Authors: Elizabeth Adler
There were still things she knew she could never talk about, secrets she could never expose to the light of day. But they were from another time and place, and she had told herself long ago that the only way to survive was to go forward.
Harry had been right, of course. She had taken the coward’s way out by refusing to confront her own desolation and sense of abandonment created by her mother’s suicide. Obviously she had been afraid of it.
“Thank you, Harry,” she said into the night. Then she went back indoors and called him and left the same message on his answering machine.
She smiled, thinking about Harry getting her little message when he returned from work in the early hours. She wandered into the guest room and switched on the lamp. She looked at the bed Harry had slept in last week. The room had been cleaned and the bed linen changed, but her pillow was still there—the same pillow his head had rested on.
She lay on the bed, clasping the pillow to her breasts, her knees curled up, her eyes closed, thinking about Harry, wishing she were back in his arms, making love to him. Because when Harry Jordan made love to her, she had felt loved. And that was pretty special.
T
HE HOMICIDE SQUAD ROOM WAS
still buzzing with activity at dawn when Harry finally called it quits. He had gone through the transcripts of the interviews and the evidence found at the scene, and he had played Terry Walker’s answering machine tape endlessly. Each time he heard Suzie’s last words, it was like a blow to the heart.
After the first time Rossetti couldn’t bear to listen to it again, but Harry was searching for background sounds, anything extra that might have filtered onto the tape. He had finally sent it over to the lab to see what they could do electronically to amplify it.
He hardly needed Dr. Blake’s autopsy report. It seemed a terrible pity that Suzie had had to be defiled a second time in order to discover what her last meal had been, and whether she had taken any drugs or poisons, and which of the terrible slashes had been the one that actually caused her death.
Both he and Rossetti had begun referring to Suzie as “the victim,” putting a distance between the girl they knew and the body in the morgue.
“We’ll get this son of a bitch, though, Prof,” Rossetti said soberly.
He looked like a different man from his usual soigné, Casanova persona; now he was somber-eyed and angry. Harry felt exactly the way he did.
“We’re homicide cops, Rossetti,” he said, trying to jolt them both back into the reality of their position.
“Yeah, but we’re still human,” Rossetti retorted.
They walked out to the parking lot together, stood around, hands shoved in their pockets, saying nothing. Rossetti kicked a stone; it struck the Jag, and he said moodily, “Sorry.”
Harry shrugged; it didn’t seem to matter. He slapped him sympathetically on the shoulder and said good night.
They walked to their cars, turned, looked back at each other.
“Where you headin’ now, Prof?” Rossetti asked.
“I thought I’d go by the club, see what’s doing.” Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would work out in the gym and burn off the false energy. “What about you?”
“I thought I’d try the church, put in a little prayin’ time. Give it a chance anyhow.”
Harry hoped God could do better than they were. He climbed into the Jag and drove very slowly through the cool gray dawn to the Moonlightin’ Club.
The club was quiet. Just a few young guys hanging around, sipping Cokes and talking. Even the music was muted—instead of rap, they were playing a Whitney Houston album.
He said hi in passing, went to the locker room, and carefully stowed his handgun away. Not that it meant much, he thought as he shut the locker door securely. Any one of the kids here tonight more than likely possessed a firearm, most of them more sophisticated than a police officer’s handgun.
He took a quick shower, changed, then hit the gym. He did a half hour on the treadmill, then he lifted free weights instead of using the machines. He needed the sheer physical feel of being in charge of himself tonight.
Another half hour later, sweating and exhausted, he went back to the locker room, took another shower, and got dressed. He was reaching for his holster in his locker when he saw a slip of paper tucked underneath.
He slid the note carefully from beneath the weapon. The message was scrawled in black ballpoint.
“The shooter at the 7-Eleven is Isaiah Tulane aka Gregory Tallman aka Ike the Man. Right this moment he is keepin outta sight at 9 West Street. The dead guy was a friend.”
It was unsigned, of course. But Harry had no doubt it was accurate. He took ten seconds out to wonder how they’d gotten into his locker, then reminded himself severely that this wasn’t day camp. Most of the guys who frequented the club had criminal records, and most had been involved in drugs. Lockers were easy meat for them. He felt lucky that the only time they had abused the trust between them was to inform on a murderer who had shot one of their own.
Nevertheless, he was guilty of the sin of complacency—he hadn’t expected this to happen. He had been careless and was just lucky it hadn’t all gone bad. It wouldn’t happen again.
Nobody looked his way as he walked back out to the car—they just went right on doing what they were doing. Harry grinned as he got on the radio phone and summoned up the squad cars. Sometimes life offered up a little bonus after all.
He got Rossetti on the phone too. “How’d your praying go?” he asked, still smiling.
“You know better than to expect an immediate response,” Rossetti retorted. “Still, I guess I feel better.”
“Then this will make you feel even better and increase your faith in the Almighty.” Harry told him about the note. “I’m on my way to pick up the arrest warrant as we
speak,” he said, elated. “See you on West Street, old buddy.”
Arresting the killer was an anticlimax. He was in bed, sleeping off a heroin hit and he offered no resistance. Later he became truculent and told them the name of his accomplice.
“It was him shot the guy, not me,” he muttered as Harry paced around him in the interview room.
Rossetti sipped his coffee, aware that Tulane was dying for a cup. And a cigarette. He took out a pack of Camels, ostentatiously shook one out, rolled it around in his fingers, then stuck it between his lips. He tossed the Zippo from hand to hand, drawing out the tension.
Tulane’s eyes were fixed on the cigarette. He licked his lips. His face was ashen gray, his mouth parched, and as the drug left him, he began to shake.
“I need a smoke, man,” he said, still angry. “Ain’t you guys supposed to offer suspects that? And coffee?”
“Sure.” Rossetti lit the cigarette and wafted the smoke away with his hand. Tulane sniffed it up like it was cocaine.
“Oh, man,” he moaned, “you are one mean shit.”
“Detective Jordan, will you make that two demerit points against Mr. Tulane?” Rossetti grinned.
“There’s all the coffee and cigarettes you want just waiting for you, Isaiah,” Harry said mildly.
He knew it was just a matter of time. Rossetti had the guy wound up, and his accomplice was going through the same motions in the next room. They had the weapon and the rusting white Ford transit van. They had these guys nailed, and in the next hour or so, they would confess. Meanwhile, their lawyer had arrived, disgruntled at being hauled out of bed. Harry yawned. It seemed as though this night had gone on forever.
It was ten in the morning when they had their confession, and when Harry finally drove back home, he was
worried about Squeeze. He needn’t have been—the dog was used to a cop’s erratic hours. He greeted him with a lazy wag of the tail and lumbered cheerfully to his feet.
Harry slipped on the leash and took him for a brisk walk up and down Beacon Hill and around the Common. He stopped at a Starbucks and had a decent cup of coffee for a change and shared a cinnamon twist with the dog before they walked home again.
There were two calls recorded on his machine. The first was his mother.
“Harry, thank you for coming to my birthday,” she said gaily.
Harry groaned. She was so up, and he was exhausted. Besides, the party seemed like a decade ago.
“Wasn’t it just lovely? Sometimes I think I outdo even myself. And thank you for bringing Mallory. She was certainly an extra treat. Such a lovely woman. Your uncle Jack says you’re crazy if you let this one go just because you’re wedded to your job. And I must say I agree with him.” She laughed again. “Let’s have lunch soon, dear boy.”
There was a pause, and then she added as though she had just thought of it, “Don’t you think there’s something faintly ridiculous about having to make an appointment to lunch with you, when you live right around the corner? You could just drop in any old time. Oh, except I forgot to tell you, I’m off to Prague next week with Julia. I know you’ll ask yourself why on earth I am going to Prague, so I may as well answer you now. It’s because I’ve never been there.
Au revoir
,” she added, then put the phone down with a firm click.
Harry grinned. Miffy was nothing if not predictable. He waited for the second message.
It was Mal. She said in that soft purring voice, “I was just thinking about you. I want to say thank you, again. For everything. Good night, Harry.”
He wanted to hold her, hug her to him. Instead, he smiled and patted the answering machine affectionately. He hoped he would dream of her when he finally got to sleep. But in fact he did not. He did not dream at all.
M
AL WAS ON HIS MIND
when he woke up, though. He edged Squeeze’s head off his chest, sat up, ran his hands through his hair, then dialed her home number. He got the answering machine and sighed. Of course, it was two thirty. She would be at the office. He called there, but she was still at lunch, not expected back until around three.
At three he was sitting at Ruby’s counter having breakfast, with Squeeze tucked underneath, as always.
“Good thing he’s a police dog,” Doris
said loudly at him. “Otherwise the patrons might object on hygienic grounds.”
Harry glanced at the other customers, gulping Bud, coughing over their Marlboros, and mopping up gravy with their bread. “Not these patrons, Doris,” he called over his shoulder, as he went to the pay phone near the door.
Squeeze had his head on his paws. He lifted his eyes, watching him, but he did not move. He knew when Harry meant action.
“Ms. Malone is in a meeting at the studio,” Harry was informed.
“Okay,” he said resignedly. “Tell her I called again. I’ll get back to her later.”
He went back to the counter and picked, disgruntled, at his usual ham and eggs.
“You know what, Prof? You don’t eat right,” Dorissaid, leaning her elbow on the counter opposite him. “You ever eat anything ’cept this crap?”
He glanced moodily at her. “Sure I do. I eat cinnamon buns, pepperoni pizza, and Matisse sandwiches.”
“I ain’t never heard of a Matisse sandwich, but what you need, Prof, is a good woman who cooks for you. Proper food, y’know, like they tell you to eat in magazines.”
“The women I meet don’t cook,” he said sadly. Then he remembered Mal’s refrigerator with the quail and stuffed zucchini blossoms. “Well, maybe some.”
“Then go for it, Prof, because if you don’t snap her up soon, you’ll be the one in Mass General. In the cardiac intensive care, wishing you’d never heard of Ruby’s famous home fries.”
It wasn’t Doris; somehow the food just didn’t taste so good today. He drank a Coke, paid the check, waved good-bye, and walked to the door. This time Squeeze followed him.
Back in the squad room, it was as though he had never left. He sat in front of the computer going over the facts about Suzie’s death. Something about it didn’t quite add up. For one, nothing had been stolen: the stereo and TV were still there. Still, the odds were she had interrupted him before he had a chance to remove the goods and stash them in his car.
He examined the photographs of the body. Suzie’s battered face was covered in dried blood. He peered closer at it, took a magnifier from the drawer, and looked again. He picked up the phone and called the crime lab, asked them to blow up the detail of Suzie’s forehead. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen, but he was pretty sure he was right.
He looked at the photograph of the black lace panties lying on her bed. Yet there had been no rape. The crime lab had them, along with her sheets and the other articles
present at the crime scene—the bag and the peas, the knife, samples of blood, and the fingernail scrapings. The detritus of a wasted human life.
He looked at the pictures of the knife. It was small, with a thin narrow blade. It was the same type that had been used on Summer Young. He pulled up Alec Klosowski’s statement on the computer. The description of the suspect and the type of vehicle also tallied.
He shook his head, disbelieving. Suzie had been randomly butchered in what he guessed was an impulsive crime. The deaths of the three young women students had been premeditated. They had been stalked, abducted, and raped, then killed cleanly in an act of planned sexual violence.
He called forensics again and asked when they would have something for him, anything. He just needed to get on with it.
“Give us another couple of hours,” the head of the crime lab told him.
So he took Squeeze for a walk alongside the Charles River. Mooching along with his hands in his pockets, he gazed at the sidewalk instead of at the scenery. The dog walked soberly at heel, sensing this was not a playful catch-the-ball-type day. Then, lured by a cackling group of gulls on the embankment, he flattened himself to the ground and squeezed under the fence.
“Get back here, you idiot,” Harry yelled as the dog chased after the gulls, sending them shrieking angrily into the air. Squeeze barked joyfully, Harry laughed, and the dog trotted triumphantly back. This time he leaped the fence, then resumed his position just slightly behind Harry, as though nothing had occurred.
“Mutt.” Harry cuffed him affectionately, then he returned to his thoughts.