‘Sure. Whatever, Franny.’
He shuffled down the hall. His thick torso rolled with each step so that he rocked like a little tugboat. ‘It’s alright, Opie, I do it all the time.’
‘You sure you’re alright, Franny?’
‘Swell.’
‘Where’s Caroline?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘I was just . . . She didn’t say good-bye.’
He stopped, then turned to face me. ‘Are you porkin’ her?’
‘No!’
‘You sure, Opie?’
‘Pretty sure, yeah.’
‘Why aren’t you? You don’t like her?’
‘Do you always cross-examine people this way?’
‘She’s divorced. Did ya know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well it’s true.’
Boyle nodded as if we’d just cleared up a misunderstanding, then he moved off again. At the conference-room door he stopped and stared. The file boxes – shit! Boyle regarded the conference table, piled with papers and boxes.
Comm. v. Braxton
was written on each box in thick Magic Marker. He puffed his cheeks with a sort of sigh. ‘What are you doing, reading that shit?’
‘Reading about Braxton, that’s all.’
‘You want to hear the truth someday, you come ask me.’
‘Sure, Franny’
Boyle gave me an exhausted look and continued down to his office, where he promptly tumbled onto the couch. ‘Hey, don’t tell Caroline I said she was fuckin’ you, alright? She might take it the wrong way’
‘Oh, I don’t think she’d take it the wrong way, Franny.’
‘She’s not wild about me anyway. She thinks I’m crooked.’
‘That’s not true.’ I dragged an old wool blanket over him.
‘She hates me. She wants to get rid of me but Lowery won’t let her.’
‘Just sleep it off, Franny. I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.’
‘She told some people once, “Franny’s so crooked he has to screw his hat on.” Like it was a joke. She doesn’t think I know that, but I heard about it. She said, “Franny’s so crooked he has to screw a rubber on.”’
‘She said that?’
‘Yeah. Charming, isn’t she? It’s not true anyway’
‘About the hat or the rubber?’
‘You know what I mean. I’m not crooked. I’m not crooked . . .’
I was prepared to reassure him again, but Boyle was asleep before I could get the words out.
Back in the conference room, I gathered up the papers, put them back in the boxes, and moved the whole mess into Danziger’s office. Boyle’s snuffling snores carried from the next room.
And then I had it. I saw the importance of the Trudell case.
Now, when you’re exhausted, it’s easy to mistake ordinary thoughts for profound ones. This trick of the tired mind explains why our deepest insights always seem to arrive at three
A.M.
and why there is such exquisite, tantalizing pleasure in trying to recover those three-
A.M.
thoughts the next morning. It is a pleasant misperception to think yourself profound, and tired as I was that evening, well . . . I thought I understood the situation.
The Trudell case – all the hidden acts and secret motives became clear. I knew that Raul did not exist – not the Raul described in the warrant, anyway. Detective Julio Vega had invented Raul as a well-intentioned scam to trick judges into issuing search warrants. The courts had insisted that Vega do better than the junkies and rats who fed him information on the street, so Vega invented the informant to end all informants, a street-corner oracle so reliable he could exist only in a judge’s fantasy. And then it all blew up. With one shot, Harold Braxton not only murdered Vega’s partner, he exposed the whole fraud. He converted a routine bogus search warrant into a cause. And he converted Julio Vega from an obscure and unexceptional cop to a bumbling, lying villain with his face on the front page of
USA Today.
That’s how Harold Braxton got away with murdering Artie Trudell.
In Danziger’s office I stood in front of the photo of the original SIU team, the photo showing Artie Trudell with that big rump roast of an arm on Bobby Danziger’s shoulder.
And I knew.
With three-A.M. certainty, I knew how it galled Danziger to see Braxton on the street after he’d killed Trudell. I knew that was why Danziger had kept the file – he wanted to reopen the case. And I knew whom Danziger must have contacted. Not Franny Boyle or Martin Gittens, neither of whom seemed to be aware that Danziger had revived the old case. No, it had to be the only other member of the old guard who knew what really happened that night: Julio Vega.
19
It was not Caroline but a little boy who answered the door. He was nine or ten, and his manner suggested that the doorbell had interrupted some very important activity in the life of a nine – or ten-year-old. Before I could open my mouth, the kid moaned, ‘Mom, there’s a cop here for you.’
‘What makes you think I’m a cop?’
‘You’re here to see my mom, aren’t you?’
‘Your
mom
?’ It occurred to me I might be at the wrong apartment. I actually checked the number on the door to be sure.
Caroline came around the corner, wiping her hands on her jeans and pushing the hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. ‘Ben! What are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you about something. I was looking through Danziger’s files—’
‘This is Charlie,’ Caroline interrupted, with a pointed look. ‘Charlie, this is Ben Truman. Ben is a friend of your Grandpa’s, and that’s why Grandpa’s in trouble.’
The kid mustered a little wave.
‘Charlie, you know better than that. What do you do when you meet a new person? Go on.’
Charlie rolled his eyes, then extended his hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Truman.’ He gave my hand a firm squeeze, just as Caroline had instructed him, I’m sure.
‘Ow, ow.’ I fell to my knees and grabbed my hand as if the kid had broken every bone from wrist to fingertip.
Charlie’s eyes widened, then he smiled. Boys are nothing but very small men (and vice versa); the surest way to their hearts is through their egos. He stepped back and leaned against Caroline, who crossed her hands over his chest.
‘Go do your homework,’ she said, with a pat on his chest.
‘I don’t have any homework.’
‘Then go do tomorrow’s homework.’
‘How can I do tomorrow’s homework if I don’t have it yet?’ He twisted his neck to look up at her, but she would not listen to reason. Charlie emitted a world-weary groan, then padded off.
‘You can get up now, Ben. Male-bonding time is over.’
‘Male-bonding time is never over. It’s just suspended if there happen to be females in the area.’
‘That’s a terrifying thought.’
I stole a glance around the room in which we stood. A stack of magazines threatened to slide off the coffee table –
The New Yorker, Cosmo, People.
Beside them were three copies of
The New York Times,
still in their blue plastic bags – where they would stay until the Danziger case was resolved, no doubt. An open can of Diet Coke. A Nintendo game. A Miró poster above the nonworking fireplace. In the corner were Charlie’s hockey bag and two sticks. A comfortable, familial clutter.
‘I don’t usually talk about work here,’ Caroline informed me. ‘This is Charlie’s time and his place.’
‘Sorry. I had a thought. I didn’t know who else to ask.’
She eyed the folder in my hand. ‘Have you had supper, Ben?’ When I hesitated, she said, ‘Come on,’ and led me to the kitchen. As I followed, her hand sought out the tail of her shirt and selfconsciously adjusted it over her rump.
There was a small round table in the kitchen with places set for two. Caroline called to Charlie to set another place.
‘Are you sure there’s enough, Caroline? I didn’t mean to impose.’
She showed me a baking dish lined with eight chicken breasts.
‘All for you two?’
Charlie shuffled into the room in stocking feet to explain. ‘She makes too much so we can keep eating it all week.’
Caroline waved the spatula at him in a menacing way and turned back to her cooking.
The kid shared a little smirk with me. He liked Caroline’s cooking even if it meant a week’s worth of chicken. I smirked back to let him know I understood that.
‘Sit down, boys,’ Caroline ordered.
I sat opposite Charlie while Caroline filled the plates over the stove. ‘Rice?’ she asked, ‘salad?’ There was something oddly moving about the whole exercise. A suggestion of intimacy, of caregiving. ‘What will you drink? I have milk, apple juice, Cran-apple, orange juice, water, beer – no, sorry, I don’t have beer. I have some wine. Do you drink wine?’ I told her I did, and Caroline searched around for the bottle. She gave it to me to open.
‘I’ll have wine,’ Charlie said.
‘You’ll have milk.’
Dinner passed quickly. I complimented Caroline on the chicken, which gave her an opportunity to needle Charlie. ‘See?
Some
people like my chicken.’ For the most part, though, Charlie and I spoke while Caroline listened. An amused smile – a sort of half Elvis – played at the corners of her mouth as her son held forth on a variety of topics. She spoke only to correct his manners. (’The Bruins suck!’ ‘Don’t say
suck,
Charlie.’) Hockey and movies seemed to be the twin passions of Charlie’s life. Without much prodding he would recite the latest comedy film verbatim from start to finish, mimicking all the voices. He was going to spend Thanksgiving with his father, and Christmas and New Year’s with his mother. He hated everything about school, and the sum of his knowledge about the Great State of Maine was that it was located somewhere between Greenland and the polar ice cap. Or so he told me, with an Elvis smile of his own. Throughout the conversation, my eyes sneaked over to Caroline. The simple fact of Charlie’s presence seemed to soften her. Not her manner so much; she could still be stern with Charlie and prickly with me. No, the change was more physical. It was a relaxation around the eyes and mouth – the slightest, barely perceptible gentling of her features – which transformed a merely attractive woman into one who was very nearly beautiful. No doubt it is a sign of advancing age when a man finds that motherhood flatters a woman, but there it was.
After supper, Charlie dutifully cleared his plate and put it by the sink, then he disappeared to watch TV – tactfully, I thought. Caroline moved to the sink to do the dishes, which I placed in the dishwasher or dried.
‘So,’ she said as she washed, ‘what was it that was so important?’
‘I think Danziger was reopening the Trudell case.’
To my disappointment, Caroline did not seem impressed. She did not even look up from the dishes. ‘Why? Because he had the file? I have files that are older than Charlie. It doesn’t mean anything, except maybe that it’s a case you don’t want to let go.’
‘Exactly Maybe Danziger couldn’t let it go.’
‘Too late. That case was dismissed – what, ten years ago?’
‘About. But jeopardy never attached. The judge threw the case out before it got to trial. So there was no legal reason why Danziger couldn’t reopen it.’
‘My, my, “jeopardy never attached.”’
‘Isn’t that how you say it?’
‘That’s how you say it. Have you been moonlighting as a lawyer?’
‘No, but we can read up in Maine, you know.’
‘Whole books?’
‘Shoor, if they ain’t too long.’
She smiled carefully and handed me the baking dish to dry.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? Jeopardy never attached.’
‘Yes. But even if you’re right, even if Danziger did want to reopen the Trudell case, there’s still no evidence. There’s no proof that Braxton shot Trudell. None. All the evidence got thrown out along with the warrant. Some cop made up an informant, wasn’t that it? What was his name, Ragu?’
‘Raul.’
‘Raul. So why would Danziger reopen the case?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d found some new evidence.’
‘Doubtful. Look, Ben, cases go wrong all the time. Guilty guys walk. It happens, it’s part of the system. Bob Danziger knew that.’
‘Yeah, but this was different. Trudell was his friend. You can see it in that photo. Artie Trudell wasn’t just another victim to Danziger.’
‘There’s still no evidence. It’s an unprovable case.’
‘What if Danziger didn’t think so? What if he thought the case could be saved?’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. What if Danziger thought Raul was real? If he could prove that Raul really did exist – that Vega hadn’t lied on the search warrant – then the warrant would be good and all the evidence would come back in. Braxton would finally get nailed for killing Trudell.’
‘Ben, if there really was a Raul, the cops would have produced him in the first place. They wouldn’t have let a cop killer walk just to protect an informant.’
‘Julio Vega said he looked for Raul but he couldn’t find him because Raul took off.’
‘Yeah, well, Julio Vega is a liar.’
‘Maybe Danziger didn’t think so.’
‘Maybe, but with these cases the simplest explanation is usually the right one.’
I grunted. ‘Ockham’s razor.’
She looked at me as if I’d belched.
‘It’s the rule in logic that the simplest explanation is the right one.’
She turned off the water and stared.
‘What? Hey, this isn’t a golden retriever you’re talking to. I told you, we read books in Versailles. I was even going to be a professor once.’
‘Yeah? In what?’
‘History.’
‘So what happened?’
‘My mother got sick.’
‘Sorry. Is she okay?’
‘No. She passed away. It’s a long story.’
‘I’m sorry’
‘No, really, it’s okay. She died the right way, if that’s possible.’
‘Alright. If you say so.’ She laid a wet, sympathetic hand on my arm. ‘Well, in any event, you’re not a history professor now; there’s no sense in digging up a ten-year-old case.’