Deception Page 11

  Nothing like a cozy Oregon night in the old brownstone.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 10:30 A.M.

  Manny and I sat at our adjoining workstations, forty feet into homicide detail, to the right of the aisle. Conference rooms and offices are to the left. My desk reaches to the windows. Manny’s desktop has pictures of his wife and kids and is otherwise squeaky clean. I have a few snapshots of Sharon, oases in the midst of a hopeless desert of papers, some from cases closed three months ago. It only takes me ten minutes to clear off my desk, but requires an empty drawer to stuff it all into. No drawers were currently empty.

  Manny and I had been discussing the case for over an hour, disagreeing in our interpretations of the evidence whenever possible. When Clarence showed up, Manny disappeared.

  “It’s confirmed,” I told Clarence. “The killer used the professor’s keyboard.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “Because no prints. They were wiped clean.”

  Out of the blue, Clarence asked, “How’s Kendra?”

  He’d taken me by surprise. He nodded at the picture where she and Sharon were hugging.

  “Your daughter.”

  “I know who she is.”

  “I haven’t seen her for years,” Clarence said. “Not since … Sharon’s funeral.”

  “Haven’t seen much of her myself. She’s … I don’t know. Something’s wrong with our chemistry. One of us needs our fuse box rewired. Kendra’s granola. Hates anything you have to plug in, unless it’s a computer, a microwave, or a hair dryer. She says the advancements of civilization have ruined the environment. She used to tell me how air conditioners are killing us. Then we had that hot summer, and she got an air conditioner at Costco. I made the mistake of mentioning it.”

  “Do you call her?”

  “I saw her every few months after Sharon died. Then it was only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then Thanksgiving was so awkward she started making excuses about Christmas. Everything I say irritates her.”

  “You? Irritating?”

  “Once when she came over she had a bumper sticker on her car that said, ‘Meat is murder.’ So I said, ‘If meat is murder, I’m a serial killer.’ That’s how our night started.”

  “Still no word from Andrea?”

  Just hearing her name felt like a punch in the gut. I told Clarence I needed to take a walk. I took the elevator to ground level and walked the streets around the Justice Center. The clean rain fell lightly on my eyelashes, an occasional drop hanging on for dear life before plunging to the pavement. Just when I thought I’d adjusted to the cold, a gust of wind rushed up Madison to quick-freeze my lashes, winter reminding me that it had a lot more to dish out and it would do it in its own sweet time.

  The good thing about winters is they’re always followed by spring. You remember what it was two months ago, and you reassure yourself with what it will be like two months from now.

  Andrea’s my older daughter. Always troubled. Only her mom could keep her stable. And after Sharon died, Andrea floundered. Six months later she disappeared. No forwarding address. I’ve made a hundred calls. Friends say she’s never contacted them. She ran away as a kid, and she’s run away as an adult. I keep thinking she’ll come back, that one day I’ll get a call. Hasn’t happened.

  I walked the concrete maze, taking Madison to Second, then to Jefferson, around the Federal Building. I stared into cracks only to periodically look up into drips of rain. As I walked, I pondered fatherhood.

  Children are terrorists. They work you over with sleep deprivation. They make you say and do things you’re not responsible for, like promising that if they’ll go back to sleep you’ll buy them a yacht when they turn six.

  I feel like I no longer have children. All that links us is genetic material and the hole in my heart. Andrea’s out of reach. Maybe I could take a few months off and hunt her down. But then what? She didn’t want anything to do with me. Obviously that hasn’t changed.

  As for Kendra, it’s even harder. I call her periodically, but I’ve learned to have a stiff drink first. It’s brutal.

  Kendra lives twenty minutes away, but there’s a thousand light-years between us.

  I went into fatherhood an ignoramus, and I emerged twenty-five years later not knowing how to go back and unscramble the eggs. I’d been determined to be Ward Cleaver. Instead I became my father—there, but barely. My daughters have never forgiven my absence.

  Neither have I.

  I remember the spring, summer, and fall with my daughters, before the cold hardness of winter settled in. But the winter had been so long now, so many years I’d nearly given up hope that spring would ever come, that our relationships might someday thaw.

  The last night we’d had a discussion, the night I was telling Clarence about, Kendra told me I was modern and she was postmodern. I said I knew Post Toasties, but please explain postmodern. She said modern meant I believed in truth, absolute rights and wrongs. She explained that enlightened postmoderns, such as herself, realize there’s no such thing as truth or moral absolutes. I said, “So criminals are postmodern, right?” She said I was a dinosaur. I thought about how much money I’d spent to send her to Portland State, where she could learn to be a moron, whereas she could have skipped college entirely and become a moron for nothing.

  I might have even said something to that effect. If I did, it was not well-received.

  That night Kendra slammed the door and didn’t look back. I watched her drive off in her meat-is-murder-mobile and knew the cold war was on. That same night I said good-bye to five months of sobriety. I haven’t come back yet. Haven’t even been to a meeting.

  Life makes outrageous promises. It seldom delivers. Just thinking about it, walking downtown in the eye-numbing Oregon air, made me thirsty again.

  An hour later Clarence and I drove to the professor’s house to meet Manny and walk the neighborhood. We got out at the corner of 22nd and Oak. Manny saw us as he approached from Pine, following his scowl.

  “Tell us where to go,” I said, though I wouldn’t recommend putting it that way to Manny.

  “What took you? We’re way behind. Here’s a list of apartments I’ve covered in the big complex,” he said, pointing. “I’m canvassing all houses within a two-block perimeter. If I find a Dumpster or anyplace good for a toss, I’ll cover it.”

  “Want company?”

  “We’ll cover more ground working alone.”

  “Clarence comes with me,” I said. It saves time to let Manny do what he wants. As long as he’s still on the waiting list for that personality transplant, it’s easier for everyone that he works alone.

  Manny was halfway across the street when he called back, “Listened to the 911 yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Check it out!”

  We walked in the door of the Franklin Terrace apartments. No sign of a manager. We climbed to the second floor, starting a couple doors down from Rebecca Butler, where I knew other apartments had a view of the professor’s house. When we came to the first number not on Manny’s list, I knocked.

  “We just knock on doors?” Clarence whispered.

  “Unless you have a better idea,” I said. “If you do, send a memo to the whole department. Include an attachment.”

  A tall pale guy with frazzled hair and a greasy ponytail opened the door, looking out suspiciously.

  “Police,” I said. “Mind if we come in?”

  The guy mumbled something that wasn’t “stay out,” so we entered. The smell of burned cocaine and aged meat was in the air. Drug paraphernalia lay on the table. He wasn’t bothering to cover up.

  I walked to the window. “See that house across Oak, the gray one?”

  He looked, but I wasn’t sure he saw. His eyes said, “Nobody’s home.”

  I pointed at the weather-beaten Colt on the table.

  “That yours?”

  He hesitated, apparently trying t
o think of the best answer as opposed to the true one. Nothing came out.

  I picked up the gun with a paper towel and smelled it. Not fired recently. I opened the chamber. Not loaded. I don’t like loaded weapons nearby when I’m with someone I don’t know—or my sister-in-law.

  “Did you see or hear anything over there last night?”

  No head motion detectable.

  “Gunshot?”

  He shook his head, barely.

  “What’s your name?”

  Nothing. I’d have to avoid the hard questions.

  “That your wallet sitting there?”

  Slight nod, or maybe it was the breeze and his head was loose.

  “Can you show me your ID?”

  His head bobbed, but his body didn’t move.

  “Open it please,” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Only because you’re telling me to,” I said, looking at Clarence like he might have to testify. I checked. “Nice meeting you, Ryan Moffat.” I handed his driver’s license to Clarence.

  “Take down the info, Watson. Tell you what, Mr. Moffat, we’ll come back later. Meanwhile, get some sleep. Just say no to drugs a couple of days. Have some coffee when you get up. You drink coffee? It’s a legal drug. You should try it. We’ll talk more when your brain returns, if you still have one. Okay?”

  He nodded. Clarence finished scribbling. I backed out the door, something I learned to do years ago after I got a surprise steak knife between my shoulder blades, courtesy of a guy I’d thought was comatose.

  After the door closed, Clarence asked, “Why didn’t you take his gun?”

  “Second amendment.”

  “You think it’s his?”

  “Maybe not, but no time for the paperwork. Wasn’t the right caliber for our murder.”

  “Drugs were sitting right there.”

  “And did you notice the three DVD players and half dozen car stereos in original boxes? No? How about the dozen Fleetwood Mac: Greatest Hits CDs still in their wrappers? When he’s not breaking into cars and houses, he’s shoplifting. It all supports his habit.”

  “And … you’re letting him get away with it?”

  “Let’s set aside the issue of whether he really invited us in so I could confiscate illegal items in plain sight without a warrant. Do you know how many hours it would take to arrest him? How many depositions and court appearances and answering his lawyer’s insinuations that I planted it to set up his model-citizen client, who, if we keep him out of jail, will probably discover the cure for Hodgkin’s disease? I’m telling you, it’s not worth it.”

  “But you can’t just turn the other way.”

  “I saw three people jaywalking earlier.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “You live in an idealistic world.”

  “This is Mr. Justice-Is-My-Middle-Name talking?”

  “If I started arresting people for the little stuff, I’d never solve a murder. I’m looking for murderers, not addicts and burglars. I’d enforce the laws against small crimes if the system didn’t punish me for it. And if criminals got more than a judge’s stern look.”

  We walked to the next door. I lifted my hand to knock.

  “I’m not carrying a gun,” Clarence said, eyeing a creepy-looking resident staring at us.

  “Relax. If you need one, most of these apartments have a couple of guns stashed. Statistically you have a much greater chance of being killed by a family member or friend than a stranger.”

  “That’s comforting. I’ll have to remember to have strangers over for Christmas and not turn my back on Geneva and the kids.”

  “You’re really nervous, aren’t you?”

  “These tenants are mostly white. They see a big black guy at the door, and it’s scary. People can get nervous, and nervous people can be violent.”

  “You’re right. You could get killed. But that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I thought you were a Christian … aren’t you ready for heaven? Isn’t that what you’re always talking about?”

  “I may be ready for heaven, but that doesn’t mean I have a death wish!”

  “You could always explain in your article that you were afraid to interview witnesses.”

  “I wouldn’t be if I were a white guy wearing a badge and carrying a gun.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Chicken,” I whispered.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m thinking of a chicken sandwich for lunch. Getting tired of Whoppers.”

  The interviews were going nowhere when Manny called.

  “I found a gun.”

  “Where?”

  “In a Dumpster by Lone Fir Cemetery, Twenty-third and Stark. Across from Central Catholic High School. No serial number.”

  “Wine bottle?”

  “No. And I sifted everything.”

  “Glad it was you. Clarence couldn’t fit in a Dumpster. Sure it’s our gun?”

  “It’s a Taurus Millennium Pro, 9 mm, recently fired. Two or three blocks from Palatine’s. Nobody would ditch a decent piece like this unless it was hot. You could get a couple hundred bucks for it easy. Lucky a Dumpster-diver didn’t see it.”

  “It’s been wiped clean?”

  “I think I see a couple of prints, but hard to say.”

  “Tell forensics to put a rush on it.”

  “Like always.”

  After seven short interviews that yielded nothing, Clarence and I settled at Burger King for a late lunch. I wanted something else, but I’d inadvertently committed myself to a chicken sandwich.

  “We haven’t come up with much today,” Clarence said.

  “Remember how I said it’s like panning for gold?”

  “And you don’t know in advance what’s mud and rocks and what’s gold.”

  “Exactly. The more you see and hear, the more questions you ask, the wider you throw your net, the better your chances. It’s like casting a line when you’re not catching anything. It seems pointless—but you can’t catch a fish without doing it. Any cast has better chances than no cast. Eventually you get a bite. Other apartments have a good view of Palatine’s house. There’s another guy Manny wants us to follow up on. Beats scraping stuff off the bottom of Dumpsters. Let’s go back and pan for gold.”

  We visited apartments; then I phoned the lab, called people who knew the professor, and tracked down a half dozen items on the Internet. I got home at 7:00 p.m., let out Mulch, and gave him a couple of Purina Beggin’ Strips, bacon and cheese. Took a little bite myself. Not that bad, but too salty. Mulch and I wrestled.

  My couch is so clean you could eat off it—in fact, I often do. While I cooked a DiGiorno pizza, I put on my extra-large gray hooded Barlow Bruins sweatshirt—a gift from Sharon’s niece five years ago—stepped into my Emu slippers, tossed a pillow on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table, then grabbed the remote.

  When you live by yourself long enough, you begin to think the world’s a stage. You’re the lead, and the people around you are actors in supporting roles. Sometimes, like when they deliver mail or fry you a steak, they make your life more convenient. Sometimes, like when they cut into your lane or foist a journalist on your investigation—or tell you that someone looked like Abraham Lincoln except that he was short, pudgy, blond, bald, and wearing a stocking cap—they don’t.

  If the stuff about me being the lead sounds insightful, it’s because it came from Sharon. If my calling is to take down the bad guys, hers was to remind me it wasn’t all about me. I needed that reminder. I wish she could come back and remind me again. I wish she could come back for any reason.

  I’ve turned her into a saint: Saint Sharon of Calcuttafornia and her sisters of charity. I never liked Saint Sharon’s sisters, but that’s another story. (I never saw their endearing qualities, hidden beneath their bitter exteriors, because, being a man, I just didn’t get it. Men never do.) Sharon was from Venus and I was from Mars, and he
r sisters were from somewhere on the dark side of Pluto, no offense to the dog. (And I don’t care if people say it’s no longer a planet. For all I know, scientists on Pluto took a vote and decided Earth’s no longer a planet.)

  Sharon wasn’t perfect, but I don’t remember the specifics of her imperfection. I would have taken a bullet for her any day. What I took instead was a nuclear blast in my face the day she died. Or maybe it was the next morning when I woke up without her beside me, when I got up to go visit her in the hospital, trying to shake that bad dream about her dying, then realized it hadn’t been a dream.

  The fallout continues, like the ash that dropped on us from Mount St. Helens for weeks back in 1980. My throat’s ash dry.

  Occasionally I see the sun, but mostly I live under the mushroom cloud.

  A homicide detective is something between an atheist and a monk. Since Sharon died, I’ve been closer to atheist. Yet sometimes when I least expect it, a flash of light, a face in a crowd, the feel of a breeze, the smell of the air, make me suddenly feel like she’s alive. That’s when for fleeting moments I feel like that medieval monk detective I watch on PBS, Brother Cadfael. Sometimes he drinks wine, and I wonder, after the show’s over, if he doesn’t drink a lot more.

  I went to the fridge and this time bypassed the Bud and reached for the Gewürztraminer, which I like but can’t pronounce. I raised a toast to Sharon, and then to Brother Cadfael, and then to Mulch and his predecessor, Philip Marlowe, two of history’s greatest dogs. Thirty minutes later the wine was gone. I hoped I’d soon follow.

  The darkness felt thick enough to lean on. I leaned, but it didn’t hold me up. The next thing I knew it was midnight, three hours since Mulch had stolen the last pizza bone from my plate. I dragged myself to bed.

  “Give him peace, Lord,” she said.

  “I offer him peace,” the One beside her said. “So far he hasn’t chosen to receive it. I don’t force My peace on anyone.”

  “It’s hard for Ollie,” she said.

  “I know. I made him.” He smiled.

  “You didn’t make him so stubborn. He got that way on his own.”

  “With the help of a world that isn’t what it was meant to be … and forces that deceive him.”