Two hours later, Joe walked in his living room to find it in disarray but empty. He breathed a sigh of relief then headed for the shower after putting the safety chain on his front door. The manager would be getting an earful the next day; he could put money on that. As soon as his shower was done, Joe picked up his phone and called Lilly Ann, and was immediately cheered by her sharp wit, so much like Maude’s.
“Hey, Joe, couldn’t stay away from my sultry voice?” Lilly Ann was just what he needed to break the spell his ex-wife had laid on him.
“No, not for a minute,” he said, and breathed deeply. “Not for another minute.” They talked for a while then closed it off, each getting back to their schedules. Before the phone was disconnected, Lilly Ann said that a visit to her aunt would be a welcome getaway from home, and maybe her mother would like to visit as well. She said she would call her aunt and set it up. “If so, I hope your dance card isn’t full,” she said. “I’ll let you know when.”
Joe smiled on the way to the kitchen, taking a minute to open the refrigerator and grab a cold beer. He had an hour or so till bedtime and decided to spend it going over some old notes on Robert Dawson, just on the chance the criminal in the hospital was more coherent than everyone thought. Two beers later, Joe had a picture of the man and the ways he had fooled police agencies for almost twenty years. The detective rose from the easy chair’s deep cushions and paced the floor, putting it together, using his old forensics training. Criminals with personality disorders were terrible because none of society’s rules applied to them. Nothing mattered in their world except what they wanted. If Dawson’s mind was awake and scheming, he could easily fool a roomful of doctors, yet be planning a deluge of murders all the while. Joe knew he and Maude needed to visit the inmate in the mental hospital. A face-to-face with the man was called for.
The next day Sheila called him no less than ten times, apologetic, begging him to take her back. She said that life was hard in California and she was lonely without him. She begged him for one more chance. Just to meet for coffee after work, and talk. Joe agreed, but was unimpressed with her contrite request. He went for the boys’ sake, not for hers or his.
He met her after work and they talked, or, that is, she talked and he listened. She wanted him to move to California and get a job, doing something besides police work. She guaranteed their life would be good. Joe could only stare at the woman who was once his wife, wondering when it went wrong. For a long time he’d blamed their divorce on his preoccupation with work, but watching her across the table, as she tried to convince him that all could be solved if he would just change, suddenly Joe was freed of any feeling of guilt that he had lost her. The truth was, she didn’t love him, probably never did.
“No thanks, Sheila. It’s too little, too late. I love my job, and my boys are the only reasons I would ever go to California. I’m sorry your life is rotten right now, but it isn’t me you want.”
He stood at the table and looked down on the woman he’d once loved. “I love my sons, but I don’t want to live with you. Goodbye, Sheila.”
Walking away from her tears didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel great either. Joe made his way back home, sad that his marriage had ended so badly.
On the other side of town, Maude slapped mosquitoes and smoked her last cigarette of the day. She wished for a cold shot of gin but resisted searching the house for any, trying to be content sitting outside in the coolest part of the day. Her stomach ached with the need, and her thoughts were raging. Just one drink to settle down with. What could it hurt? She had been drinking for years and she wasn’t dead yet. Just a glass of tonic then, poured over ice. That should help. No, too much like the real stuff; the next minute would have her in the house, looking. Playing games with her mind, Maude knew she was in trouble when the rage started coming to the top. She had to get a handle on it.
John Eberhart had told her one time to call him if she ever needed help with drinking. She’d told him then, in her smart aleck voice, that she never needed anyone’s help with drinking. She did quite well by herself. Picking up her phone, she searched through the contacts list until she found him. It was 10:30 at night, though, and she hated to call
Anyone, especially a coworker, that late. Eberhart answered on the second ring, which was a good thing, because she was about to hang up.
“Yeah, Eberhart here,” was what he said. She really wanted a drink.
“John, it’s Maude Rogers.” She finally got the words out. “You said for me to call.”
“What do you need, Maude? How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure, John. Probably a bad idea calling this late.” The disconnect button was just about under her index finger.
“Is it your drinking?” he asked, kind of quiet, so no one could overhear his words.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
“Not yet. Do you go to those meetings?” Telling personal details of her life wasn’t Maude’s way.
“I do,” Eberhart said. “That’s my private business. If you really want help, think about why you called, pray about it, and tomorrow I’ll go with you to a meeting.”
“You don’t intend to hammer me about this?” she asked him warily.
No, Maude.” He sighed. “I won’t hammer you.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then.” Maude said a quick goodnight and punched the button on her phone harder than was needed. She was scared of admitting to others her dependence on alcohol. Gin, the drink of sneaks who hid their sins from the world, had a tight hold on her: cold, in a water glass, no one but her to know the difference. The memory of Grace’s cancer slammed her then, the days when there was nothing but pain for both Maude and her mother. The cabinet in her mother’s house held some medicinal spirits: a small bottle of bourbon whiskey for colds and a half-pint of gin left behind by her brother. He’d never been one to drink much; his lady-in-waiting was meth and her cousins. But the first taste of gin seemed to calm Maude’s nerves, made her cry less, even when Grace finally died. After that, there were other reasons to continue until there was no reason to stop. She hated the compulsion now, the need to feel the familiar comfort of a pint bottle under her pillow.
Wrestling with her desire for a drink, Maude thought about praying, suddenly ashamed it had been so long since her last talk with God. She tried it, muttering words of contrition, hoping He didn’t see her for the failure she felt. Finally, in the midst of a word, she fell asleep sober for the first time in a long time.
The next morning her mouth was dry and her stomach heaved as she barely made it to the bathroom, the bile from an empty stomach burning as it emptied into the porcelain toilet. Her head was worse than if she’d passed out drunk. The first cup of coffee tasted like the bile she’d just spewed, but she drank it laced heavily with cream and sugar, the memory of her brother crowding other thoughts. She’d seen him many times, clinging to a syrupy-sweet cup, filling his system with sugar when he needed to get high.
Thankfully, Tuesdays were usually slow, mostly paperwork days, a time to reflect on the cases needing closing. That was a good thing; her movements were slower, her mind befuddled as she tried to shower and dress. The first cigarette of the day had its own life force—the nicotine went straight to her alcohol-starved brain, the effect almost dizzying.
“I am a mess,” she said, “an old lady drunk on an overnight dry-out.” The truth stared Maude in the face, all the wondering she’d been doing confirmed. She made more coffee and loaded it again with sugar, a thing she’d never done before this morning. Maybe as soon as she got to work things would level out. She was picking up Joe from his apartment, and had to hurry through her front yard full of leaves, stumbling along, her body hurting from the thirty or so hours of self-imposed sobriety. The keys shook in the hand reaching for the ignition, not enough to be a problem, but enough to notice. Thankfully, Joe lived about five minutes away. She was once again glad he had moved away from his old a
ddress, out of the area where car tires were regularly slashed and a cop could die waiting for help from his neighbors.
Finally arriving at Joe’s apartment, Maude honked the horn a couple of times, feeling the vibration in her aching head. The sugar in her belly was burning its way through with ups and downs of energy, sending false messages of good health to her brain. Joe ran out his door, almost spilling his coffee, headed for the passenger side of the police unit. When he saw her sitting there, he shot a questioning look toward her then shrugged and opened the driver’s door.
“Morning, partner. To what do I owe the privilege of being your escort?” If it had been anyone but Joe, the message would have come out as snarky, but his sense of humor could usually be counted on when addressing a strange situation. Joe could read Maude pretty well, and that morning he could see she was troubled. “Somebody steal your cookies this morning?” he asked.
She looked at him then, her face haggard in the early morning light, the red streaks through white in her blue eyes telling. She’d pulled a drunk or needed a drink. Joe had seen those eyes many times in his twenty-nine years. First in his dad, then later his older brother got caught up in a sorry lifestyle with bad women, booze, and other people’s money. Joe guessed he was as close to Maude as he had been to either of the two. She was his partner and mentor at work, as well as someone he respected deeply.
“Yeah,” she said, “the whole box.”
They drove the last few minutes to the Cop Shop without conversation, a rarity, Joe thought. He wondered if it was the train murder that had her going, bringing back bad memories. Not wanting to push too hard, he eased into the conversation.
“Well, are you going to tell me or not?” he said, looking sidelong at her. The early morning wrinkles in her face seemed deeper than yesterday, making her age more apparent.
Silence was all she gave, shaking her head a little, telling him to back off.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
A look of relief passed over her face then, an acknowledgement that, no matter what, she could depend on his friendship.
Captain James Patterson, the commander of the Homicide unit of Madison, supervised one lieutenant and four detectives of the section, as well as those of the Criminal Investigation Division. Patterson had received his appointment as captain due in great deal to two cases solved by Maude and Joe. James Patterson was a man who wanted to go places in the department, but even more than that, he wanted to be known for his ability to get cases solved. He chose smart, savvy people to work under him whenever he could. His wife Celia, or Ceely, as he called her, wore the invisible police star around the house, issuing orders as she needed things done.
Five feet ten and on the thin side, Captain Patterson seemed a bigger man than he really was; his manner gruff and sometimes hurried. In his fifties he had started shaving his head to avoid the balding that was part of his dad’s and mother’s families. Two uncles had slick skulls, and his old man’s hair began turning loose before it changed colors. James knew he was destined for it, so went with it. A blue cap with a visor matched his daily uniform, an almost formal look, but nice nonetheless. Off duty, an Astros cap hugged his head all day, shading brown eyes and a nose that was squashed too many times when he was young. He appeared intelligent at first glance; his way of staring at someone made them think he could see deep beyond the normal human scope. He couldn’t really read people that well, just looked the part, so he used it to his advantage. No one could blame him for that. He fooled most, but not Maude Rogers, his best detective. Maybe she could see into people and know when they were full of crap.
Whatever the reasons for his success, the captain had a good thing going and didn’t intend to let anyone mess with him or his detectives. The lieutenant spot had yet to be filled, and probably wouldn’t be as long as Patterson could manage from above. Money was tight in the department.
The previous captain had hated Maude, and had been determined to break her so she’d resign. What he didn’t realize was she intended to hang on to her job until retirement, even if it meant putting up with cops and criminals picked from the same tree.
That morning when Maude was burning up with the need for a drink, the captain was in the office, grabbing a quick cup, anxious to get on upstairs before someone tied him down. He looked over the reports on the desk, scanning them for anything of interest. Maude’s first page about the missing woman report by the son didn’t stir the captain’s interest much. He seemed to think it was probably a hoax and not related to the incident on the tracks. Maude gave him a look, determined to not lose her temper. She was afraid of what might happen if she let it go.
“Whatever you think, boss,” she said, responding to his remarks. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to follow up on it, just in case.” Her belly was screaming, the need for alcohol burning its way there. She began to wonder what made her choose this time to quit drinking. Quit…drinking. She hadn’t thought of it that way, hadn’t considered quitting. Sweating, she ran to the bathroom, leaving Patterson looking at her retreating back. Barely making it to the toilet, Maude sat on the floor and leaned over on her hands, letting the bile string out of her mouth. The porcelain was cold against her skin, the smell of bleach from last night’s cleaning burning her nose. Finally the spasms went away, and a little cold water seemed to settle her churning insides. The headache was back, terrible and relentless. She reached in her pocket for the ibuprofen and decided to wait, and take some Excedrin and antacids.
“I’m a terrible mess,” she said to no one, the words falling out of her mouth. “Gotta catch a murderer, don’t have time to be sick.”
After rising from the floor with the help of the handicap bar beside the seat, Maude made her way back to the squad room, eyeing the people who had come in after she made the mad dash to the bathroom. The only one she was looking for was Eberhart. She found him at his desk, a cup of coffee sitting in front, a few grains of sugar still on the rim.
“Got a minute?” she asked him.
“Sure, how can I help?” He was all attention then, seeing her face, her posture. “You did it, didn’t you? Made it twenty-four hours without a drink.”
“Yeah, not sure why. But I did. What do I do now? How long will this puking last?”
“Most of the day. But it gets less and less. Keep your lunch hour open.”
“Couldn’t eat if I tried,” she said, headed to the coffeepot. After lacing a cup with three spoons of sugar, Maude went back to her desk and sat down, the sweet brew in front of her. Sipping a little, she began to feel better. The water bottle in her pocket came out and she sipped it, not anxious to run back to the restroom.
Joe had been out in the foyer talking to another detective about an old burglary case, and made his way back to the desk across from Maude. “You all right, partner?”
“Hope so,” she said, and tasted the coffee slowly, watching the clock.
“Got a new case came in last night. Frieda picked it up in our ballpark. Want to check it out?”
“What was it, Joe?”
“Looks like a robbery gone bad. Perp broke into the Northside Pawn about midnight. Manager had worked late, getting the books together. Owner said he did that on high sale days, the rules, you know. Must have been a good payday yesterday. Manager’s name was Marlin Thompson, white male, about twenty-five, shot between the eyes. One bullet was all it took. Still, perp did some shooting for fun, looked like. Broke window cases, glass doors. Some jewelry taken, moneybag gone. Our case if we want it.”
“Sure, I need to stay busy. Got something to do at lunchtime, though. Have to break away for a while.”
“No problem, Maude. I can do some follow-up, see what the crime scene boys and girls found out. Would rather have been called out for it, but seems Frieda was in town, at a restaurant near there, and picked it up.”
“Maybe we can get enough info from the pictures and evidence. Did you talk to Frieda?” She was feeling a little be
tter, her head not so bad after three Excedrin.
“Yeah. He said it was pretty straightforward. Guy behind the counter, lying on the floor near the desk, might have tried for a gun. A .45 was in the drawer, registered to Wallace Avery, store owner. Maybe he was shot before he had time to get it.”
Maude thought about the scene, wondering about the reckless shooting. “Sounds like it was personal. Who shoots up a pawnshop? A waste of time and noise. Sure, let’s take it. Maybe captain will let us beg off the parade tomorrow. Tell him we’re too busy.”
“Okay. Fine with me. Still, I was looking forward to seeing some pretty girls riding in convertibles,” Joe said, grinning.
“Then you go, that’ll take his eyes off me,” she said, thinking ahead. Jeez, she hated parades, especially when the boss wanted to show off.
“I’ll sacrifice for the cause,” Joe said. “Meanwhile, what do you want me to do?”
“Let’s go to the pawnshop, look around. See what happened,” she said. “Burglary and murder make fine bedfellows,” she said, quoting a book she’d read somewhere. Maude’s head was starting to swell again, or at least it felt like it. Her mouth was dry but she was scared to drink too much, fearing it would come up and she’d start vomiting again. Walking a little slowly to keep from getting woozy, she neared Eberhart’s desk and spoke to him quietly, asking where to meet him later. He told her the name of the church where the meetings were held and said she could go on in if he wasn’t outside.
“Yeah, okay, see you there,” she said, her voice hoarse from vomiting.
Eberhart looked across the room where Maude had gone, and wondered if she would make it. After so many years of depending on gin to ease her troubles, she might not be able to stay away from booze. He remembered his own nights of sweating and seeing snakes. Quitting was easy; you just don’t do it anymore. One day at a time. But staying quit with all the stress in a cop’s life was hard. He could testify. Hallelujah, he was sober today.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 59
