Playing God (46 page)

Burgess followed, envying Perry the ease, remembering when he was young and how good it felt to protect someone pretty and vulnerable like Jen Kelly. Not that they'd protected her from much tonight. She'd seen about the ugliest thing a person can see. She'd had a succession of ugly things lately. Depending on how things shook out, it looked like more ugly things to come.

It didn't take many guesses to figure out who'd cut O'Leary up and stuck him in her car. As nasty a bit of criminal hubris as he'd seen in a long time. Were Bailey and Shaw really so dumb they thought the cops wouldn't look in Jen's car? Had they thought the cops that dumb? And what about Jen? Paying blackmail to protect her and then doing this?

He called his cousin, since this body was on Sam's watch. Then Melia, who took the news with a stoic grunt. His third call was to Jack Kelly, to whom he suggested the possibility of a physician other than Ken Bailey. By that time, she was in the bathroom, being loudly and wretchedly sick; Perry was in the kitchen, making her some tea, and little Stevie Pleasant was yelling his head off, unimpressed by all the commotion.

Following the sound, Burgess went upstairs—an Everest of a climb—and picked the baby up, laying him on a changing table and fumbling with clumsy hands for the snaps on the tiny blue garment. Fists no bigger than quarters punched the air uncertainly. Dark blue eyes stared up at him as he freed the little feet and pulled off the sodden diaper, got a dry one, and taped it on. Feeling like a giant—he'd forgotten babies could be this small—he removed the wet clothes, powdered the soft skin, and dressed the baby in a clean onesie and sleeper. He finished, poked the little belly with a finger, and said, "Better?" Stevie Pleasant rewarded him with a big, gummy grin.

"You keep surprising me," Jen said from the doorway. Her skin had a grayish pallor and she drooped like an un-watered flower. He thought she might faint again.

"Sit down," he said. "I'll bring him to you."

"You think you look any better?" She walked unsteadily to the rocking chair and lowered herself into it. "Is this when I confess that I've lied to you?"

"I know you were there that night. At the hospital. Was there something else?"

She shook her head. "I should have known better than to lie to you. I just wanted so badly to protect my privacy." She bent her head and her hair fell forward, hiding her face. "From the first, I knew it was a mistake. There's something unstoppable about you. You'll just keep rolling forward until you get where you want to go. Stan says you got shot last night and yet, here you are. Why?"

So it was Stan already. "Just doing my job," he said.

"Why?" she repeated, shaking back her hair.

"I don't believe in murder."

"You have to win, don't you."

"Look who's on my team."

She raised her head and looked at him, puzzled. "Your team? I don't understand." She looked so young and pitiful he wanted to get her warm milk and read her a story. A happy story. She could have used one.

"I play for the dead," he said. "I'm the only one left who can score."

"You're crazy," she murmured, bowing her head again.

"Maybe," he agreed. "I called your stepfather. He's coming over." He carried the baby to her. It almost fit in the palm of his hand—a human life little bigger than a roasting chicken. He handed it over and looked around for a place to sit. Settled for a window seat. "The bag in your car. I'm sorry you had to see that."

She shrugged as she unbuttoned her blouse. "You tried to stop me." The baby shifted restlessly and made fussing noises. "I'm sorry, detective," she said. "I can't talk about this now. My milk won't let down, and he's hungry."

Burgess shoved himself off the soft seat, finding it hard to get upright again, so exhausted he felt numb. His feet seemed a long way from his head, uncertain in their journey across the room. He entertained no visions of sugarplums, but thoughts of sleep danced in his head. Finding O'Leary had released him. He was ready to hand this over.

Unanswered questions buzzed like hornets though his weary brain. They could wait. The state cops would have a long, busy night, working Jen Kelly's car and Ted Shaw's house, but those were not his problems. His problem was still Stephen Pleasant. And Kara Allison. What role, if any, O'Leary had played. If he'd been there—as her statement about the tattooed wrist suggested—there would probably be some evidence in the car. Hair, fibers, something. And if she'd been flung out of the car, there should be marks in the snow. But what
had
happened? Now he'd never get to ask. He could march out there and yell his questions at the severed head, but he'd get no satisfaction.

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the oil patterns in the coffee Stan had fixed, unable to bear putting anything in his stomach. Jack Kelly came and asked questions he answered without knowing what he said, then went upstairs to take care of Jen. Sam came, got filled in, and left. Some state cops came and did the same. He felt like an icon. The kitchen cop, font of wisdom. He wanted to leave, too, but Stan was still working and he was too tired to drive. He listened to the clock tick and thought about calling a cab. It was a long way to the phone. He was about to do that when someone called his name.

Vince Melia, suit rumpled, hair awry, his tie for once slightly loose, said, "Hey, Joe. Ready to go? Stan's gonna stay a while longer, keep an eye on things. I thought you might need a ride." Melia, who'd earlier cursed him for being an ass, looked benign. Maybe Burgess was redeemed. He had found the person everyone was looking for. In pieces, but found. "Thought we'd go by the hospital and see Terry."

"Sure, Vince. Sure." His body unfolded from the chair, a slow, tired straightening he felt in every muscle and joint, especially his bad knee. He couldn't straighten his shoulders. His head was too heavy. Someone's big, ugly hands—his own?—carried his cup to the sink. Someone's big, plodding feet carried him out of the room, down the steps, past the whole crime scene commotion, and into Vince's car. How could he pass a crime scene and not even pause, not be drawn to the scent of it, the excitement? Where was that piece of him that believed no one else could do it as well? Maybe someone had taken his self away and left him a loaner to use until his own was repaired and ready to use again.

Vince didn't say anything until they were moving. Then he reached down on the floor, grabbed a can of Coke, and held it out. "Thought you might need this."

"I do. Thanks." It was icy cold. Burgess popped the top, tipped his head back and drank.

"Terry's going to be fine," Melia said. "Leg's broken in two places but they're nice clean breaks. He's some pissed he's missing all the excitement."

"What excitement?"

"Another day, you weren't so many hours out, you hadn't gotten shot up, you'd find this exciting." Burgess grunted. "You wanna go to the hospital or straight home?"

"Hospital."

"How the heck I'm supposed to supervise you if you won't follow orders?"

"Cote would have let him walk. By morning, those bags would have been gone."

"That's why I'm not yelling. Can't value a man for his cop's gut and then complain when he uses it. I hear it was a hell of a performance. You think maybe the girl was telling the truth? That O'Leary did it?"

"Be handy, wouldn't it? But no. I don't." He changed the subject. "You get her clothes?"

"Claims she burned them. Didn't want them around to remind of what an ass she'd been."

"No sign of Randall Noyes?"

"We're still looking. Got any ideas."

Burgess leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, sleep tantalizingly close. He drifted toward it and hurled himself out into space. Floating among soft black clouds. A thought, like a bungee cord, snapped him back. "Yeah," he said. "I've got an idea."

"You are a phenomenon," Melia said. "Two seconds ago, you were snoring."

"I am amazing, aren't I? Find out where Carman Merchant is buried and watch the cemetery. Guy like that, loving her the way he does, and all stirred up? He'll go there. Now I
am
going to sleep. Wake me when we get there. I'm sorry about the car. "

"Screw the car. It's only a door. They'll have it fixed in no time."

"On what planet? It'll take six weeks to get a door here from Detroit and then it'll be the wrong one. Meanwhile, what do I do for a ride?"

"Got a bright blue Blazer we took off a drug dealer. You can borrow that. It'll make you feel young again."

"Lousy car." Burgess fell asleep.

They parked just outside the entrance and went up to Kyle's room. It was jarring, going from the dark, quiet car to the brightness of the hospital corridors. It was good that Melia was with him. Not so long ago he'd been a patient here himself, getting all the birdshot dug out, but that wasn't what came to him now. Walking these corridors alone at night would have pulled him back into memories of his mother's last days. They were always waiting for him. More so at a time like this, when death was in his head.

It was the middle of the night. Things ought to have been dim and quiet, but Kyle's room was busy, visiting hours un-enforced. There were other cops there, along with pizza, coffee, and donuts. Centerpiece to it all, Michelle, in tight black jeans and a turtleneck, her blonde hair loose and lovely, sat beside Terry, holding his hand. Weeks of longing, one night together, and she already looked like a fixture.

Kyle gave him a thin smile and held out his other hand. "Hear I missed some fun."

Burgess shook his head. "It was ugly, and it's not ours anyway. Besides, there's plenty of fun ahead. I haven't heard the fat lady sing."

"We workin' tomorrow?"

Michelle frowned. "Terry, you can't possibly—"

"Forget it," Melia said. "Everybody's taking the day off."

"Oh, sure. Only way you get Burgess to take a day off is handcuff him to his bed."

"I'm seriously considering it."

"I'd bet my personal fortune on Burgess working tomorrow," Kyle said, "only I don't have a personal fortune." He looked lousy but content.

"You call your wife?" Burgess asked.

"And tell her what? Her only concern's whether my paycheck keeps coming."

"That you're going to be fine, just in case it gets in the paper. So the girls won't worry," Melia said. "Want me to call her?"

The pain on Kyle's face was psychic, not physical. Thinking about worrying his girls. About an article in the paper and how badly his ex-wife might handle it.

"I'll call her, Terry," Burgess said.

He walked down the silent corridor, the building looming around him, the stark quality of the light, the concealed mechanical hum, feeling the darkness reach out for him. He felt the tentative licks of its raspy tongue, tasting him like a giant, invisible cat considering whether to sink in its teeth. Knowing it could. That in his present state, he couldn't fight back.

He found an empty lounge with a pay phone. Sat in a chair by the phone, his head in his hands, feeling the weight of this case. What he knew and what he thought he knew. About truth. About life and death. Love and hate. About why he did his job and how he did his job. About the nature of justice. It was good Melia was making him take a day off tomorrow. No one believed he'd take it, but he would. He needed a day to think.

He dropped in some coins and called Kyle's ex-wife. Did his best reassuring number. Urged her to bring the girls to visit tomorrow. Kyle needed to see them. They needed to see him. No, his appearance wasn't shocking. A little bandage on his head, a cast on his leg. And yes, the money would keep right on coming. He disconnected and stayed there, receiver in his hand, his head pressed against the wall, so very tired of people and their complications.

Then, though a man tired of people and their complications ought to have wanted to be alone, he pulled out a piece of paper and dialed a number. "It's Joe Burgess," he said.

"I can't believe this," she said. "You're actually calling me. Where are you?"

"At the hospital."

"I thought I said—"

"Just visiting. I'm going home now. Was hoping you might be free."

"It's after eleven on a Saturday night. That probably means I don't have a date. What did you have in mind?"

"Snuggling?"

"Snuggling?" Her voice did that wonderful thing where it dropped a register and, like a conjurer, called up a response from his astonished body. "That's the best line I've heard in years. Your place or mine?"

"Mine?" He needed to shave. To be in a familiar bed. And he'd bled through his clothes. It sure was an appealing package he was offering.

"Good. Then I won't have to dust or pick up. Give me your address."

He gave his address, then hung up the phone and went back down the corridor to Kyle's room. This time, the darkness kept its distance. He reported to Kyle about the phone call and told Melia he was ready to leave. He was silent on the ride home, thinking about Chris Perlin. Numb and exhausted and yet. His mind and body might be borrowed, but the lust he felt was all his own.

Chapter 35