by Clara Nipper
“No, I’ll stay here,” Sophie said. She was too quiet.
“Okay, keys?” I clapped and rubbed my hands together briskly.
“In here.” Sophie led me to her bedroom, her face impassive. She refused to look at me. She rummaged in her purse. “Here, you lousy son of a bitch.” Sophie hurled the keys into my belly and there was a bloom of pain and a burst of fury in my head. I leaped on her and we fell onto the bed.
I straddled Sophie’s body and gripped her arms, shaking her. “What’s your problem, huh? What is wrong with you?”
Sophie did not answer. Her eyes were dilated and dark. I saw two tears slide out of the edge of each eye and fall to the bed. Sophie screwed up her mouth and spit in my face, her neck straining. She looked like a cobra. My hand flew into the air as a reflex, and before I could dislocate her jaw with my backhand, I froze. I left my hand poised in the air and closed my eyes and breathed.
Sophie didn’t make a sound. When I finally looked at her, her face was radiating such sadness and desire that I lowered my hand inch by inch by inch by inch. I just sat back and drank in the delicious sight of her. Without a sound, I crouched lower and lower toward Sophie’s lips. Lower. Lower still. Almost there. Our eyes locked. Lower. Lower. Finally, I closed my mouth gently over hers. Her breath filled my lungs.
Our union was as soft as I could make it. I channeled my former rage into restrained longing. With my kiss, I tried to tell her I was sorry. My mouth told her how much I regretted the loss and how right she was. I kissed. I kissed her as if she were disintegrating; I kissed mercy into her mouth. I kissed her so tenderly and so slowly, my eyes filled with water. I kissed as if my mouth were fragile; I kissed her until there was peace between us. I kissed her until Sophie was settled but before the passion could build. When I finally stood, my limbs were singing with honey. I picked up the keys off the floor and left the house.
Chapter Ten
Outside, the ice grains were still falling. Underfoot, it was thick and white like snow. I looked at my sorry car. The fender was knocked clean away and had skidded down the street to rest in the gutter. The trunk was crumpled like an accordion almost to the backseat. The trunk lid was open and folded in half. I hefted the garage door open, grunting as I rolled it up on its tracks. Wouldn’t you know, Sophie owned a Volvo station wagon. I got in, started the car, and let it warm up. I walked back out to the street to retrieve my sad fender. There was a boy with mean eyes leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette.
I nodded to him as I lifted the fender out of the gutter. “Whassup, baby man?”
“Pops.”
“What?”
“Call me Pops. Got another smoke?” Pops finished that cigarette and flicked it into the ice where it sizzled.
I laughed. “No, I don’t, not for you. Why don’t you go home and have a glass of milk or go sledding?” Pops stared at me, his gaze slicing me like razors. And there was no contempt sharper than that of the young for the old. “How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, boy, get your ass off this street corner and stop actin’ a fool. Where’s your mama?”
“Nunya.”
“What?”
“None of your business.”
I wanted to box his ears. “Go on now. Quit hanging. Realize your potential.”
“I saw who did that.” Pops said and then grinned when he noticed my expression.
I lowered the fender to the ground. “Well?” I said.
Pops scratched his chin as if deciding whether to give me the job. “I can’t concentrate unless I’m smoking.”
I laughed. “Good try. See you around.” I picked up the fender and began walking away.
“Wait! Okay. You have a good face.”
“I have a good badge too.”
“It was a white guy in a white Escalade.”
“Uh huh.” I was stony. “That it?” I walked a few more steps, the ice crunching underfoot.
“It had a sign on the back.”
I turned, the fender swinging a wide arc with me. “Spill, Pops.”
“One of those crazy fish.”
“All right.” My bladder shriveled with dread. “Follow me.” I walked to my car and perched the fender in the backseat, leaving it jutting out of the window. Then I went to Sophie’s Volvo, opened the passenger door, and said to Pops, “Hop in.” I walked to the driver’s side and sat. I turned the heater on high and rolled down the windows. I withdrew two American Spirit cigarettes, taken off a date’s nightstand weeks ago, put them in my mouth, and with my Zippo, lit both and handed one to Pops.
“What the hell is this?” Pops said.
“Kool-Aid,” I answered, my cigarette bobbing up and down with my words, “whaddya think?”
“I’m not blowing a blunt with a pig.”
I held the cigarette and said, “three…two…”
Pops snatched it and inhaled.
I put the car in reverse and said, “You’ve got a real problem, Pops.”
He cackled. “You have no idea, sir.”
I drove downtown, and Pops never asked where we were going or why. When I pulled up at the sheriff’s office, he glared. “Hey, you can’t arrest me!”
“Relax. I just have to go in for a minute. You coming?”
“Aw, what the hell.”
We both finished our smokes simultaneously. I knew Sophie would go bitchcakes if I left tobacco in her car, so I held my hand out to Pops. He didn’t understand. I ground my butt in the palm of my heavy leather glove. There were scorch marks from previous emergency ashtray situations. Pops shook his head, his eyes wide. I grabbed his butt and ground it out for him. I closed my fist and nodded. We got out and Pops promptly lost his footing and fell on his rear.
“I’m all right,” he said, turning pink.
We walked into the building. “Oh, shit, I forgot my flashlight again.” I slapped the wall.
“I got one.” Pops’s childish voice echoed down the dark hallways. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a tiny penlight. “Better than nothing,” he said defensively.
I called Perryman to find out where she was. I hung up and said, “To the basement.”
“We’re not going to see anything dead, are we?” Pops’s voice seemed so young and tiny. I wanted to hug the fake adult out of him and start him over in babyhood.
“No,” I said, not sure myself. We saw a head lamp glowing in the distance and followed that to the evidence room.
“What is this place?” Pop whispered.
“A place I want you to forget immediately,” I said. “Sheriff,” I greeted Perryman.
“Rogers,” Perryman said, momentarily blinding me with her headlamp when she turned to face us. “Sorry,” she adjusted the beam, “who’s the kid?”
“Came with the car.”
“Look at this!” Perryman picked up a cardboard box.
“Pops, why don’t you go sit over there?” I pointed to a desk in the corner. “I won’t be long.” Pops shone his miniature light and wandered to the corner.
“What are you doin’ down here in the evidence room?” Deputy Harris startled us. Pops kept his mouth shut.
“None of your business, Harris,” said Perryman. “What do you need?”
“We got some warrants we need you to sign off on. Shouldn’t take a minute. Then you can get back to your snoopin’.” Harris stepped closer and examined the name written on the boxes. “If you just come with me, we can git ’er did.”
“Harris, let Lane do the warrants. And you get back out on patrol.”
“But Lane—”
“I don’t care. A dozen other deputies can do the warrants. I’m busy.”
“I believe that case is closed.” Harris pointed with his chin at the boxes. “Hit-and-run.”
“Not the way I see it,” I said.
“I agree with Rogers.” Perryman drew herself tall.
“You would think the high sheriff would be concerned with unsolved, open c
ases instead of wasting tax payers’ dollars over a plunk. And blowing the city’s time and money too.” He gestured to me.
“I don’t think this is a waste of time, and I am not putting any manpower on it. I’m merely poking around.”
Harris shrugged and sighed loudly. “Well, excuses are like buttholes; everybody has one.”
I laughed. Harris glanced at me.
Perryman set her jaw and stared him down, saying nothing. Finally, Harris adjusted his leather equipment belt. “Well, all right, then. Guess I’ll go on.”
“You like kids, Harris?”
“Ma’am?” Puzzled, Harris glanced in confusion at Pops, who sat silently in the shadows.
“Do. You. Like. Children?”
“Much as the next one, I reckon.”
“You behave that way to me again, you’ll be on crosswalk duty until you die.”
Harris pursed his lips, rolling retorts in his mouth, but swallowing them. He removed a snuff box from his pocket and made a great show of extracting a pinch, opening his stained, snaggle-toothed maw, and tucking the tobacco inside. “Sheriff, I’m headed out on patrol.”
“Good man.” Perryman turned back to the evidence box and lifted the boots the victim’s husband had been wearing the night of her death. She handed me a boot. “Look at this!”
I took it. “Is this what I’m looking for? These sticky boogers deep in the waffle tread?”
Pops laughed. “Boogers.”
“Yes, the residue.”
“Yep, it’s there. Good catch, Sheriff. There is monkey business somewhere. What are you going to do now?”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, but it’s suspicious. Get a search warrant somehow. Subpoena his phone records and bank statements. Talk to his insurance agent. One rule for every crime—follow the sex and money.” I handed the boot back to Perryman. “I’d like to be there when you interview him. C’mon, Pops!” The penlight bounced as Pops jumped from the desk and ran to my side.
In the parking lot, I gestured to the white Escalade with the Christian fish symbol on the back. “A car like that?” I asked Pops.
His eyes widened. “Yes, sir!”
I checked the front of the vehicle—minor denting and paint transfer. “Damn Jim to hell,” I said.
When we were in the car returning home, I glanced at Pops. His right arm was propped against the door with his thumb in his mouth. His head leaned against the side of the car and his eyes were half-open and glazed with sleep. A section of his hair was pasted straight up against the glass.
When we got back to Sophie’s, I didn’t want to wake him, so we stayed in the car together. I parked in the sun in the driveway and left the motor running so the heat would stay on. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes too.
Chapter Eleven
“Okay, we’re here with Rick Goodson to interview him about his wife’s death. It’s December twelfth, seven p.m. I am Sheriff Perryman, and this is Detective Rogers who will be observing. Can we get you anything?”
The man sitting at the interview table was fidgety but using all his energy to conceal it. He was lean with thinning, sandy hair, and a righteous jaw. Perryman had insisted on bringing in a generator for this interview so she could have lights and the camera and voice recorder without having to mess with batteries. When she called me at Sophie’s to tell me the suspect was cooperative and on his way in, I asked how she had gotten him to agree.
“Just asked if he wouldn’t mind helping.”
“Little lady in over her head and the big, strong suspect swoops in to straighten everything out?”
Perryman laughed, delighted with herself. “Poor little old me. I just can’t make heads or tails of all these confusing reports with this pretty bonnet on. Now get in here, Rogers.”
The suspect looked at each of us. “I thought this was all settled already. The ME confirmed it was an accident.” Rick drummed his fingers on the tabletop, caught himself, pulled his hands to his lap, started popping his knuckles, caught himself, and stopped. “Can I get some water?”
Perryman nodded at me. “Sure. Rogers will be right back with that.”
When I returned to the room, I held the cup out, and when Rick reached for it, I raised it above his head. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Goodson?”
“Oh that,” he said and laughed. “Dog bite.”
“What were you doing that a dog bit you?” I grabbed his hand and stared at the injury. “That is pretty severe. It looks infected. You want to be careful of blood poisoning so if you start getting red streaks on your skin, run, don’t walk to the ER.” I handed him the water.
“Were you cheating on your wife, Mr. Goodson?” Perryman asked. His eyes went tree frog and he put the water cup to his mouth and drank and drank, as if it were fiery August. I looked at Perryman and winked; she rolled her eyes. Still the suspect drank. I looked at my watch. Perryman yawned. She tapped a neat stack of papers into a neater pile. Still he drank. I scratched my scalp, thinking about needing a haircut. Perryman picked her nails. I gingerly touched the bump on my forehead. Perryman rattled change in her pocket. I removed my pistol from its holster and set it on the table pointing the muzzle at Rick.
“I don’t think there’s that much water in that cup,” I said, flipping my Zippo.
Rick set the cup down, panting. “I’m just very thirsty lately. Maybe I am getting an infection. Now what’s this all about? I need to go home to be with my kids.”
“Just routine. A few questions came up and we wanted to completely eliminate you as being involved, so we really appreciate your help. I know that’s what you want too,” Perryman said.
“Yes, yes, of course. Any way I can be of help.”
“So there’s nothing you haven’t told us?” Perryman paged through the report. “You have nothing further to add?”
“No, nothing. Why? Has something happened?”
“Well, since you have nothing to hide, you won’t lawyer up?” I asked. “Only guilty people need attorneys,” I added. Then I spun the gun on the table. “You don’t need one, do you?” The gun stopped, the barrel pointing at Rick again.
“You’ve been Mirandized,” Perryman cut in, “so we will respect your wishes, Mr. Goodson. Do you want to talk to us?”
“Do you want to help?” I said.
Rick glared at me and then smiled at Perryman. He repeated, “Yes, of course. Anything I can do. How can I help? But this has to be quick. I need to get back to my children.”
“Certainly, sir.” Perryman sat down and said warmly, “My own kids are grown. How old are your babies, Mr. Goodson?”
“Eighteen and seventeen.”
I stood up, grabbed my gun, and went to lean in the corner.
“Oh, I think your children will be okay for a little bit,” Perryman said.
“Well, my mother is with them.”
“What’s the matter with your face, Mr. Goodson?” I said.
“Huh? Nothing.”
“You’ve got pancake on there thick as frosting. Are you a cross-dressing lounge singer?”
“What? No, I’m…I just…”
“We want to help you, sir,” Perryman said. Then she squinted and made a move to touch his face but pulled back. “Is it…some sort of sunscreen? Or a kind of medicine maybe?” Her smile sparkled.
“Well…no, not really.”
“Are you a transvestite? Is that the problem? Lord!” I yelled. “Do your children know? Does your pastor?” I sounded like Foghorn Leghorn.
“Rogers! Cool it!” Perryman ordered.
“I think you’re on the down low and we caught you mid-makeover before you could catch your dates on the stroll.”
“What! Just what is this? What does my face have to do with my wife’s accident?”
“Plenty,” I said. “Go wash your face.” I was breaking all my rules, but I couldn’t help it. This guy brought out the hammer in me. My interrogation rules were simple, but very difficult: lying is cooper
ative, so be easy and agreeable. Don’t push; don’t be brutal; that’s for amateurs and television. Pack away the testosterone and the competitive desire to win. The aim wasn’t domination or terror or even being right, the goal was an airtight confession. And for me, those never happened under stress or threat. I tried breathing to calm down, but I just ending up angrily gasping though clenched teeth.
“Could you see your way clear to go rinse your face, Mr. Goodson, sir? Just so you won’t distract Rogers anymore. Be a big help.”
I strode to the other side of the room, my gun back in its holster, my head down, arms crossed over my chest. “Sink’s here,” I said as I kicked open the bathroom door that was attached to the interview room.
“Thanks,” Rick said faintly.
Perryman and I started whispering once we heard the water running. “You got a search warrant?” I said.
“Yeah, Judge Williams is a neighbor. I drew up a PC affidavit and he signed, no problem. I’ve got some men at his place now.”
“Way to go, Sheriff,” I clapped her on the back, “how long before he bolts?”
Perryman shrugged. “I am surprised he stayed this long. I would’ve gone a long time ago.”
“Me too. I would’ve had the most expensive attorney tell us to fuck off.”
The water stopped. Rick emerged, daubing his face with paper towels. I cocked my head like a dog. “What the hell happened to you? Did you cut yourself shaving?”
Rick’s face was covered in angry red claw marks. “No.” He was sullen. “I was out hiking and fell into some briars.”
“You want to try again?” I said. “You’re killin’ me! I’ve heard better lies from a six-year-old. That wound on your hand is a fight bite. I’d know it anywhere. The human mouth is lousy with germs. And those kisses on your face are from your dearly departed wife. Am I right?” I put a foot on the table, hovering over him.
“Those do look pretty serious. Have you seen a doctor?” Perryman added.
Rick swallowed, picked up the empty water cup, stared into it, put it down, and said, “I’m ending this interview. I want a lawyer.”
“Damn right.” I patted his shoulder.
