The Last Good Day (31 page)
Then he walked out of the circle and back down the hill again.
THREE DAYS LATER,
Lynn picked up the small bronze coffin that sat at the edge of the chief’s desk and turned it slowly, noticing its craftsmanship—the tiny hinges on the side, the minuscule indentations representing nails in the lid, and the name of the funeral home etched on the side.
“So, what’d you think of Sandi’s funeral?” she asked Harold, who sat before her, half-tilted back in his leather chair, bifocals riding down his nose as he reviewed her complaint against Mike.
“Can’t go wrong with understatement,” he said, turning a page and still not quite meeting her eyes.
“I meant what Mike did at the graveside.”
Instead of answering immediately, Harold just rocked in his chair, flipping back and forth between one page and another as if trying to understand an abrupt transition.
“We all grieve in our own way,” he said finally.
Poor Harold. His office was starting to feel like a reinforced air lock with all the pressure building up outside. In the week since Sandi’s headless body had been found, there’d been emergency town meetings, Neighborhood Watch Groups formed, beefed-up security around the schools. A hot line number for anonymous tips had been set up at the police station, and blue and red signs for ADT and Slomin’s Shield security systems had begun popping up in front of houses like crabgrass. But none of it was enough to reassure anyone, especially with the backdrop of local Activist Moms complaining that not enough was being done to safeguard the nuclear power plant twelve miles up the road from terrorist attack. All at once, the tag line of every other conversation in the parking lots and driveways seemed to be
But when are they going to do something?
And obviously Harold could not have missed the unspoken implication: that everything had gone to hell as soon as a black man was put in charge.
“I guess you must’ve heard they were seeing each other, Sandi and Mike,” Lynn offered tentatively.
“And where did you hear that?” Harold replied cautiously, staying in neutral.
“Hmm, people who’ve been around the house.” Lynn lowered her voice, not wanting to expose Inez as her source and betray a confidence.
“Well, then I can’t comment to you about that,” Harold said. “It would be prejudicial.”
“Of course.”
She put the little coffin back down on his desk and brooded for a while, still seeing the image of Mike shoveling dirt into Sandi’s grave. Had Harold known about the affair already? He would have been hard-pressed not to have suspected it after the funeral.
“So how’s it going with Sandi’s case?” she said, changing the subject.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Is there a lot of talk about the state or the county police coming in to help out?”
“We have most of the resources we need within our own department,” he said curtly.
“I’m sure that’s true.”
She folded her hands on her lap, hoping she hadn’t offended him. Her affection for Harold had been one of the real constants for her in this town. Even as a teenager he’d had a kind of stolid patience beyond his years, always listening to everyone else’s arguments to the last intemperate word and then talking sense to them. Always knowing just the right thing to do and say to calm everyone down, whether it was in the middle of a schoolyard brawl or a funeral with two hundred and fifty guests waiting in the chapel.
He suddenly brought his chair upright and took his bifocals off.
“Lynn, may I speak with you?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why you asked me here.”
“No, I mean, can I really speak with you? Plainly and honestly. About this
other
matter.”
He looked down at the double-spaced two-page complaint Barry had made her type out about Mike coming in to her studio and trying to kiss her.
“Sure.” She felt her ears pop as if the room had changed altitude. “I realize it seems awfully trivial compared to everything that’s going on …”
He cut her off. “I asked your husband to wait outside while we talked because you’ve put me in a difficult position.”
She looked back at the door, wondering how Barry was doing in the outer office with the year-old
Sports Illustrated
s
and
People
magazines. At least a half-dozen cops had wandered past the doorway while they were waiting, blatantly checking out the skirt and the stiff who’d brought charges against the number-two man in their department.
“Normally, Mike would be the one running an Internal Affairs investigation into an officer, but since he’s the subject in this case, that’s obviously not an option.”
He put his glasses down on the statement, and through the lenses she saw the words
at that point, Michael tried to put his hand down the back of my pants
magnified beyond fourteen-point type.
“My other main detective, Paco Ortiz, is running the homicide investigation, so I can’t ask him either.” Harold rubbed his eyes, plunging blindly ahead. “That leaves me. And I’ve known both of you most of my life.”
“Harold, if there was any other way …”
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Now, I am not in a position to tell you not to press charges against Michael. That would be an abuse of my position. My job is to take the statements from you and your husband and then turn them over to a prosecuting attorney appointed by the board. And once that happens, the entire matter is out of my hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’ll be a disciplinary hearing put on the schedule, and you’ll be called upon to testify in open court. And once that ball starts rolling, there’s no way to stop it.”
She felt a dry leathery spot crack at the top of her throat and realized that she hadn’t swallowed since she’d walked into the office.
I don’t want to do this,
she’d told Barry last night.
We have to live in this town.
“Are you condoning what he did and telling us to just let it go?” she asked cautiously, licking her lips and wondering if she’d worn too much makeup today.
“No, I am not. But I want to make sure you have the full picture before you decide to move forward.”
“Harold, that sounds a little bit like a warning.”
He gave her the famous tombstone eye, a look that said,
Go no farther.
“I don’t need to tell you how long the Fallon family has been in this town. Michael is an important part of this community. He raised eighteen thousand dollars last year organizing a bowling tournament for Sergeant Quinn and his wife after their daughter got leukemia. He took the Little League team to the county finals three years in a row and helped pay for the runner-up trophies out of his own pocket. And the truth is, you wouldn’t even be sitting here if he hadn’t cleaned up the crack problem down by the train station. Because you wouldn’t have wanted to buy a house in Riverside …”
“So does that mean the law shouldn’t apply to him?”
One corner of his mouth jerked, threatening a quick smile. “This is not an opinion,” he said. “This is stating facts.”
“But you’re telling me that everyone’s automatically going to be on his side.”
He sighed and hunched forward, his fingertips forming a kind of triangle. “I’m saying this is a situation involving two people I care about. And both of you could get hurt badly.”
“Oh?”
She crossed her ankles and stretched back into the confines of her chair, trying to look guiltless.
“If you get up on the stand, you’re gonna be subjected to all kinds of ugly questions. The normal rules of evidence and procedure don’t apply in a disciplinary hearing. A defense lawyer can ask you anything he wants.”
“I see.”
She was aware of a small pain starting to grow, very much like a flathead screwdriver wedging in under one of her shoulder blades.
“They might dredge up all manner of things from the past that might be very painful for a person with a family to hear discussed in public.”
“You’re not blackmailing me, Harold, are you?”
She saw something flare white-hot in his eyes and only cool slightly with the hooding of his lids. And for just an instant, she sensed the sheer physical exertion and strain of his life, all the effort it took to keep other people from ever glimpsing the true depth of his anger.
“I am trying to give you the information you need to make an intelligent decision,” he said, as if he had a steel bit clenched between his back teeth. “What you do with it is up to you.”
The digging under her shoulder blade sharpened. She should have told Barry more before they came in here today. But there were parts of her old life that she’d barely even admitted to herself, let alone tried to explain to anyone else. They were like pictures that sat at the bottom of a chemical tray for too long, dark and undeveloped.
“Barry said there was a good chance that Mike would fold and take a plea once he saw our statements rather than go through the whole process.”
Harold shrugged. “I can’t predict the future. I’d have thought you might’ve dropped these charges after your husband’s arrest got voided.”
“You don’t know Barry. His gears don’t do reverse.”
“And neither do Mike’s. He’s pushing to get this hearing over with so he can get reinstated right away. And the mayor’s thinking the same thing. He doesn’t want this mess hanging over the whole department while we’re trying to solve a homicide and restore confidence. They’re talking about putting this trial on next week.”
She hesitated, not realizing this would all happen so quickly. “Does that give anyone enough time to prepare?”
“That’s not for me to say.” He stood up, signaling this meeting was just about over. “So, what’s it going to be, Lynn? It’s not too late to jump off.”
She looked up at him, realizing that the days when he would casually refer to her as a friend might be passing right before her eyes. She already felt the loss in her bones.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “This isn’t just about me anymore, Harold. Mike pulled Barry off the road and put the handcuffs on him.”
“I understand.” The chief nodded, as if he’d known she would say this all along. “So I’ll pass both of your statements on to the board and the prosecuting attorney.”
“I guess that’s the way it has to be.” She stood and offered her hand. “I wish I wasn’t the one making your life more complicated.”
“Believe me”—he smiled in spite of himself—“you’re not the only one.”
“DADDY, WHO’S THE
scariest monster in the world?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Mike sat at the kitchen table, mobile phone and pile of papers at one elbow, SpongeBob glass half-filled with bourbon at the other. He tried to studiously ignore his youngest son, Timmy, in the doorway and the plucky merengue music blaring from the house across the street as he read the charges against him one more time.
Michael tried to put his hand down the back of my pants …
“Who do you think would win in a fight between Voldemort and Spawn?”
“What?”
He looked up and saw Timmy in rumpled cowboy pajamas, staring at him saucer-eyed, a ragged old comic hanging limply from his hand, the splayed toes of one bare foot awkwardly massaging the instep of the other.
“Cheryl says no one can defeat Voldemort but …”
“Timmy, gimme a minute, willya?”
At that point, I asked the lieutenant to leave my studio …
He picked up the phone and dialed his union rep, Frank Murray, pretending not to hear the wild shriek and rumpus of his older children arguing over what video to watch upstairs. Almost eight o’clock on a school night. Shouldn’t these kids be doing their homework and getting ready for bed? Jesus, maybe they all needed to be on Ritalin. Fucking Marie. Working late again and throwing him to the wolves.
Somebody’s got to bring the money in,
she kept saying.
By the end of next week, his vacation time would be all used up, and Harold would have the option of officially suspending him without pay. Another piece breaking off the eggshell they lived on.
Of course, she
said
she was staying with him for the time being. It only took half a night of him carefully explaining that the charges against him were obviously horseshit, that everyone was freaking out because of this sicko murder, and that Lynn was taking advantage of all the rampant paranoia to exaggerate a few things he’d said to her so her sleazebag husband could sue the town for harassment.
The oldest scam in the book,
he told her.
And Harold’s just knuckling under because he wants to keep his job.
But three days later, the thought still nagged at him that he could’ve maybe given her a little more of a heads-up. Not a full weepy confession or anything. Just a few strategically placed mumbles and grunts to soften up the ground a bit and make sure he didn’t get dragged away in the backwash. The last thing he needed was his wife publicly abandoning him on the eve of a hearing.
The dull burr of the phone ringing vibrated the little bones deep in his ear canal.
“Dad …”
“Just gimme another second, Timmy.” One finger extended, begging for indulgence.
He’d been desperately trying to make amends since that night Paco and Harold came by. Even before he’d had kids, he’d sworn he’d never lose control and start screaming the way his parents did. But they wear you down; they really do. A hundred little fights a day over things that couldn’t matter less. A thousand little questions posed at the exact wrong moment.
“Daddy, Cheryl says Voldemort could beat Spawn …”
Obviously, the kid just wanted to hang out with him. They’d had a nice talk the other day in the car about monster movies—the first time in months, really, they’d connected. Just two guys going to the hardware store in the middle of the afternoon, sharing a black-cherry soda on the porch afterward. You couldn’t blame the boy for wanting to stay in that little pocket of time. But now the line was clicking, and Frank’s answering machine was coming on.
“Hey, Frankie! Mike Fallon again,” he said once the outgoing message had played. “I just got the file from the chief, and it’s time to stop screwing around. They really lowered the boom on me, buddy.”