“Share one lemon chicken?”
“This will do me enough,” Gibney said to his drink.
Benek laughed, then told him about Hadrian and Caligula and their stolen car, which, as it turned out, was found a couple of weeks later later by the complaining pair, abandoned only a few blocks away, with all its contents stolen. Hadrian lamented his lost luggage, Caligula his large jar of vitamin tablets.
7
Benek went to bed early that evening, wondering whether the coroner was an old closet queen or just wanted to be friends. The two strange cases they had discussed were as good an excuse as any. Human attractions were unpredictable.
Questioning the local butcher near the church had been useless. The man had guessed why Benek had come, and fearing for his business had vehemently denied that anything had been stolen from his shop to make the mess on the church floor. He was sorry the priest had died. Heart attack was the story that was circulating around the parish. Benek had thanked him and left.
Captain Reddy had not even asked about Gibney’s report. As with the brainless dead man on the bench, the case was simply unfair in the way it presented itself; but who said that any case had to be fair? Benek had often thought police procedures a bit unfair to the criminal, at least to the minority that got caught, because cops went down a whole list of possibilities for the important cases, reached for long shots, and were always ready for a chance revelation, which was much like betting on every horse in the race despite the expense. The criminal was more limited, carrying out a particular set of actions to one end. Cops often guessed the truth, or had it handed to them, as when a routine suspect had dropped her purse in the station house and out fell the cocaine that had been stolen from the murder victim and the revolver that had killed him. Cops bluffed confessions out of suspects, and then tried to back them up, while the criminal was frozen in time, unable to change a single detail after the arrest. And most criminals never got caught.
Thinking about this case was all but impossible—no suspects, plenty of evidence suggesting nothing acceptable, and no motive. He couldn’t even bet on all the horses because he didn’t know where they were running, or even that they were running. Maybe they weren’t even horses.
As he turned off his light, he had a sudden vision of a fiend in some deep basement removing brains from bodies, then lay on his back and thought of Dierdre Matera, wondering if there would be any point in questioning her again, and realized that he still had an excuse to see her again and that it did not have to be police business. His attraction to her was as clear as seeing a primary color. He couldn’t lie to himself about it without knowing that he was lying; therefore, he was telling himself the truth. End of argument. Reason had won...
He drifted into sleep listening to the sounds of cars and trucks. Auto break-in alarms sounded throughout the night, but his sleep-self had learned long ago to ignore them. The racers were running, and no one knew where the finish line waited to be crossed...
He dreamed that fifty years had passed, leaving him unchanged, but that Dierdre was now an old crone living off the rents from her decaying building. He stepped into her apartment and she gave him a toothless smile, then dropped her silken robe to reveal a body unchanged by time. She came up close to him and said, “I could choose a body or a face, but not both. Women have to choose between their face or their ass. How do you like my choice? I’m still a virgin, you know.” She was without a doubt a woman of ass. At her age she had to be, because in the dream he could not see her face.
She tried to kiss him and he woke up in a cold sweat. A break-in alarm was going full blast nearby, but he was grateful for the distraction as he got up, went to the window, and peered down through the glass. Three shapes were working on the car next to his, a Lexus that made his old Volvo look shabby. He turned away and went back to bed, resigned to the fact that the car would be gone before anyone called the cops.
On his way out early the next morning, he ran into his neighbor Carla as she was keying in through the big glass lobby door. He knew at once from the look on her face what had happened.
“Your car?” he asked, trying to look sympathetic.
She stopped and tried to smile. “It was brand new.”
“Insurance okay?”
She nodded. “Do you think I’ll get it back?”
“Quite honestly—no. It’s probably on its way to Los Angeles by now. From there it might turn up in Warsaw or even Moscow, or wherever someone has a standing order for this model, or just the parts. Whole or in pieces they travel far.”
“Really?” she said with annoyance. “You
know
that?”
He nodded, then said, “But file a police report anyway. I’ll do whatever I can to speed things along, if you want. Then collect the insurance and get something less showy.”
“They didn’t touch the piece of junk next to it,” she replied. “Don’t tell me that’s what I’d have to drive to feel safe.”
“Do without. You can here—you’re almost better off in Manhattan if you don’t have a car. Even cabs and limos wouldn’t run up the yearly expense of a good car, and you can always rent one if you’re going outside the city.”
“I suppose,” she said, still looking distressed.
“I have to have a car to get to work,” he said, “or if there’s something I want to check up on after my shift, but I try not to use it much, or even wash it that much. Parking’s a lot of trouble, too.” He paused. “Mine’s the piece of junk.”
“Oh.” She flushed. “That’s yours. I’m sorry I called it...”
“It is, but passed inspection so far. Look, here’s my best advice. File a report, collect the insurance, and do without a car for a while. You might find that you prefer it.”
“Thanks, Bill. Maybe I should be grateful I didn’t leave anything important in my car.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better go upstairs and call in to work. I’m going to be late.”
“So am I,” he said automatically, then regretted the words. He could have offered to go to the station with her, help her file the report.
She stood before him awkwardly for a moment, then said, “Thanks, see you,” and started for the elevator. He stood there for a moment, feeling sorry for her, then went out the front door.
He stood at Dierdre Matera’s outside entrance, surprised by how much he was looking forward to seeing her, at how his anticipation had grown ever since he had gone off duty. She opened the door as he reached for the buzzer.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, stepping back. “I was just on my way out. What is it?”
She wore a well-tailored, light gray business suit with a white open collar blouse, blazer, and long skirt, and she gazed at him, at nearly his own eye level, through large, slightly tinted glasses.
“Another time,” he said, disappointed as he turned away.
“No, come in, I’m in no rush,” she said suddenly.
He turned back and looked at her. “But you were going out.” Her expression was unchanged, unreadable as she pushed back gracefully through the door. He hesitated, then went in after her. The door clicked shut behind him, and he followed her down the hall, wondering what he would say to her as she opened the apartment door and led him into her living room.
She sat down in the center of her sofa and asked, “Have you learned something more?”
He sat down in the facing chair, feeling that she was much more curious than she seemed.
“No, but I thought you might remember some more details of what happened in the church.”
“Oh,” she said with surprise, then smiled. “I don’t think so.” She slipped off her shoes and tucked her legs up on the cushions. “Excuse me.” She sat back and gazed at him. “You must have some idea of what happened.”
He smiled and shook his head. “It makes no sense.” He sat back stiffly as she leaned forward. There was no official reason for his being here. As she looked at him, he realized that she had guessed as much from his obvious discomfort.
“Oh, I see,” she said, and seemed about to smile. “Lieutenant...” she started to say.
“Not Lieutenant, Detective, third class,” he said, and realized that he was glad to be here.
“You don’t strike me as a shy man, Detective,” she said, staring at him as if she had discovered everything about him, but it was too late to get up and leave.
“Some coffee or tea?” she asked with a smile. “You’re much too nervous to be romantic.”
“No, thanks. So you haven’t remembered anything else?”
She smiled again, frowned, then said, “Not a thing.”
He said, “People often don’t know they have information to give until they try to remember.”
“Do you really think I know something? No, of course you don’t. Care to have dinner with me?”
He hesitated, and she added quickly, “That is, if you’re free tonight. Who knows, maybe I will remember something, if that helps you any.”
They ate at the Red Dragon on the West Side. He tried to be good company, but felt suddenly awkward before her seemingly confident expectation that he would like her, even though it was true.
He chose egg roll and pepper steak with onions and tomatoes, and she smiled and said, “I can be more adventurous than that,” and ordered dim sum, hot and sour soup, an exotic shrimp dish, and a white wine, and started immediately on the noodles and mustard sauce. The waiter asked them if they’d like a drink before dinner, but she waved him away, saying, “The wine will be enough,” and Benek nodded his agreement. Looking at her and imagining how they must look from a distance, he wondered if she was the business executive and he a less well-dressed subordinate.
“So where are you from?” she asked, smiling.
He hesitated and she said, “Lie, if you like. Might be more interesting to guess.”
“New Jersey,” he said. “And you?”
“Right here. I grew up in the house on Tenth Street.”
“Is it your sole support?” he asked, and regretted the question. “I don’t mean to pry—just curious.”
“Mostly,” she replied. “You’re not planning to marry me for my money, are you?”
He answered with a half smile and a silent no.
She scowled. Let’s play buried land mines, her eyes seemed to be saying: see if you can say something that won’t set me off in your face. Get through my minefield and maybe I’ll think something of you.
“Did you really want to be a cop?” she asked.
“It’s what I can do,” he replied. “Did you want to be a landlady?”
“It fell into my lap. The income gives me a lot of free time to read and play.”
“And that’s what you want out of life?”
She sighed. “Nothing much else seems to call to me. Got any ideas?”
“Husband and kids?”
“Are you offering?” she asked with a mock smile.
His egg roll and her soup and dim sum arrived. He cut the egg roll in half, and ate the one end. She started on the soup slowly, then began to spoon it up quickly, glancing up at him with what seemed to be a genuine shyness at odds with her brittle remarks.
He didn’t know what to make of her. Carla’s friendly face flashed through his mind, telling him that he might have preferred asking her out instead. They were both, in their different ways, detectives; he could have told Carla about the priest’s mysterious death and she could have filled him in on the medical scams she didn’t like investigating. She might even have liked meeting Frank Gibney eventually; he imagined the three of them sitting here at dinner, talking about frauds and homicides and autopsies, comparing notes. But there had been no fantasies about Carla surrendering to him in the night. There was no lusting after an ambivalent angel.
Dierdre reached the bottom of her soup and asked, “Okay, Detective, why are we here?”
“Just an impulse, I guess.”
“Just kinda like me?” she asked.
“You’ve found me out,” he said grimly. “I’m out of control.”