Dust to Dust

by Tami Hoag

  “Being the weekend, we won’t get lab results on the blood until Tuesday or Wednesday,” Elwood interjected. “If he’s got something to tell, I believe he’ll let it go by Sunday night.”

  “Confession on the Sabbath.” Tippen nodded with the wisdom of experience. “Very symbolic.”

  “Very Catholic,” Kovac corrected. “That’s how he was raised. Neil Fallon’s no hard-case killer. If he did the old man, he won’t be able to live with the guilt for long.”

  “I don’t know, Sam,” Tippen said. “Don’t we all harbor guilt for something? We carry it around our whole lives like ballast. Something to weigh us down and keep us from reaching for true happiness. It reminds us we’re not worthy, gives us an excuse to underachieve.”

  “Most of us didn’t clip our own fathers. That kind of guilt rolls out,” Kovac said. “Eventually.”

  He rose from the booth, wishing he didn’t have to.

  “Where are you going?” Tippen demanded. “It’s your turn to buy.”

  Kovac dug out his wallet and dropped some bills on the table. “To see if I can’t hasten the process along for someone.”

  SOMEONE DOWN THE block from Steve Pierce was having a Christmas party. Music and conversation and laughter escaped the town house as a fresh batch of guests arrived. Kovac leaned back against his car for a moment and watched as he finished his cigarette, then dropped the butt in the gutter and went to the door.

  Lights shone in the windows of Pierce’s duplex. His Lexus was in the drive. He might have walked down to the neighbor’s party, but Kovac doubted it. Steve Pierce wouldn’t join in the holiday festivities this year. It was damn hard to be merry and bright with the weight of loss and grief and guilt hanging around your neck. Kovac’s hope was that the fiancée would be absent, leaving Pierce alone and vulnerable.

  “Kick ’em when they’re down,” he muttered, and rang the bell.

  Time passed, and he rang it again. More guests arrived down the block. One of them, a guy wearing a red muffler, ran into the yard, threw an arm around a snowman, and began to sing “Holly Jolly Christmas.”

  “Jesus, you again,” Pierce muttered as he pulled the door open. “Have you ever heard of a telephone?”

  “I prefer that personal touch, Steve. Shows how much I care.”

  Pierce looked worse than he had the night after he’d found Andy Fallon’s body. He was wearing the same clothes. He stank of cigarettes and scotch and sweat—the kind of sweat from emotional upset. The smell of it was different from the smell of physical work, more sour and sharp. He had a short glass half-full of scotch in one hand and a cigarette hanging from his lip. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved since the funeral.

  “You care to throw my ass in jail,” he said.

  “Only if you’ve committed a crime.”

  Pierce laughed. He was close to drunk, but he probably wouldn’t allow himself to cross over, to deaden the pain completely. Kovac suspected he wanted to hurt, and the scotch allowed him to maintain it at a tolerable level.

  “Neil Fallon’s in jail,” Kovac said. “It looks like he might have killed the old man. I’d like to hear your take on that.”

  “Well.” Pierce raised his glass. “That calls for a toast. Come on in, Sergeant,” he invited as he walked away from the open door.

  Kovac followed. “A toast that Neil’s in jail or that Mike’s dead?”

  “Two for one. They deserved each other.”

  They went into the den with the dark blue walls. Kovac pulled the door shut behind him, to buy an extra minute or two if the girlfriend showed up.

  “How well do you know Neil?”

  Pierce took another glass from the small cupboard above the bar and splashed in some of the Macallan, then topped off his own glass.

  “Well enough to know he’s a thug. Angry, jealous, petty, mean. A chip off the old block.” He held the new glass out to Kovac. “I used to tell Andy he must have gotten sent home from the hospital with the wrong family when he was a baby. I could never see how he came out of that pack of pit bulls. He was so decent, so good, so kind.”

  His eyes reddened around the rims, and he went to the narrow window that looked out on the side of the house. The place next door was dark.

  “He was so much better than they were,” he said, the sense of injustice and frustration thickening his voice. “And yet he couldn’t stop trying to win them over.”

  Kovac sipped the scotch, realizing at first taste there was valid reason it cost fifty bucks a bottle. Molten gold might taste this smooth.

  “He was his father’s favorite for a long time,” he said, his eyes steady on Pierce. He eased around to the side of one of the leather armchairs for a better angle. “I imagine it was pretty hard for him to take rejection from the old man.”

  “He kept trying to make it up to him. As if he had something to be sorry for. He wanted the old man to understand something a guy like that will never grasp in a million years. I told Andy to let it go, that he couldn’t change someone else’s mind, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “How was he going to make it up to him? What could be the trade-off?”

  Pierce shrugged. “There isn’t one. That’s just it. Andy thought maybe they could do something together. Write the old man’s memoirs or something. He used to talk about that sometimes, that maybe if he knew more about the old man, he could understand him better, find some common ground with him. He wanted to know more about the shooting that put him in the chair, that being a defining moment in Mike’s life. But the old man didn’t appreciate the effort. He didn’t want to talk about what happened. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings. I doubt he had the right vocabulary for it. Personal enlightenment isn’t high on the list for guys like Mike Fallon, or Neil.”

  “And what about Neil?” Kovac asked. “He claims it didn’t have any impact on him when Andy came out.”

  Pierce laughed. “Sure. Smug asshole. He hated Andy already. He thought being the straight one gave him an advantage with the old man. He wasn’t such a black sheep anymore. Homosexuality trumps being a felon in the redneck scheme of things.”

  “Did Andy see much of him?”

  “He tried to do macho, brotherly things with Neil from time to time. Hunting, fishing, that kind of thing. A complete waste of time. Neil didn’t want to understand Andy or like Andy. Neil didn’t want anything from Andy but money.”

  “He’d asked Andy for money?”

  “Sure. First he put it to him as an investment opportunity. I told Andy to forget it. Give Neil the money if he didn’t care if he ever saw it again. As an investment? What a crock. Might as well flush the money down the john.”

  “What did Andy do?”

  “Put him off. Kept saying maybe later, hoping Neil would take the hint.” He drank some more of the scotch and muttered, “Investment opportunity.”

  “Did they ever fight, that you knew of?”

  Pierce shook his head. He sucked the cigarette down to the filter and put the butt out against a corner of the windowpane. “No. Andy wouldn’t fight with him. He felt too guilty about being better than the average Fallon. Why? Do you think Neil killed him?”

  “That door’s still open.”

  “I don’t see it. Neil’s not that clever. You would have caught him by now.”

  “We have,” Kovac reminded him.

  “Still . . . you know what I mean.” He went back to the bar and freshened his drink for the umpteenth time. “Neil’s the messy type, don’t you think? Shooting, stabbing, blood and gore, devastation at the scene, fingerprints everywhere.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “He sure as hell wouldn’t be sorry. Christ, he probably couldn’t spell sorry. He’s the one who should have died,” Pierce said bitterly, and drank more of the scotch, stirring up his anger, pouring fuel on the flames. “Worthless excuse for a human being. It doesn’t make sense that someone as good as Andy—”

  Tears rushed up on him like a flash flood, and he choked on them a
nd fought against them, and lost. He swore and threw his drink. The glass shattered against the bar top, spraying the immediate area with liquor and shards of crystal.

  “God!” he cried, covering his head with his arms, as if fending off the blows of a higher power punishing him for his sins. He staggered from side to side, sobbing; dry, raw sounds tearing at his throat. “Oh, God!”

  Kovac waited, let him feel his pain, gave him time to look the demon in the face.

  After a time, he said, “You loved him.”

  It sounded strange saying it to a man. But as he witnessed the depth of Steve Pierce’s pain, he thought he should be so lucky to have another human being—male or female—care that deeply about him. Then again, maybe all he was seeing was guilt.

  “Yes,” Pierce admitted in a tortured whisper.

  Kovac put a hand on his shoulder, and Pierce shrank away.

  “You had a relationship with him.”

  “He wanted me to admit it, to come out. But I couldn’t. People don’t understand. They don’t. Even when they say they do, they don’t. I’ve seen it. I know what’s said behind the back. The jokes, the snickering, the lack of respect. I know what happens. My career . . . everything I’ve worked for . . . I—I—” He choked himself off, as if the argument wasn’t convincing even to his own ears. He sank down in one of the leather chairs, his face in his hands. “He didn’t understand. I couldn’t . . .”

  Kovac set his own drink aside. “Were you there, Steve? The night Andy died?”

  He shook his head and kept on shaking it, wagging it back and forth as he tried to collect himself.

  “No,” he said at last. “I told you, I saw him Friday night. Jocelyn’s girlfriends had a wedding shower for her. I hadn’t seen him in a month. We had fought about his coming out, and . . . We hadn’t been together in a long time. Hadn’t even spoken.”

  “Was he seeing someone else?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I saw him at a bar one night with someone, but I don’t know if there was anything to it.”

  “Did you know him? This other guy?”

  “No.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Like an actor. Dark hair, great smile. I don’t know that they were really together.”

  “What happened when you went to see him Friday night?”

  “We fought again. He wanted me to tell Joss the truth.”

  “You got angry.”

  “Frustrated.”

  “How long had you and Andy been involved?”

  He made a vague motion with one hand. “Off and on since college. At first, I thought it was just . . . experimentation . . . curiosity. But I kept . . . needing . . . and living this other life . . . and I couldn’t see a way out of it. I’m engaged to Douglas Daring’s daughter, for god’s sake. We’re getting married in a month. How could I . . . ?”

  “You’d had that argument before.”

  “Fifty times. We’d have that fight, break it off for a while, get back together, ignore the issue, he’d get depressed . . .”

  He let the sentence trail off and sat there, slumped over like an old man, his expression bleak with pain and regret.

  “Would he have told Jocelyn?” Kovac asked.

  “No. He wasn’t like that. It was up to me, my responsibility. And I wouldn’t accept it.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “He was hurt,” he said, then fell silent for a moment. “I don’t want to believe he might have killed himself, because I don’t want to believe I might have caused him to.”

  His eyes filled again, and he closed them tight, squeezing the tears out between the lashes.

  “But I’m afraid I did,” he whispered. “I couldn’t be man enough to admit what I am, and now maybe the person I loved most in the world is dead because of that. Then I did kill him. I loved him and I killed him.”

  Silence hung between them for a moment, only the murmur of the stereo in the distant background. One of those soft pseudo-jazz stations that seem to play the same song continuously; same beat, same wimpy saxophone, same lazy trumpet. Kovac sighed and thought about what to do next. Nothing, he guessed. There was no point in pushing Pierce further. This was his secret, the weight around his neck. His punishment was to carry it around for the rest of his life.

  “Will you tell Jocelyn?” Kovac asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s a hell of a big lie to live, Steve.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe not to you, but don’t you think she deserves something more?”

  “I’ll be a good husband, a good father, even. We make a stunning couple, don’t you think? That’s what Joss wants—her own life-size Ken doll to dress up and take out and play make-believe with. I’m very good at make-believe. I’ve played it most of my life.”

  “And you’ll get your partnership at Daring-Landis, and everyone will live miserably ever after.”

  “No one will even notice.”

  “It’s the American way.”

  “Are you married, Kovac?”

  “Twice.”

  “So you’re an expert.”

  “On the misery part. I finally figured out it was cheaper and easier to be miserable alone.”

  They were silent again for a moment.

  “You should tell her, Steve. For both your sakes.”

  “No.”

  Kovac saw the door to the hall swing open slowly, and a ripple of dread went through him. Jocelyn Daring stood in the doorway, still in her coat. He didn’t know how long she had been standing there, but by the look on her face it had been long enough. Tears and mascara striped her cheeks. All the color had drained from her lips. Pierce looked at her and said nothing. Slowly her mouth pulled back into a trembling snarl.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” She spat the words out like so many bullets, then flew across the room, shrieking like a banshee, eyes wild with fury.

  Kovac caught her around the waist as she launched herself at Pierce. She screamed and flailed, fists swinging, connecting with his forehead and splitting open the cut that had begun to heal. She kicked him and twisted out of his grasp, grabbing a pewter candlestick off the end table.

  “You stupid son of a bitch!” she screamed again, swinging and hitting Pierce—who hadn’t moved—a glancing blow off the side of his head. “I told you not to talk to him! I told you! I told you!”

  Kovac grabbed her again from behind and struggled, dragging her backward. Her body was taut and strong, and she was tall, and her fury was superhuman.

  Pierce did nothing to defend himself. Blood ran in bright rivulets down the side of his head. He wiped at it with his fingertips and smeared some onto his cheek.

  “I loved you! I loved you!” Jocelyn shouted, nearly incoherent. “Why did you have to tell? I could have made it right.”

  The fury ran out of her then, and she collapsed, sobbing. Kovac maneuvered her to a chair and eased her down into it. Body limp, she slipped down to the floor and curled into a ball, pounding her fist against the chair. “I could have made it right. I could have . . .”

  Kovac leaned down and pried the candlestick from her hand. Blood dripped from his own wound onto her sweater. Baby-blue cashmere.

  “I think you’re right, Sergeant,” Pierce said dimly, staring at his bloody hand. “It probably is easier to be miserable alone.”

  THE NEIGHBOR HAD managed to find three square feet of yard not already occupied, and had added a new display to the montage: a lighted scoreboard counting down the hours and minutes to Santa’s arrival.

  Kovac stared at it for an indeterminate length of time, mesmerized by the ever-changing numbers, and wondered how bad the suspension would be if he were to be arrested for destruction of private property. How many glowing, garish icons to the overcommercialization of the holiday could he destroy before the damage toll took him over the line from petty misdemeanor to something worse? Could he plead a felony down and still keep his badge?

  In the end, he
didn’t have the energy for vandalism, and simply went into his house. It was as empty as before, except for the stench of garbage that should have been left at the curb that morning.

  Home sweet home.

  He took off his coat, threw it over the back of the couch, and went into the half-bath off the hall to wash up and assess the damage. The gash above his left eye was angry-looking, crusted and smeared with dried blood. He should have gone to the ER to get it repaired, but he hadn’t. He dabbed at it with a washcloth, wincing, then gave up and washed his hands and took three Tylenol.

  In the kitchen, he opened the fridge, pulled out a half-eaten meatball sandwich, and sniffed at it. Better than the garbage . . .

  Sandwich in hand, he leaned back against the counter and listened to the silence, the scene at Pierce’s house replaying through his head. Jocelyn Daring, insane with rage and pain and jealousy, flying across the room.

  I told you not to talk to him. . . . Why did you have to tell? . . . I loved you. I loved you.

  Why did you have to tell? Strange wording, he thought. As if Pierce’s homosexuality was a secret she had already known, even though Pierce hadn’t told her and had had no intention of telling her.

  He thought back to the night he’d first met her, the way she behaved toward Pierce—possessive, protective; the carefully blank look in her eyes when he’d asked her if she’d known Andy Fallon.

  That’s what Joss wants—her own life-size Ken doll to dress up and take out and play make-believe with. . . .

  She was amazingly strong. Even now, Kovac’s biceps ached from the effort to restrain her.

  Pensive, he raised the sandwich to take an absent bite. His pager went off before he could taste-test for salmonella. The display showed Liska’s cell phone number. He dialed her back and waited.

  She answered the phone: “House of Pain. We deliver.”

  “Yeah. I’ll take another smack in the head, and a kick in the teeth for dessert.”

  “Sorry. No time for fun. But this’ll make your day. Deene Combs just reached out and touched someone. One of Chamiqua Jones’s kids is dead.”

  28

  CHAPTER