by David Levien
“Ho,” the partner called back, putting the box away and closing the doors. He approached the body with a clipboard and began filling out paperwork.
The responding officers photographed the scene and then began asking vague questions. Before long a silver Crown Vic rolled up.
Captain Pomeroy climbed out and surveyed the scene for only a moment before crooking a finger at Behr. Behr nodded and crossed over to him.
“I thought I was done with you when I fired your ass,” Pomeroy began, loud enough for a few officers to hear. Behr bit down hard on his tongue against the insult.
“Get in.” Pomeroy gestured to his car, and Behr did.
The dove-gray velour was plush, but the fabric seemed to hold on to Pomeroy’s cologne. Over time it had gone sour. Sitting in the car gave Behr an immediate headache. He sat there as Pomeroy moved around the scene and oversaw Riggi being zipped up in a body bag and placed in the back of a coroner’s van. Then he crossed to Paul and they had a brief conversation. Pomeroy had gained weight in the few years since Behr had seen him. The flesh under his chin had gone soft and would double in a few more years. Dark command circles had formed under the captain’s eyes as well. Behr felt the changes he himself had undergone reflected in his old superior. But the captain still had the look of a hawk — piercing eyes over a prominent nose bone — while he recognized himself as a failure. Behr may have been full of promise as a young officer. He may have added knowledge and experience to that promise and for a moment been on his way to becoming a fine policeman. But then things got in the way. An ill-fated partnership, poor political skills, too much drinking, and then Tim’s death, topped off by a busted marriage and more drinking. He could’ve viewed any single one of those factors as bad luck, but taken together he knew it was less a question of chance and more one of limitation or even destiny.
Pomeroy got in the car and slammed the door, bringing a fresh wave of cologne with him. There were no pleasantries, as Behr expected.
“Time for the eternal questions, Frank. Why am I here? Why are you here? What the hell happened?”
“That’s my client.” He pointed at Paul.
“I know him.”
“I’ve been working his son’s case. It led me to Riggi — the DB.”
Pomeroy just grimaced.
“I was looking to talk to the man, get something firm, then turn it over. I’d been in his house waiting when he showed up—”
“Is that so?” Pomeroy cut in. Behr figured he may as well put it out there. It could be found out later and then there’d be problems.
“The door was open.”
“Uh-huh. Was your client with you?”
“He was out in the car. Then the guy ran and we followed him and he jumped the curb.”
“Motherfucker. And why didn’t you come in with this at the start?”
“I didn’t have anything firm then.”
“Well, is it firm enough now? What’d you get?”
“He targeted kids who frequented medical practices in strip malls he owned. He had people grabbing them up. Selling them, I believe.”
“Selling them? Jesus Christ.”
“That’s right. I have reason to believe my client’s son was one of them. There’s a file of his in my car. Records.”
“How’d you …” Pomeroy began. “Don’t tell me that. How many are we talking about?”
“About seven in this area, a thirty-mile radius the best I can figure, over the past few years. Boys of a certain age. Many more before that.”
Pomeroy’s complexion grew ashen. “Shit, this is going to be a major followup investigation. I’m gonna need this all on paper.”
Behr nodded. “I’m gonna need time.”
“Why didn’t you give when I sent my guys around?”
“I didn’t have any of this then. It just came together,” Behr said convincingly.
Pomeroy rubbed his face, massaging in the aftershave oil, Behr imagined. “I’ve heard rumors. You were behind a prisoner getting a pretty severe trimming in County. Same prisoner is now dead.” Behr felt Pomeroy study him for a reaction and did his best not to give one beyond his natural appreciation for the swiftness of prison justice.
“I don’t know anything about that—”
“Don’t bother. Just don’t bother, all right? The prisoner was stabbed to death. Do you have any information on it?”
“None.”
“Where? What the hell does he do with them?”
“I don’t know, Captain.” It was a grand-scale lie, and one Behr had planned on telling since the moment Riggi’s car had flipped and hit the tree. If he gave up Mexico, the department would contact local authorities, there would be tipoffs, and the resolution he and Paul had been looking for would vanish forever.
Behr watched Pomeroy chew over questions in his mind and either answer them or realize there were no answers. A wrecker arrived on the scene and the driver began to hook cables to the rear axle of Riggi’s broken car.
“You always were a fuckup, but you were also honest to a goddamned fucking fault,” Pomeroy said, half as if talking to himself, half for Behr’s benefit. It was a tone all good leaders possessed. “You got anything else for me on this steaming pile?”
Behr brought together his inner resolve. If he could sell his next response, he felt Pomeroy would give up on him and attack the endless paperwork that followed such a situation. If not, he’d be sitting down at his old station with a lawyer for the next several weeks dealing with questions.
“Negative,” he said.
Pomeroy looked at him and finally gave a nod that was tantamount to pulling on the car-door lever. A momentary détente settled between them.
“Have I mentioned I’m gonna need all this on paper?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Make sure you’re easy to find, next little while,” Pomeroy said.
“Will do.”
Behr got out and Pomeroy spoke before he’d closed the door. “An arrest would’ve been better, but this son of a bitch is done and gone. That’s a result, Frank.” Pomeroy pressed his lips together in approval.
“Can I get my computer back?” Behr asked. Pomeroy jerked the Crown Vic into motion by the time Behr had shut the door.
THIRTY
STRENGTH OR WEAKNESS, Paul didn’t know which it had been. He’d granted his mortal enemy, the source of all pain in his life, a moment’s comfort in death. He’d sent the man to eternity with a symbol of God. He hadn’t done it for Riggi, that much he did know, but for himself. He was filled with regret for the action, even as he knew it was what he had to do. He was not a religious man in the conventional sense. He’d left the observance of his Episcopalian upbringing long ago. But he believed in God. He had a real faith that the power existed. And he knew in that moment that in order for God to grant him any relief in the search for an answer regarding his son, he must be worthy of it. They’d gone to a Chili’s after the police had finished with them and silently ate Southwestern Ranch burgers without tasting them. He’d told lies to the police when they’d asked him questions and he’d lied by omission as well. Despite the jeopardy, it was easier than he thought it’d be. It was like anything else, he supposed: simple once one had moved past caring about the outcome. They finished and paid and were set to go when he realized they hadn’t talked about what was next.
“The department’s gonna come down on this and all the related cases with both boots, just so you know,” Behr said, draining his Arnie Palmer.
“What’ll be the time frame on that?” Paul wondered as they rose.
“Days. Weeks. It’s a question of them catching up,” Behr told him.
“I’ll drive,” Behr said as they walked outside into a day the color of a battered tin pan and crossed the parking lot. It was a strange, unnecessary statement as they’d been in Behr’s car all day and he had the keys.
Paul thought about home and Carol and how much he’d tell her. “I’m not waiting for the police. I’m go
ing,” he said aloud. “To Ciudad del Sol. To find out what happened to him.”
“I know,” Behr said. “I just told you: I’ll drive.”
Behr bought flowers and was waiting in front of her building when she got home from work. She drove up in a Miata, parked, and climbed out, slinging a leather bag across her shoulder. She hadn’t expected him, that was clear, but it wasn’t just surprise that spread across her face with her smile.
“He returns,” she said, stopping for a moment, then walking toward him.
“It’s me,” he said back. “How are you, Susan?” She had looked beautiful all made up on their date. Today she was wearing her work clothes — a jacket over a blouse — and her makeup was lighter or had worn off, the slight lines by her eyes more visible. But he saw her more clearly without the layer, and with her hair pulled back as it was. She was beautiful.
He’d felt idiotic sitting there, the bouquet filling his car with a wet earthy smell. All the hesitation left him when she smiled.
“Pretty,” she said, accepting the flowers.
“They were closing and were out of roses.”
“Would you stop?” she said, her eyes flickering up over the tops of the flowers as she smelled them.
“So …” he said.
“So, what’s up?”
“I’m going away for a while.”
“You are?” It seemed to sadden her a bit. “That case?”
“Right.” He felt his heart beating hard under his shirt.
“Where to? If it’s not confidential.”
It wasn’t, but he didn’t want to get into the details. He didn’t want to bring that part of his life to her.
“A bad place.”
“Uh-uh,” she said.
“No?” he asked.
“I’m the in or out type, Frank, and I called you after the other night ‘cause I’m in. Which are you?”
“I’m going to the border, to Mexico,” he said, and moved toward her. “I’m in.” She reached her hand behind his head and pulled him to her, and they kissed.
The night had been almost unreal, and now it was nearly over. Blue light glowed around the edges of the shades and told them it was time. She didn’t lie next to him as usual, but instead across him, like in the old days, her head on his chest, her hair spread over his torso. Paul’s heart beat steady and implacable beneath her ear. It was a sound she hadn’t heard in so long. Neither of them was asleep but in a waking state that was nearly indistinguishable. They’d talked half the night, until Paul had talked himself out, relating all the facts of the case. She wondered if she knew everything now. She felt she did — all that mattered, anyway. He’d told her what he’d learned. Horrible things. They’d begun the conversation standing in the kitchen, then moved to the bedroom. Then they’d sat on the edge of the bed. She’d found herself moving closer and closer to him as the hours progressed. Her husband was brave and unrelenting, she saw it now, and didn’t understand how she’d missed it for so long. At a point in his story their hands found each other in gestures of comfort. When he told her where he was going, she grasped him in fear.
The hour had grown late when she felt it: The current that had been dead between them for as long as she could remember, half of which she considered extinct within her, switched on once again. She reached for him just as he leaned toward her. She met his kiss and felt herself fall into his open mouth. He was tentative at first, touching her as if she were a fragile thing, as if she were made of mist and he might fall through her. But she responded and the touches grew. The room was dark. They shed their clothes. They pressed their bodies against each other in need and relief and love. He moved on top of her and she was solid beneath him, substantial. His smell and the weight of him on her were familiar and intoxicating. Tears of bittersweet joy rolled from the corners of her eyes. For a moment Jamie was gone completely. Not in the agonizing way that he had been for all these months, but in the way he used to be even when he was safe in his room and they went to the special world that husbands and wives occupy for precious moments. They talked in tongues, garbled sounds of passion flying from their mouths.
“Carol,” he said into the darkness.
“Yes?” she answered.
“You’re right, we should do a burial for him: a headstone, a memorial service. I can wait until after that to go.”
She squeezed his hand. “When you get back,” she said.
It wasn’t all he wanted to say.
“It’s no death wish. I’m afraid I’ll get hurt, that I won’t come back. But I’m more afraid of not going.”
She found his strength contagious and she remained infected with it now. “First go and find out what happened to our son, or someone else’s. Then come home to me,” she said.
She felt him smile. Her hand slipped into his in the coming dawn. Their hands began a familiar, playful wrestle that was their lost ritual in moments of intimacy. Their thumbs danced together, brushing softly, speaking silently their love.
Behr sat outside in his idling car. He saw a few lights on inside the house piercing the morning semidarkness. He wondered why he was even there, when driving on alone and leaving Paul behind was the smart move. It was out of allegiance, he realized. And then there was the fact that Paul would show up on his own if Behr left him behind. He considered honking the horn despite the hour. All the times he’d picked up his employer in the past he’d never needed to do that, for Paul would be waiting for him outside or would come out within an instant of his arrival. And of all those times he’d only seen Carol pass by a window once or twice. She was either out most of the time or moving about the depths of the house like a spirit.
Today, though, the screen door swung open and she appeared, in the flesh, wearing sweat pants and a faded sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was fresh and clean of makeup. She looked both young and ravaged at the same time, and the combination was a beautiful one. He lowered the window as she approached. He half expected to hear that Paul wouldn’t be going, that the trip seemed too dangerous, and that he shouldn’t come around anymore.
“Come in,” she said, “I’m going to cook you two a hot breakfast before you go.”
THIRTY-ONE
THEY DROVE TOWARD A HORIZON of gunmetal blue. As they crossed out of state they passed the custom cutters working their way north on the harvest run. They were out even though it was just past dawn, as there was no dew and the wind was blowing from the south. Formations of combines swept across stands of red clover. In the distance, the massive machines trembled under dust clouds of their own making, as they cut and gathered the standing crop, threshed the seed from the stem, separated the chaff, and spit the stem back to the ground.
The radio was tuned to AM and pulled in a broadcast of a farm report. The familiar cadence brought Behr back to his own youth, to his father’s pickup truck as they listened to news that was vitally important to their survival. “Though acres and yield will be down,” the local elevator man informed, “late winter conditions were ideal. Wheat broke winter dormancy and went into its final growth cycle early. Moisture level is fourteen percent now, perfect for a young harvest and a chance to double crop …”
The station didn’t last much longer before it lost reception. Paul switched off the radio and they rode in silence, looking out the windows. Cutting was fast work, and before long the fields they passed held only stubble. They continued on over featureless plain under an empty sky.
Behr nearly detoured past Linda’s out of habit as he did anytime he drove south. It was an automatic response whenever he was near Vallonia. There had long been an ache inside him, a throbbing sense of emptiness in the place she used to fill, like the phantom pain people claimed after they’d lost a limb to amputation. It was a feeling he took for granted for many years, and he had developed an almost perverse familiarity with it. But as they blazed past the exit he would’ve taken to get to her, the ache was only a brief, reflexive thought that didn’t occupy nearly the am
ount of space as his thoughts of Susan. As they drove on, though, she, too, was pulled from his mind, replaced by speculation on what they would find and face in Ciudad del Sol and of what he’d packed in the trunk under a piece of carpet in the large spare tire well.
The sun was high in the sky and sliced through the windshield like an acetylene torch when they crossed into Missouri, and almost by force of momentum they started talking.
“What went down between you and Captain Pomeroy?” Paul asked.
Behr drove for another mile or so looking for a comfortable way to rest his injured arm while he considered how best to answer.
“When you’re a cop,” he began, easing the car around a road-killed possum drying in the sun, “the city you work in becomes your city. It’s your concern. You give yourself to it. Accidents. Emergencies. Fires. Riots. Shootings. Whatever. If it happens, you show up, whether you’re on duty or not, even after you retire. And you expect something back for that. Something small. You expect to belong to it as much as it belongs to you.” Behr told Paul about the relationship between his partner and Pomeroy, the shooting, the grudge. “The way he ran me,” Behr finished, “Pomeroy took that belonging away from me.”
They filled up in Sikeston and Behr stayed behind the wheel. They approached the next topic like swimmers entering an extremely cold mountain lake.
“He was full of contradictions, Jamie was,” Paul said. “Shy, but also self-possessed. It would take him a minute when he walked into a new situation, the first day of school, or a kid’s birthday party, or whatever. He’d just take it in quietly, start figuring out his place there. Before long he’d start picking up volume and speed. Then he’d become himself again, like he was at home, running around, laughing, and talking. …” He tapered off, not used to the subject despite it all. As much as they discussed the details of the case, Paul had never ventured to discuss personal memories with Behr. But the man’s simple recollections pushed him to his own.
“Tim was laughing all the time. He was a big boy.”
