"So where else would you hide?"
"Not behind the door. I have to make sure she's in and can't get out before I make my move."
"So the bathroom's the best place, Frank. Unless you want to hide in the closet."
"I guess it is."
Janek
paused. "Okayâlet's go home."
After he dropped Sal off he drove the streets aimlessly. He hadn't planned to go back to Caroline's but to spend the night at his own place and drop in on her Sunday afternoon. When he finally did get home he felt tired but had trouble falling asleep. It had been a tough evening. There was always a certain exhilaration after a run-through; he was never sure whether it came as a result of working hard or on account of something deeper, the vicarious pleasure of pretending to be a killer, trying to imagine the emotions of the ritual, feeling the surge of power a killer had to feel as he played out the drama of his crime. He had felt that on run-throughs before. It scared him. It was like entering a realm of madness. There had been an awful thrill to it this evening, too, something he had loathed and also had enjoyed.
T
en o'clock Sunday morning:
Janek
woke with a start. The first anniversary, exactly a week since Al had pulled the trigger.
Louella
had phoned him that Sunday at 10:05. She'd awakened him and when he figured out what she was saying he had clenched his fists and beaten them against his bed.
He shaved, showered, got dressed and went out to a coffee shop on Broadway. He slipped into a seat behind the counter, ordered a mug of coffee and a bagel, and wondered how he was going to handle things today with Lou.
He was still wondering as he drove to Queens. He was going to lie to her and he wasn't going to enjoy that very much. She would look at him with her big sorrowful eyes and believe him because there wasn't any reason why she shouldn't. Already he was feeling uneasy, beginning to dislike himself, and starting to dislike Al too, for pulling that trigger and creating this situation he didn't want to face.
Stupid. How could he dislike Al? If it weren't for Al he'd never have met Caroline. Al was gone now and he was alive. He would just have to deal with Lou the best he could.
The
DiMona
house was on a side street in Corona that made him sad whenever he drove onto it, a residential street of "starter homes" inhabited by middle-aged people who knew even when they were starting out that they would probably end up there, too.
The house was wood-frame and narrow like its neighbors, with a brick porch added to the back. A big TV antenna, a meager barbecue pit and some redwood outdoor furniture. The clapboard on the outside was starting to peel. Al had said he was going to paint it himself in the fall when the days were cooler and he wouldn't feel dizzy on the ladder.
The card table where he'd been whittling just before he'd fired had been folded up and stored away. Lou led him into the living room. Al had hated it. Gold carpeting. Gold velour upholstered sofa. Gold tassels on the cushions. Coffee table made out of a lacquered antique trunk. They sat on the sofa with an empty space between them, facing each other but with their legs sticking straight out.
"Dolly still here?"
Janek
asked.
"She went back to Pontiac."
"What about the move to Houston?"
"She's putting that off awhile."
"Look, Lou, this is a stupid question. It's only been a week. But I wondered if things were better now."
She nodded. "They have counseling people down at Police Plaza. They helped me take care of the paperwork, and there's a therapy group I can join if I want."
"Think you will?"
"Don't know. They have groups for divorced wives too. Sarah was thinking about getting involved in one right after you walked out. They know about all the problems and they have the support systems to help. For leftover people like Sarah and me. God, I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't mean that the way it came out."
He didn't answer. She turned away. "Sarah called me when she heard," she said. "She asked about you, too. I didn't tell her much. I think she'd still like you to come back. You ever think about that, Frank? It might help, you know. I hate to think you'd do what Al did. They say being alone just makes things worse."
He cut her off. "I know you mean well, but I want you to stop that stuff right away. I don't want to go back to Sarah. If I did I'd shoot myself for sure."
"She says you never call her anymore."
"That's right. I don't. When I used to call all she'd do was complain about the appliances. The dishwasher was out. What should she do? The disposal's stuck up. Who should she call to get it fixed? The car won't start. The furnace runs too cold. The water's brown. The roof's sprung a leak. I told her, 'It's your house now. It's up to you. You get a good
hunk
of my salary and you have a bookkeeping job and a nice house and I'm living in a semi-basement and driving a Volvo that ought to be sold for scrap. So worry about your own goddamn appliances.' I told her that, and she didn't call me anymore." He shook his head. "It's been almost two years."
Lou nodded. She'd tried, said whatever she'd promised Sarah she would say, and now he knew it was his turn to keep his promise, his turn now to lie.
"I checked around a little about what you told me."
"He was working on something, Frank. Did you find out what it was?"
Janek
paused. "I don't think he was exactly working on something, Lou, in the sense that he was doing anything more than walking around thinking about things, maybe visiting a few old crime scenes, stuff like that. He wasn't entitled to carry on an investigation, you know. He had a lot of experience and he was like an old racehorse. He liked to get out and trot a little, work up a little sweat. It's hard to stop cold. So he spun his wheels. But there wasn't any particular case he was working on. Unless he mentioned something to you."
"He said there was a case." She spoke abruptly to signal he was going to have to work harder if he wanted to change her mind.
"There're always cases, Lou. You know that. Ones you never solve. Al had this expression. He'd say, 'Such-and-such case was like that broad in high school you wanted but could never make. You'd make the other girls and then forget them, but the one you couldn't have, you'd think about her all your life.'"
She smiled. "Sounds like Al. Still, he was out so late those times."
"He'd meet some of the guys after work. They'd have a few drinks and talk. He liked that. He didn't want to stay home all day. You knew him. He was an active guy. I just wish he'd found himself a better hobby than trying to put together boat models and whittle flutes."
"He didn't like that. He hated that."
"Why the hell did he do it, then? And make that huge investment in woodworking tools? There must be a couple grand worth of stuff downstairs."
"God, I wish I knew. It was like he thought, 'All right, now I'm retired, so the thing to do is have a hobby.' So then he went out and bought himself a hobby without even trying it out to see if he liked it first."
"Okay, Lou, let's suppose he was working on a case. Let's even say he was working seriously, unauthorized, you understand. Now, does it make sense, then, that he would have shot himself? You know it doesn't. He hated to leave anything undone. That's why I say he was spinning wheels."
She studied the carpet for a while, then looked up and nodded. She believed him, as he knew she would. It wasn't a bad lie, nothing wicked, nothing that would do her any harm, but it made him feel uneasy, and then, as if she could read his mind, she suddenly asked him a question that made him turn away.
"How about you, Frank? Someone in your life?"
"Did Sarah ask you to ask me that?"
"Of course not. OhâFrank..."
He studied her, could see that she was lying, and he was glad because that made him feel better about having lied to her.
"There wasn't for a long time," he said. "I'm not a woman chaserâyou know that. But recently I met someone, and, well, it's someone I like a lot. She makes me happy. I'd be even happier if I wasn't boxed in with a stinking case."
She asked if he wanted another cup of coffee. He looked at his watch and shook his head. She led him down to the basement to Al's den where he'd kept his woodworking tools, his unconstructed model kits, his little refrigerator stocked with beer and his supplementary TV. She had gathered all his clothing together, everything she could find in all the drawers and closets of the house, and she had it all arranged neatly in piles on the couch and the chairs and on the workbench too.
"I called the Salvation Army. They're coming tomorrow. Anything you want, better take it now."
Janek
looked at the clothes. He didn't want anything. He shook his head. "Wrong size," he said.
She hugged him suddenly and he hugged her back and patted her hair and cuffed her on the shoulder and told her she should call on him, that he was always available, that he'd always come if she needed anything.
"I know that, Frank. We both loved you very much. I hope you're happy with this new gal of yours." She walked him to his car.
T
here was a note tucked into Caroline's door telling him she was at the tennis club. He decided that rather than wait he would go there and watch her play. He drove the short distance slowly, examining the neighborhoodâindustrial buildings, warehouses, auto body shops, a delicatessen, a discount rug outlet store and a Laundromat.
He parked in front of the club, wandered in, finally found her playing mixed doubles on one of the outdoor courts. She waved when she saw him. The Sunday sun was hot. He found an old aluminum-frame chair, dragged it over to one of the net posts and sat down.
She was wearing a skimpy tennis dress that exposed her glistening back. She didn't play girlish tennis, but stepped powerfully into her strokes. He liked the way she moved, economical, direct. She played without tricks, the same way she made love; there were solid
thunks
when her racquet met the ball.
Her partner was a lean young man with muscular arms and an athlete's vacant stare. The opponents were an exuberant bearded man with a strong squat torso and a willowy girl who uncoiled a ferocious serve.
Janek
was no tennis expert, but he could see that the women were the superior players. It was a serious matchârushes to the net, leaps to smash, hard backhands fired crosscourt. Tough competitive play, not social Sunday tennis. He felt a little envious, wishing he were part of it.
After the match the players met at the net, then Caroline brought them over to be introduced. They all moved to the club terrace, took a table and ordered Cokes and beers. There was talk of an upcoming autumn tournament, rackets and string jobs, an assistant pro trying to make out with someone's daughter. Listening, he felt separate, dressed differently and cool, while they sat warm and pungent, bonded by their play.
Caroline must have sensed his awkwardness. She turned to him often and smiled. When she mentioned that he was a detective there was a small stirring around the table. The bearded man, a cardiologist, announced that
Janek
was the first detective he had ever met.
"I met one once," the floppy girl said. "Real nice guy. Interviewed me after I was mugged."
"They get the mugger?" Caroline's partner asked.
When the girl shook her head,
Janek
added, "We rarely do."
Later he wondered why he'd said it; he'd sounded defensive in a way he hadn't meant. After that exchange the conversation wound down. One by one the players left for the locker rooms until finally he was left alone.
When Caroline returned he had finished a second beer. Her hair was still wet from her shower.
"Sorry about those people. They're not important. Just tennis friends." She smiled.
"Nice people. Don't apologize for them."
"Boring people. And you're rightâI won't." She studied him. "Something the matter? Bad this morning with Mrs. D?"
He shook his head. "That went pretty much the way I thought."
"But something's bothering you. I can tell."
He nodded.
"Want to talk about it?"
"It wouldn't be the nicest story you ever heard."
"Why don't you tell me anyway."
He saw she was serious, waiting for him to speak. For a moment he hesitated. He'd resolved not to burden her with his case. But it was part of his life, it was gnawing at him, and now she was asking him to share. "Okay," he said, "but stop me when you've heard enough." Then he told her the saga of Switched Heads.
She listened well. He could not imagine Sarah ever listening to him so well, or Lou
DiMona
, or any other detective's wife. Such women cut off or turned brittle when the conversation turned to work, as if the substance of a detective's life was so awful it was best ignored. But Caroline was different, had photographed a war, had been intimate with violence, cruelty and death.
"...still got to look at that gym teacher," he said, "but I doubt there's anything there. Last night, standing behind the shower curtain, I had this feeling there were things I'd seen that hadn't registered on me yet. Things I knew but didn't understand, that kept backing out of reach. Thought about it again this morning and just now when you were changing. I keep coming back to those photographs." He glanced at her. "Ugly. Really ugly stuff."