basketball star and all that. The local Fox station picked it up—they loved this photo Trissa released of Felan and Ja’Kobe. They played the twin angle so hard you’d have thought the boys were conjoined. They never mentioned any gang affiliation even though they fucking cropped the picture so nobody’d see that the brothers were throwing up signs. I tell you, it was all complete bullshit, but somehow along the way Trissa managed to make a connection with one of the news producers, and Kitty became a target for everybody from FOX News to the newly minted Felan White Foundation to the Four Corner Hustlers.”

“And then the death threats?” Asked like it was the first question.

“The night Kitty’s house was shot up was the same night Trissa and Ja’Kobe appeared on
The O’Reilly Factor.
”

“That’s when you were called for her protection.”

“There was a call, a few of us were asked. I jumped at it.”

“Because you knew Judge Crawford.”

“No, I didn’t know her at all. I was studying for the sergeants’ test and I knew the job would look good on my record.”

“But it became personal.”

“It was a job. The media made it personal.”

“Do you mean Oliver Quick?”

“I see,” Pete says, “you saw
that
video.”

“I did.”

“Then I guess you’re all caught up.”

“I don’t think I am, Mr. Murphy. Most of the questions here are directed toward your relationship with Kitty.” She makes the nickname sound sticky, and like she’s been waiting to say it all along.

Butch tears back into the alley from a neighbor’s yard a few doors down, having finally located the ball. He slides across the alley’s gritty surface, keeps his feet and recovers, then comes careful on the return.

Pete says, “I didn’t know it was White. In the car. Yesterday. So maybe you can articulate how most of those questions are relevant.”

“I see we’re back to where we started,” she says, “with you on defense. Perhaps we should break here, and I’ll work on this, and we’ll talk again—when you realize
I
am your defense?”

“I’ll be sure to call.” Pete hangs up and he takes the ball from Butch’s mouth and heads back to the yard, the dog tagging along like nothing’s wrong.

He opens the run gate, but instead of entering, Butch sits outside the door and looks at him.

“Get in there, would you?”

The dog tilts his head, same look.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore, okay? Get going.”

Butch grumbles and eases onto his raggedy blanket as Pete closes the gate, changes the lock code, and heads for the house.

In the mudroom, Pete notices Joel’s school shoes. Then he remembers: Bob Schnapper. So he does have to do some more talking.

He calls up the stairs, “Joel!” but gets no response.

He pours coffee, a bowl of cereal. Joel’s room is directly above the kitchen, and since he hasn’t surfaced, he wonders if Sarah gave him one of her pain pills last night. She does that when she gets upset about his head—clearly, she gets upset about his head. Among other things.

He finishes his oat bran and a brown banana and with no indication of life upstairs, makes the executive decision to let the boy sleep. He told Sarah he’d investigate the thing at school, but he’s not going to resurrect the boy just to needle him. Anyway, Joel’s no liar. It’ll be open and shut.

He slugs the rest of his coffee, puts on his work boots and goes back out to the garage.

The rain two nights ago gave the squad’s exterior a decent rinse, but the inside is noxious. If he turns on the fan, tufts of fur blow around and without the fan, the subtle reek of dead rodent hangs in the air—that’s thanks to Butch, too, who took it upon himself to play cadaver dog when Pete let him off leash to run in Humboldt Park last weekend. Butch came back pretty proud, the fur on his back oiled with putrefaction. Pete threw him in the lagoon four times before he could even think about putting him back in the car. It was a long ride, all the windows down, to the peroxide-and-baking-soda bath.

Pete pulls the squad out into the alley, removes the rubber mats and window guards, and hoses down Butch’s cage. After that he can’t find the mop, so he ties a rag over the push broom and gets most of the water out of the back that way.

He’s stretched out trying to pry a knot of wet dog hair from the doorjamb when he hears, “Dad?”

“Just a minute.”

A minute later he finds Joel standing there, socked feet, hands clutching a can of root beer. He looks strung out, like he hasn’t slept at all. He says, “I thought you might be thirsty.”

“I think you might be trying to bribe me.”

Joel steps back and studies a pothole until a cold wind skirts around the garage and he hugs himself, probably wishing he’d put on a jacket. Or shoes. “Can I let Butchie out?”

“No,” Pete says, and he wants to hug the boy—warm him up and tell him it’s okay—but he feels like he’s got to have that man-to-man talk now. So he takes the root beer and says, “You were right, I’m thirsty. Thanks. You want to help me?”

“Okay.”

“Go get a clean towel.”

Joel goes into the garage while Pete cracks open the can. It’s warm and too syrupy-sweet but he really is thirsty, so he drinks until the carbonation makes his throat burn and then he burps and drinks some more. When the can is empty he tosses it aside and starts on the inside windows, glass cleaner foaming white.

He cleans two, and when he starts on a third he can’t imagine what’s taking the boy so long, and he’s starting to get irritated but then he wipes the window and sees Joel standing on the other side, no towel.

“What’s wrong?”

“All the towels are dirty.”

Technically, he’s right. The towel Pete’s using came from the garage floor and it was dry and the stains were set already. That didn’t make it clean, just clean enough. Pete forgets the boy takes things so literally.

“How about you use this one?” Pete hands Joel his towel. “Do the back window for me.”

Joel takes the glass cleaner and climbs into the backseat while Pete goes to get the Dustbuster from its charger on the workbench. He takes a minute, tells himself not to take his own shit out on his boy. He thinks about a cigarette—just saying fuck it and lighting one up and telling Joel he doesn’t care what happened at school and can they maybe just let each other get away with something today?—but Joel happens to be the only person left in the world who still believes in him, and he’s not going to wreck that now, not now.

So he goes back to the squad with a better attitude until the Dustbuster runs out of juice two seconds after he starts sucking hair off the driver’s seat. He shuts it off, “Useless,” and dumps it in the passenger seat, sits down and decides to get on with the investigation.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“How’s your head?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine now.”

“That’s good.” Pete finds him in the rearview and watches him screw around with the nozzle on the bottle. He has yet to clean the window. “I heard about some trouble at school.” He hopes he sounds casual, like he’s making conversation with the speedometer. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.”

“I’m only asking because your mom’s worried about you.”

“Mom’s always worried about me. How come she doesn’t ever worry about Mike? She’s the one who … she
likes
trouble.”

“Trust me, Mom worries plenty about all of us. Can we maybe talk a little bit about what happened so she can stop worrying?”

“I’m not a snitch.” The word is absurd coming from Joel, without nuance.

Pete says, “I don’t see how you could be a snitch. First off, a snitch is somebody who gets in other people’s business, and I’m told you were the one doing the business. Second, you’re the one who got pinched, so that makes you a suspect. Not a snitch.”

Joel conveniently gets the nozzle working and sprays the back window. “I didn’t start it.”