Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  We were walking out together, and he stopped. “It’s likely finished, one way or the other,” he said. “See you around, I guess.”

  “I’m not hard to find, stop by anytime.”

  “Yeah, but not to hurt your feelings? You or Mrs. Pina make the coffee, okay?”

  I smiled before he turned away.

  At home, I sat at the kitchen table, trying to think about anything other than my recent life. I hadn’t moved, when the phone rang. I looked at my watch. I’d been sitting looking into my cup long enough for it to go cold. “Hello?”

  “Paul, Detective Petersen is dead,” it was Dana’s voice.

  “Dead?”

  “In his car, one shot behind the right ear. He was behind the wheel. His car was found at the National Seashore on Cape Cod. No fingerprints anywhere. The whole car was wiped. A professional job.”

  I considered a lot of things to say. Then I rejected them all. “Thanks for calling. Did you want to talk about anything else?”

  “Thought you might want to talk about what I said. Like maybe who you suspect?”

  “Did you talk with DaSilva?”

  “Yes, he told me about that, and how you two solved the case and all. It was really nice getting all of that second hand like that.”

  I ignored the icy sarcasm. “So, Rob cleared up a loose end, I guess.”

  “That’s it? Have you ever bitten into foil stuck in a piece of gum? That’s what you’re like for me.”

  “Petersen isn’t my problem. Or my fault. Did you read a threat? If you had, you’d have had him in a safe place, right?” There was a silence. “I have enough to carry around without him.”

  “And now we never will get a thing from him.”

  I waited for her to speak. When she didn’t I asked, “Is that it, Dana?”

  “That and to tell you I’ve accepted a transfer.”

  I knew it was over, but the reality of it struck like a slap. “Where?”

  “Washington. I’m going to be the agent in charge, heading up the investigation of Friedrich Singer and looking for any other abuses, by him and others.”

  I could almost see the FBI director dry washing his hands in glee. She’d be an inspector in no time, and a supervisory deputy within five years, if she played her cards right. “Washington,” I said, dully.

  “I was going to tell you in person.”

  “I see,” I said, even though I didn’t really.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Look, Dana, you don’t have to give a reason. I treasure the time we had. I’ll never be able to tell you what you’ve done for me. I admire your mind, your wit and your heart. I lust after your body. I wish that it had gone differently.”

  “I do too,” she said softly.

  “Okay, that’s what needed to be said, I think.”

  “I’ll miss Marisol. She’s going to be formidable,” she said, quietly.

  “Good luck with your new job, Dana.”

  She took an audible breath, “Right. You sound all in. Would you like me to come? Just to talk, I mean. I don’t care about the case. If you need a friend. I still want to be your friend.”

  “Ow,”

  “Oh. I really just said that, didn’t I?” she asked.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”

  “I’m just going to ask if you’re going to be okay.”

  “One way and another. Sure,” I tried for lightness in my tone, and failed.

  She almost laughed, “Okay, hard ass.”

  “Rob/Friedrich Singer was a dangerous man with dangerous friends. Watch your back. Any idea of how he got Petersen done on short notice? Or do your people think it was set up long ago? Or do you think I did it?”

  “Mention was made of the last possibility, not by me. You destroyed him, why kill him? As for Singer, we’ll be working on that. We have all the time in the world.” There was a silence that went on too long to be comfortable. “I should go. I won’t forget to stay in touch with Marisol.”

  “Thank you. For everything, you know.” Words just stopped coming.

  Then she was gone, and I was listening to the electronic hum of a dead phone line.

  It took me some time to get to my feet and clean up the cups from Larry’s visit. That seemed right to me. It was like I was an empty but unwashed coffee cup. Sarah’s phone call broke me out of my self-pity.

  “What do you know about sleepovers?” I asked after we said hello.

  “Is this an invitation?”

  “Sure, then Mike can drop by and blend me into one of his sauces.”

  She laughed.

  “Seriously, Sarah. ‘Sol has asked about having one and I’m clueless. I mean do they just come over and go to bed?”

  “Oh, you poor man. You are in for a long night. Look, Paul, how about if Mike and I drop by this afternoon, after ‘Sol gets home from school? She and I can plan it, and come up with a list of things to get and do.”

  “If you do that, I will give you my secret recipe for three drinks, your choice.”

  “And when I do “The Talk,” with her next week, what will I get?”

  “Dinner for you and Mike, restaurant of your choice?”

  “I was kidding,” she answered. “Paul, is everything okay?”

  “The important stuff is, I think. The devil’s in the details. Maybe when you and Mike come over, I’ll be able to talk about it.”

  “If you need to. Should we bring anything?”

  “A healthy digestive system. I’ll get something together for us,” I answered. “Thank you, Sarah. I guess I could have called her friend’s mom, but I’d feel pretty dumb.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. What time can you make it?”

  “See you at six thirty.”

  “That’ll work.” I knew Mike would be arriving with one of his elaborate desserts. I smiled at the memory of the chocolate soufflé. Marisol’s initial doubtful look at it ended when she tried her first bite and was replaced by some sort of prepubescent lust and a feeding frenzy.

  One more call. I called Tim Foley at home, and got his answering machine. I thanked him, and invited him and Lois, the ex-stripper to come by for whatever.

  I realized that keeping the human contact going was important. It had taken a murder and a threat to my family to force me out. The light was blinding, but once out, I had no desire to go back in.

  It took a few attempts, before I reached my old friend at NCIS, “Al?”

  “Paul? Jesus, you’ve been a busy boy.”

  “Al, I just called to thank you. Your guy kept me alive.”

  “Yeah, I saw the news. You’ve slowed down. He’d never have hit you when we were working together.”

  “I’m a bigger target, too.”

  He laughed. “Ain’t it the truth.”

  I paused. “You know about all of it?”

  “Yeah, buddy, it’s all over the place. Singer, the Congressman’s wife and daughter, you and the son. I have the gist of it.”

  “I think it’s my fault.”

  “Someday, you and I will have to list all of the bad things that happened that aren’t your fault, okay? ”

  “Is this going to be a long lesson, Professor?” I said.

  “Shut up and listen. I wanted to say this to you for a long time. You were good, you know? You were probably the best interrogator I ever saw. You knew where the weak spots were, and you wedged them open, fast. You did it so bad guys couldn’t do bad things.”

  “Afterwards, you’d pour out through your own ass, for being cruel. When we took too long to get the guy, you’d take the blame and bleed for days. Used to drive us crazy. You wouldn’t talk it out. You’d just ex-sanguinate.” He took a deep breath. “So here it is. Ready? Shit happens.”

  “You gave me a five minute lecture and it’s a bumper-sticker?” I said.

  “It’s a great bumper-sticker? The way you think darkens you. Hard to just relax and enjoy what comes along.”

  �
��I hate it when you’re smarter than me.”

  “You must hate it a lot.”

  “Fuck you very much. Al?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I still feel guilty as hell.”

  “Are all portagees this stubborn?”

  “Yup, and we only let other portagees call us portagees.”

  “You can work on that,” He paused, “Portagee.”

  After we hung up, I was sorting through some laundry, trying to think of mindless things to do, when the phone rang. I wanted the voicemail to take it, but I couldn’t get a sleeve to turn right side out, unless the rest of the shirt went inside out. I heaved the damned thing across the room, and grabbed the phone.

  “You miserable son of a bitch!”

  “And hello to you, too, Sandra. How have you been?”

  “I’m in water so hot, and so deep, thanks to you, that I may be reporting the Washington, DC annual flower show, and there isn’t one.”

  “Does that mean that you don’t want the exclusive interview anymore? And I’d bet that you don’t want the cop, either, right? Am I right? How about the FBI?” There was silence.

  “It’s over?”

  “As over as it will be.”

  “Wait one, then.” She was serious and professional, again. I caught myself humming with the music the phone played while I was on “hold.”

  “I’ll be up on the next available flight, which is in an hour, arriving an hour later at ‘T.F. Green?’ What the hell kind of name is that for an airport, anyway? I have to gather up Bill Latronica and a camera crew, so it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest for the production work and pre-interview. How’s that work?”

  “I’ll call DaSilva, the FBI and confirm. Chances are their superiors will want to be involved.”

  “Care to fill me in, some kind of advance information? Strictly deep background, I want to make sure that our legal eagles are ready.”

  I ran it down for her.

  “You’re a piece of work. I’ll see you and the others, tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  I called DaSilva, explained what was going to happen the next day. “Great,” he said in a lifeless voice, “I couldn’t be more thrilled. Imagine, me on television and all.”

  “Trust me, Larry, your bosses will be thrilled. Call Dana and let her know?”

  “You’re a chicken. That makes me feel better. Hang up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I was on the phone, speaking with Doctor Debbie when Marisol came home from school. Mrs. Pina wasn’t far behind. My house was in homecoming chaos, and we were deep in its throes when Mike and Sarah appeared at my door, carrying a container.

  We laughed a lot that night, and Marisol ate herself into a stupor on little raspberry tarts and fresh whipped cream. Mrs. Pina grumbled her way through it and we smiled.

  Chapter 32

  My brush with fame and notoriety lasted longer than I expected. The interview went fine, and there were offers for books and other things. I turned them all down. In a month, it died out. Marisol’s sleepover was a hit. There was a cacophonous four hours, dying down to two hours of giggling, with occasional laughter. I think they all crashed and burned by three or so. I was exhausted, Mrs. Pina was asleep on the couch, and I could hear my daughter’s happy voice.

  Maybe sleep was over-rated after all. It was a small price to pay. The morning after the sleep over party, I made a huge breakfast, and they went at it like a pack of happy young she-wolves. Their moms came to pick them all up, and aside from a couple of pizza boxes, a few empty soda bottles and random crumbs and popcorn kernels, they might never have been there. Marisol was tired, happy and let down all at once.

  I took her to the Middletown beaches. I had to work that night, but the bar could wait. Tourist season was over, and we had the beach to ourselves. Barefooted, we walked at the edge of the water. The tide was rising, but there was no surf. We walked stiff-legged, driving our heels down to make clear footprints in the soft wet sand. She giggled when an errant wave washed over our ankles. She took my hand, stamping down hard trying to make deep, lasting impressions.

  Neither of us looked back to watch the rising tide washing them away behind us. We looked at what we were doing, guided by the changing water’s edge, only vaguely aware that the beach went on ahead of us.

  Afterword

  As it says in the front of the book, all characters are fictional. For the record, I’ve never heard a whisper of corruption from the Newport, Rhode Island police, nor from that city’s Congressional Representative. I have thrown a drunk, boorish local politician, out of a bar, though. As far as I know, he’s alive and well, and yes, he asked if I knew who he was. Yes, I did use the DJ’s mike to ask for help with his identity. I’ve always been grateful for the opportunity to do so.

  I’ve been to the locations mentioned in the book and took as few liberties with the geography as I could. The hotel bar is fictional, regardless of what you may think after a walk around Newport.