The Good Cop (28 page)

And while I was sitting there thinking these things over, I remembered my dream about the
Journal-Sentinel
photo of Tom's car and there being something on the seat. I really didn't remember seeing anything when I first looked at the photo, but then my mind wasn't exactly operating on all cylinders at the time. I rummaged through my desk and found the paper in a bottom drawer, again not quite sure why I'd kept it in the first place—I realized even at the time that whenever I would look at it, it would hurt. It did.

The photo was newspaper-grainy with the individual pixels readily visible with just a little bit of effort to see them. And sure enough! There
was
something on the front seat, barely visible near the passenger's side door. I couldn't make out what it was—some sort of small box or package, or maybe a paperback book? I remembered that Richman had said something about the police thinking Tom might have stopped somewhere on his way home for gas or for something to eat. That last part stuck me as odd, especially since Tom had just come from a party where I'm sure there'd have been more than enough food even for Tom's legendary appetite. Still….

I folded the paper and put it back in the drawer, then dialed the City Annex.

“Lieutenant Richman.”

“Lieutenant, it's Dick. Sorry to bother you: I know you're busy. How are things going?”

“You have no idea. You're lucky to have caught me; I've been in and out of the office since seven-thirty this morning.” He paused, then said: “What can I do for you? You haven't heard any…rumors, I hope?”

“No, thank God. But I was wondering if you'd seen the article in today's paper about Joey G.'s being called back to union headquarters in New York?”

“I haven't had much time to read the papers lately.”

“Understandable, but I don't want that bastard to get out of town before Jonathan has a chance to file charges against him for the beating.”

There was another slight pause, then: “Good point. Why don't you bring the kid in…uh…let me check…” yet another pause… “I don't have a single minute free today. Why don't you bring him in tomorrow morning, around eight?”

“Tomorrow's Saturday.”

“So I've heard. But things are still too tense for anybody around here to be taking a weekend off. If we don't find Officer Brady's killer and/or who set the substation fire before next weekend comes around, we'll be right back to square one with the Pride Festival problem.”

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I realize your priorities…”

“Well, we can't afford to let this Giacomino situation go away, either. You just be here tomorrow morning. I'll make the time. And speaking of time, we can save some if you have…Jonathan…write out in longhand and in detail exactly what happened to him that night, from the time Giacomino picked him up to the point where he drove away. We'll need it for the report.”

“He'll have it for you. And thanks again. We'll see you in the morning.” I was almost ready to say goodbye when I remembered the paper. “Oh, and I have a question you might be able to answer. That photo the
Journal-Sentinel
ran the morning Tom was…” I hesitated, the word caught in my throat “…Tom died: It looks like there was something on the front seat…a little package or box or something? The photo was too grainy to tell.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Do you know what it was?”

He was quiet a second. “Ah…not off-hand. A box of mini-donuts or a bag of chips or something like that, I think…remember, I told you he stopped at a QuickieStop on his way home. But I'm sure whatever it was shows up on our own photos. Why…?”

“I'm not sure.” I suddenly felt a little guilty for bothering him over something so minor. “But could I see those photos sometime?”

“Sure. Well, look, I've got to go. I'll see you and…Jonathan…in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Thanks again.” I heard the ‘click' of his hanging up.

*

I realized that I'd not seen Jonathan in what I was rather surprised to think of as a very long time. I tried calling Bob and Mario—I assumed they'd be up by this time—to see if they could tell Jonathan I'd pick him up at seven the next morning, but no one was home. It occurred to me that they were probably over at the house, working, and I knew they hadn't had their phone installed yet.

I decided to take a drive over and tell Jonathan myself. Besides, I wanted to see the progress they'd been making, and what was going on with the new bathroom, and…
'fess up, Hardesty!
…okay, and Jonathan.

What's with you and this kid, Hardesty?
my mind voice asked.
This isn't like you at all.

*

I had to park on the side street, just beyond the driveway, which was filled by a plumber's truck, Mario's car, and an exterminator's van. I'd gotten halfway to the house when I remembered that I'd left the legal pad and pen I brought for Jonathan—I didn't know that there'd be anything for him to write on in the house—and went back for it. I could hear the sounds of hammering and a circular saw as I walked up to the porch and knocked. When nobody responded, I assumed they just couldn't hear me over the work going on, so I just went in. I saw a couple guys working in what had been the huge pantry and now was on the way to becoming a half bath. They didn't look up as I walked through and, after a quick check of the main floor, I headed up the maid's stairs to the second floor. I found Mario and Jonathan in what would be the master bedroom but was now a bleak tundra of drop cloths, stepladders and assorted paint cans, brushes, rollers, and roller pans.

Jonathan was edging the lower half of the window frame, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in total concentration as he tried to avoid getting paint on the wall.

Mario saw me first. “Ah, just in time!” he said with a grin. “Grab a brush.”

Jonathan looked up and, seeing me, broke into a full-sunrise smile. “Dick! Hi!”

“Hi yourself,” I said, returning the smile. “Looks like you've been busy.”

“Yeah!” he replied enthusiastically. “It's sure going to look nice, isn't it?”

Mario'd set down his paint brush and came over to shake hands, first carefully checking to see that he didn't have any wet paint to transfer. He glanced at the legal pad in my hand but didn't say anything. Taking his cue from Mario, Jonathan did the same. He'd apparently at some point tried to scratch his nose while holding on to the paintbrush—he had a little swatch of paint over his left eyebrow. Why did I find that sexy?

Oh, fer chrissake!
my mind-voice snorted.

Jonathan hadn't stopped smiling since he first saw me, a fact not lost on Mario, who glanced quickly from Jonathan to me and gave a quick raised-eyebrow grin.

“Why don't you finish that edging, Jonathan, then show Dick what we've been doing since he was here last.”

Well, it hadn't been
that
long, but….

“Bob not here?” I asked as Mario and Jonathan returned to their work.

“Yeah.” Mario poured more paint into his roller pan. “He's in the basement with the exterminator.”

“Oh, oh. No problems, I hope.”

Mario shrugged without looking away from his rolling. “Well, when we bought the place, the pre-sale inspection showed that there was some minor termite damage, but we were in a hurry to close, so we made an arrangement with the former owners that they'd pay for any problems. We brought another inspector in to see just what needs to be done. We'll probably have to fumigate, though.”

Jonathan finished the window frame, put his brush down on top of the open can, and came quickly over to me. “Come on, Dick, I'll show you the new bathroom!”

He led the way back down the maid's stairs to the kitchen where a gaping hole in the wall led to the new half-bath. One of the workers, who had been apparently framing in the new wall, gave Jonathan a big grin and a wink. Jonathan blushed and gave me a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Bob said I could help decorate it when it's ready,” he said, ignoring the worker. “He brought a book of wallpaper samples and some tile samples for the floor. It'll be really nice.”

The worker kept looking at Jonathan with a small smile and an expression that reminded me of the wolf eyeing Red Riding Hood. Jonathan quickly turned and led me into the dining room where either he or Mario had stripped most of the woodwork.

“It looks like you have a new friend,” I teased, giving a head-jerk in the direction of the new half bath.

Jonathan looked uncomfortable, making me wish I hadn't said anything. “Yeah. He wants to have sex with me. He told me so. But…” His look of discomfort did not go away.

“But?”

He looked at me and gave a semi-frown, then a quick sigh.

“Nothing.” He moved toward the main staircase. I followed. About halfway up the stairs, he turned to me.

“Is it because I was a hustler?”

Now
that
one caught me by surprise.

“Is
what
because you were a hustler?” I was sincerely confused.

“Is that why you don't want…?” He shook his head. “Never mind; it's not important.”

“Yes it
is
important, whatever it is. I don't think…”

At that point, I heard Bob's voice, talking with someone as they entered the dining room.

Seeing me on the stair, he said: “Well, hello, stranger; I'll be right with you.” He then turned back to a large man with a beer belly that stretched the buttons on his uniform shirt and flowed over the top of his belt, completely hiding the buckle. They continued walking to the front door as the man took a large measuring tape from one side of his belt. Bob opened the door for him, then closed it behind him and turned toward me. When I glanced toward Jonathan, I saw he had gone on up the stairs and disappeared.

Now what have you done?
I asked myself.

Like you had
no
idea!
my mind answered.
God, you can be such a jerk!

“Busy place.” I moved back down the stairs to shake hands with Bob.

“The joys of home ownership,” he sighed. “And now it looks like we'll definitely have to fumigate.”

“When?”

“By sheer luck, he had a job cancellation for tomorrow, if you can believe that! So it's either tomorrow or wait nearly a month. It'll take three days. I hate to bring all the work to a halt right in the middle of everything, but it's better to get it done now than when we're moved in—which we hope will be in three weeks.”

He started up the stairs and I followed. When we reached the top, he said: “Which creates something of a minor problem.”

“Jonathan.”

“Yeah. He can't stay here, obviously, and he'd be welcome to stay with us, but as you know we've only got a one-bedroom, and…”

I raised my hand to stop him. “I understand. Completely.”

“Maybe Phil and Tim can put him up for a few more days.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'd be willing to, but they really need their time right now. I've imposed on them…and you…too long as it is.”

Bob reached out and touched my arm, then started toward the master bedroom. “Hell, it's no imposition at all for us! Jonathan's more than earned his keep. We'd be glad to have him stay here as long as he needs to. But it's the next three days we have to think about.”

“I'll have him stay with me,” I heard myself saying, surprising the hell out of the part of me that
hadn't
said it. With everything that was going on being in a constant state of flux: Tom, the department, Cochran, Giacomino, the fire, the community, and God-knows-what-all else, I didn't think Cochran's boys would be spending too much time looking for one hustler who they must now believe, after some time with nothing seen or heard from him, had gone back to Wisconsin. With Tom…dead…
yeah, dead
…I couldn't imagine that I was of any value or interest to Cochran.

But I knew the main reason I was hesitant was because of my uncertainty about myself and exactly what I thought might be going on with Jonathan. On the one hand, being relatively alone with him for three days would give me a chance to get to know him a little better and get a better handle on where I thought this might or might not be leading. But on the other hand, I really didn't want to hurt him, and I knew that I'd have to fight myself like hell to keep from what they still euphemistically call “taking advantage” of him. And it would be taking advantage in spite of the fact—or more exactly
because
of the fact—that he obviously wanted to be more than just friends.

Oh, fer Chrissakes, Hardesty
, my mind snapped.
Aren't you overdoing this ‘I'm so noble' crap? The kid's 19, not 12. He knows what he wants. Stop behaving like something out of Victorian novel! What you're
really
afraid of is getting involved with someone again! You're not worried about your hurting him—you're worried about him hurting you!

Oh, shit!

When we got to the bedroom, Jonathan had started painting the other window frame. Bob announced that the house would have to be sealed for the next three days, work would have to stop on the bathroom, and Jonathan would be staying with me. Jonathan, who had not smiled since Bob and I entered the room, merely looked at me, expressionless. “I can sleep in the coach house,” he said. Bob and Mario exchanged glances, then looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

“They'll be tenting the coach house, too,” Bob said.

“And I want you to come and stay with me.”

“Really?” he asked, still suspicious, but reminding me somehow of the reactions of a puppy to whom a hand is held out just after having been scolded.

“Really,” I said, and hoped to hell I meant it.