by Inga Vesper
‘Detective, wait.’
‘Yes?’
Her voice, when she speaks, is so subdued he can hardly make out her words. ‘To leave the child in the flowerpot. Such a horrible secret. Why do you think she did it?’
He swallows. ‘To keep it close, perhaps? To ensure it always had a lovely place to rest?’
She moves her head this way and that. ‘I think it was something else. To have it so prominent, always in view and adorned with red flowers . . . I believe part of her wanted it to be seen. As an accusation.’
‘To whom?’
‘Maybe to herself. Maybe to the world. Her beautiful house, her beautiful children, her loving marriage – and in the middle of it all, this terrible secret. She was screaming it out to the world. Here is my dead baby. See what you have done.’
‘But no one really knew.’
‘That,’ Mrs Crane replies, ‘is the point of secrets.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mick
A
t the station, Mick finds Barnes at the front desk. Barnes is a young fellow, barely out of school, with freckles and a distinctly rattish look.
‘Detective, sir.’ The boy looks up as soon as Mick draws near. ‘I have some phone records for you. From a Deena Klintz. Jackie had them couriered over.’
Mick takes the papers. Jackie, who deserves a bouquet of medals, has highlighted the relevant sections. Deena does not make many calls, but on Monday afternoon she was burning up the lines. She called Joyce’s house several times, and Nancy’s number, too, three times between 3 p.m. and 4 p.m.
‘Good stuff,’ he mutters. ‘Any luck on Jimmy McCarthy? You phoned the hotels?’
‘Yeah. No luck at first, but then I called the gas stations, too. A silver Crestliner showed up at Crankton Gas ’n Oil Friday noon. Pennsylvania license plate. Gent who drove it demanded a full wash and polish on the fenders. The attendant couldn’t recall too many details, but it was a dark-haired fellow. Said he was down on some business and staying in Florendale, LA.’
Mick tenses. ‘And?’
‘So I phoned round the hotels and bunkhouses and, bingo. A Jimmy McCarthy’s got a room at Geraldino’s Guesthouse on Witterman Street.’
‘Good work, man. Let’s go get him.’
‘Should I call the chief?’
‘Screw him.’ He enjoys the uncertainty on Barnes’ rat face. ‘We’ve got no time to lose. Round up the boys.’
‘The . . . pardon, sir?’
Mick peers into the main office, where the rank ’n file scrape a living from speeding tickets and stolen purses. Two rookie cops are sitting at the desk closest to the coffee machine, bent over the Sunday crossword.
He turns back to the front desk. ‘That’s it? That’s all there is? We have a baddie to arrest. I need manpower. Gunslingers. Big boys who can kick down a door.’
Barnes gets up from his chair. He’s thinner than the table legs. ‘I go to the gym three times a week, sir.’
Mick groans. ‘All right, Charles Atlas. Here’s what you’re going to do. Go tell those fart butts in the kitchen to put on some plain clothes. Meet me at my car.’
‘But Moggs likes to finish the crossword. He says it sharpens the brain.’
‘Well then, Barnes, you tell dear Moggsie that if he’s not in my car in five minutes, armed and dangerous, I will personally whittle his brain to a point, using my locker key.’
Barnes swallows so hard his Adam’s apple jumps. ‘Yes, sir.’
*
Geraldino’s Guesthouse is half bunkhouse, half hotel, and one hundred percent cheap carpet and splintered plaster. Detective Mick Blanke and his squad of hard-nail lawmen – namely officers Barnes, Souza and Moggs, whose crossword puzzle now lies shredded on the station floor – arrive with screeching tires and the sunset in their wake. When they enter the lobby, Mick utters a silent prayer to the God of rookies that Jimmy will come quietly.
He takes out his badge and shoves it into the wide-eyed face of the receptionist. ‘Santa Monica PD, we’re here to see one of your guests. A Jimmy McCarthy.’
‘McCarthy?’ She makes an o-shape with lips that beg for a reapplication of lipstick.
‘Yes, Jimmy McCarthy. Where is he?’
The receptionist takes out a tattered cigarette box filled with index cards and begins to flip through them. The cards are dog-eared and some are stuck together. She drops a few and apologizes, then starts afresh.
A fuse bursts in Mick’s head. He grabs the whole box from her and tips it out. A quick rummage reveals that McCarthy is staying in room 17. His check-in day, the date next to the name, is the Saturday gone. Two days before Joyce went missing.
He pockets the card for evidence. ‘Room 17. Come on, lady, where is that?’
‘Third floor,’ the receptionist says.
Mick gathers his squad. ‘Barnes and Souza, you’re coming with me. Moggs, you go round the back. There’s sure to be a fire exit. You watch that as if it’s your sister’s virginity, and this time you make a better job of it than you did with the real thing, right?’
‘Yes, Chief,’ says Moggs, then gulps. ‘Detective.’
‘Go, man.’
Moggs disappears through the front doors. Mick waves at Barnes and Souza to follow him. They creep up the stairs to the third floor.
The windows in the corridor let in a little streetlight, but the hideous green carpet swallows most of it up. The door to room 17 is closed. Mick leans against the wall, pulls out his gun and holds it up. Barnes does the same. Mick waves at him, the dummy rat, to stick his heat back where it belongs. Someone’s got to pin the suspect down, hold him tight and scan the room for others. Don’t they go through this in training anymore?
Somebody coughs inside the room. Souza also pulls his weapon and cocks it, then meets Mick’s eye and quickly de-cocks it again. The two snaps of metal pierce the silence, as deafening to the trained ear as the double-bang of supersonic speed. A heartbeat follows during which the world is absolutely still.
Then a chair falls over in the room, followed by the crackle of curtains being ripped aside. Mick curses and throws himself against the door, which does not budge. He yells for Barnes, who puts his weight to it with all his gym-honed strength. From inside the room comes another thunk and the rattle of a window opening.
Mick grabs Barnes and shouts into his face: ‘Together, you moron. One, two—’
They crash into the door at three and crack the lock. Barnes yelps. Mick takes the door out with his foot and bursts into the room. The first thing that meets his eyes is the sight of McCarthy’s slacks disappearing through the window.
He stumbles forward. Jimmy McCarthy is already on the fire escape and descending rapidly into the dark, shirttails flying.
‘Souza,’ Mick yells. ‘Back down, back down. Suspect on the run.’
‘What?’
‘Run, man. Get to Moggs.’
Souza darts away like a rabbit. Mick jumps through the window and onto the fire escape. Behind him, Barnes pipes up: ‘I think I hurt my—’
But Mick doesn’t even catch the rest. This is the real thing. This is what he’s good at. The hunt. Nothing matters now but the man flying down the stairs a floor below him. Not the gutters and alleys and the evening wind. Not the smell of trash and hot bricks. The world is reduced to the clank-clank of his feet on rickety metal and the shape of the bad guy he must pursue and catch.
Jimmy McCarthy hits the alleyway at the bottom of the fire stairs. He turns around and their eyes meet, two whites in the dark, the hunter and the hunted, predator and prey.
‘Police,’ Mick yells. ‘Freeze.’
McCarthy rushes toward the street. Like a shit Phantom Stranger, Moggs appears and blocks his way. He draws his gun and goes into textbook style stance, his knees bent and his arms straight as a musket.
‘Stop, or I’ll shoo— arrest you,’ he shouts.
McCarthy backs away. His eyes swivel to Mick, who is on the last flight of stairs. Exhilar
ation explodes in Mick’s chest. You’re in the bag, buddy. It’s all over.
McCarthy’s hands fly to his belt, where something silver gleams. A gun.
Oh, no.
The world goes slow-motion. Mick’s feet don’t seem to connect with the stairs anymore. He spends an eternity asking the universe what to do. Shoot or keep on running? Fight or freeze?
And there is Ruby’s voice, from the deepest part of his soul. I don’t think I could kill anyone, ever.
And so, he runs.
In the alleyway, McCarthy aims at Moggs. The glint of his gun is sharp like a snake bite, and just as deadly.
‘You got nothing on me,’ McCarthy shouts. ‘Get out of my way or I’ll spike your bacon with some lead.’
‘I am the police,’ Moggs says. His hands are shaking. ‘Put your weapon down.’
Stop that, Moggs. The words race through Mick’s head at light speed, too fast for his mouth to catch up. Stop that. Give in. It’s not worth it. It’s—
‘Fuck you,’ McCarthy yells, and moves his finger.
The shot lights up the alleyway. For one split second the world is sketched out like a drawing. McCarthy’s face, white with rage. The supernova in Moggs’s eyes. Souza appearing behind him, frozen mid-run. An overturned trash can, vomiting banana peels and styrofoam trays. A distant traffic light.
Then Moggs falls over. The universe answers. You should’ve taken that shot, Blanke. You failed again, you coward. Again.
And time speeds up.
Mick jumps the final railing, yelps at the pain shooting up his leg and throws himself onto McCarthy. With one punch he knocks the gun from his hand and then it’s man on man. McCarthy grunts and falls backwards. They go down together. Mick’s punch flattens McCarthy’s nose against his cheek. In turn, he gets an elbow to his stomach and a knee in the groin. McCarthy fights dirty, battlescarred. Like a soldier when the bullets are spent and all that’s left is the deep, red, grandiose fear.
McCarthy’s next blow lands on Mick’s arm. Before Mick knows it, his gun changes hands. He’s flipped over and thrown on his back. The barrel of his own weapon rises before his eyes.
‘Fuck you, too,’ McCarthy grunts.
Time stops once more. Mick stares into the barrel and waits for the light of death at the end of the tunnel. And he thinks of Fran. There is a really soft and kissable bit of her, where her shoulders run into her neck. He hasn’t kissed it for a while and he regrets that now, more than anything else . . .
McCarthy flies sideways and lands on the sidewalk. A fist hovers in the dark, clutching a gun by the barrel. Its handle has just connected with McCarthy’s skull. It’s Barnes, his eyes as large as saucers.
‘I couldn’t shoot,’ he says. ‘My shoulder . . . I-I’m sorry.’
‘Shit happens.’ Mick scrambles to his feet, picks up his own gun and points it the way it should be, right between McCarthy’s shoulders. ‘Jimmy McCarthy, you are under arrest for the murder of Deena Klintz. You have the right to remain silent.’
On the ground, McCarthy scrapes his legs against the dirt. Mick handcuffs him and kicks him down. McCarthy’s head hits the flagstones with a thunk. Not standard protocol, of course, but what happens in dark alleyways stays in dark alleyways. The kick is a temporary, one-second relief from what he needs to do next. Which is to turn around and look at Moggs.
Less than a year ago, Mick’s career was nearly ended by a bad decision. Bad decisions turn reality into a series of slides. And here is Officer Moggs, sprawled out on the sidewalk. Mick looks and knows with sinking certainty that this slide will stay with him forever. The projector will be stuck here, click , through the suspension and the public apology to Moggs’s grieving parents, click , click , through the court case and the divorce, click , and always back to Moggs, lying motionless on the sidewalk, his eyes staring up into the night . . .
Then Moggs groans and turns over.
The relief is a vortex that sucks Mick down. His knees buckle and he falls. Billy Benson appears in his mind’s eye, staring down at him. You nearly fucked it up, Blanke. Don’t ever do that again.
‘Detective, sir?’
Billy vanishes and Barnes reappears. Mick scrambles to his feet and brushes away any doubt. It’s all good. They got McCarthy. And Moggs is alive.
Moggs seems to struggle to believe it himself. ‘Bullet must have missed me,’ he says. ‘Gone right past me. I heard the whistle in my ear, man. Shhhit.’
‘Souza, take your buddy’s gun.’ Mick yanks McCarthy to his feet. ‘Moggs, your hands are shaking. Butch up. You’re a cop. This sort of shit is your breakfast.’
He bundles McCarthy into the car. The man isn’t bleeding, which is good, but the hair on the side of his head is matted and the skin underneath is swollen and discolored. Mick pulls at McCarthy’s arms to look at his hands. Two fingers on his right hand are shortened, with big, knobbled ends where the fingertips should be. Just like the fingerprints on that bottle.
He laughs, louder than he wants. Jackpot.
Barnes, who is still clutching his shoulder, gets to sit on the passenger seat. Moggs and Souza take their places on either side of the suspect.
McCarthy groans and lifts his head. ‘Lemme out,’ he mutters. ‘I done nothing.’
‘You are under arrest for the murders of Joyce Haney and Deena Klintz. Your car was spotted at the scene.’ Mick sets the blinker.
‘My car’s in a garage. I didn’t . . .’
McCarthy’s head lolls back. His eyes half-close, the whites still glowing under heavy lids. He sinks forward and Souza reaches out just in time to stop him falling. Mick swerves onto Witterman Street and takes a sharp left. Just then, there comes a cough and a splatter from the back seat. The stench of vomit fills the car, sour and terribly human.
Mick rolls his eyes. Fran is going to lynch him. She just bought new foot mats.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ruby
R
uby pushes her torso out of the window and cranes her head to check the street. It’s that time of the day when the working folk are heading home and the boys are coming out. There’s boys everywhere. Darting across Trebeck Row, dodging cars and hollering at friends. Boys with scowls, at odds with the world. Boys who grin slyly at the sight of a pretty girl.
She can sense trouble in the air. These boys are taut like bow strings. Last night, Pa told her why. There’s rumors that the governor canceled the freeway through Beverly Hills. Now they’re gonna build it on Eastside. The evictions keep on coming. And the Latino folks who live there are gonna be told to settle in South Central, where the rents are already sky-high and the jobs are scarce.
She tears herself away from the window and rubs her arms where the frame has left indents. All those things are happening out there, and she’s got her own world of trouble, right within these walls. Pa’s silence and Mimi’s nagging and the endless worrying about money, always money. And Joseph, of course. Joseph, who hasn’t called.
The yearning hits her like a slow-motion car crash. She’s got to see him and figure things out. She needs to escape the apartment, even if the air outside is twanging with aggression.
She chooses her outfit carefully. A white blouse, tucked into her pants. The green sandals. A big, green bangle that she’s been fighting over with Mimi for so long they’ve forgotten who owned it first. A dab of Vaseline on her bangs and a quick rub-down along her ankles.
Feeling better, she walks down Compton toward Geddit Fixed. It’s Sunday, but part of the reason Old Man Toby hires only Blacks is that they don’t have a union to back them up and will work any day. Joseph oughta be on shift. She’ll swing by, pretending she’s on an errand for Pa. Just to see what’s up.
A big delivery truck stands out front, its hood and trunk wide open and the tires taken off. Behind it, Leroy is leaning against the wall, blowing smoke rings, while Old Man Toby is polishing the fenders.
Joseph pulls his head out from underneath the hood and mops his brow. He shouts s
omething to Leroy, the end of which sounds like ‘police’.
Leroy flicks away his cigarette and answers: ‘Eastside, loads of them. They’re gonna tear the place apart. They’re not gonna lay low no more, brother.’
Ruby glances at Joseph, who has his shirt unbuttoned and looks fit to bite. He hasn’t noticed her. No one has. Gingerly, she takes the watch off her wrist and slips it into her pocket.
Leroy sees her first. ‘Hey, sugar,’ he hollers across the street. ‘What’s kicking?’
She saunters over, slowly. Joseph turns toward her and she looks past him for a second or so, before letting their eyes meet. ‘Oh, hi.’
His face. The energy in his angry eyes. It makes her chest feel as if a whole galaxy is swirling around inside. Damn this. She was gonna be cool, and now she’s gonna melt into a puddle on the asphalt.
‘I hear you got yourself some special friends,’ Leroy says and grins. ‘The pigs. Got yourself right and tight with the cream of high society.’
‘I got arrested.’ Ruby tries not to look at Joseph. He’s told on her. How dare he? ‘I got slammed up for one night, in case you didn’t know.’
‘Yeah, but now you’ve got an admirer driving up to your house. Or you go and meet him, huh? On Skid Row? Say, Joseph’s not good enough for you?’
‘Leave her alone,’ Joseph mutters. ‘None of your business.’
Leroy scoffs. ‘Beg your pardon, sir. It’s everyone’s business. Can’t trust a snitch. Good you two ain’t hanging out no more.’
‘I’m not snitching to no one.’ Ruby glares at Leroy, but the look in his eyes shrivels her anger into flakes of dust. ‘I’m just . . . Ain’t my fault my boss got abducted.’
‘Yeah.’ Leroy grins. ‘Nothing’s ever anybody’s fault, little girl, until it suddenly is. Ah well, if you’re too good for Joseph, there’s enough sisters in his neighborhood to do a man like him proud.’
Tamona. Heat rises under Ruby’s shirt. Who knows how often she’s been rocking past the garage? Often enough to catch Joseph’s eye for sure. And she goes to the committee. Leroy’d love that. With Tamona, he’s gonna get Joseph completely under his spell.
