To Bring My Shadow

by Matt Phillips

  Slade stood and shook out his arms. He adjusted the badge against his chest and shrugged. “Looks like we need to keep going, partner. I can’t see any other way.”

  “Fuck it,” I said. “Where to next?”

  “Tomorrow morning we’re going to have a chat with Xander Dames.”

  “Sounds good, Skinny. Hey, you mind dropping me a couple blocks off Market Street?”

  “I guess so, Frank. As long as you promise to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll sleep,” I said. “Like the dead.”

  Chapter 35

  Slade dropped me near Market Street and I walked a block past the Salvation Army, found the gray building with the security door and keypad. The night air was cool against my skin and I felt at home in the slanting darkness of the city. I didn’t know the punch code to enter the Santa Muerte shrine, so I leaned against the wall and waited.

  Across the street three homeless men were huddled up together outside a mechanic’s shop. They lay in twisted sleeping bags, puffs of cigarette smoke rising above them every few seconds. The street was empty besides that. After forty minutes or so, I heard footsteps down along the sidewalk and echoing between the buildings. Sounded like high heels. Sure enough, a few seconds later a slim woman in a pant suit and heels shuffled across the sidewalk and approached. I cleared my throat and put my hands behind my back. The woman saw me when she crossed through the parking lot and she stopped. It was Vera, the woman I met my first time at the shrine.

  “Hello, Detective. I’m surprised to see you again.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She came to the door and looked at me sideways. “I thought you’d go back to confession and mention worshipping a false idol.”

  “That’s the thing…What if the lady isn’t false?”

  Vera punched in the door’s code and I followed her into the dark, humid hallway.

  We walked in stride to the room where the Santa Muerte figure sat bathed in candlelight. Vera said, “There she is.”

  “You think she’s on the side of good or evil?”

  Vera walked down the aisle between the chairs. I followed. When we got to the front of the room, I fell to one knee and lowered my head. Vera stood above me and said, “I think Santa Muerte knows that evil depends on who is good.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Are you a good man, Detective?”

  I heard Decassin’s screams and saw blood wash behind my eyes. “Not always.”

  “Some days you’re evil, and some days you’re good.”

  I said, “Usually, I’m evil in the nights.”

  Vera nodded and kneeled beside me. “Whatever side you’re on,” she said, “Santa Muerte is looking over your shoulder. She’s riding with you.”

  “Seems better than Jesus or the Holy Spirit.”

  “Do you think the evil you see in your work is because people themselves are evil?”

  I stared at the candlelight flickering off Santa Muerte’s bones. Maybe we’re like fire—it can be a force for evil or a force for good. Or was that too simple? Too stupid? “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure if people are evil. I think we—all of us—can do some shitty things. That’s about as far as my philosophy goes.”

  Vera didn’t say anything else to me.

  But we did pray together.

  Chapter 36

  The challenge getting into FBI headquarters to see Xander Dames came down to one thing: We didn’t have an appointment with him and he didn’t answer our phone calls or return our messages. We thought about entering the building and trying to find his office, but Slade didn’t want to risk his job. I knew I’d be stopped long before I got to speak to Dames. What we did is sit around and wait for him to leave the building.

  Slade bought a New York Times and sat at a bus stop across the street, pecking at the crossword with his pencil. The rest of the paper sat in a pile beside him. Every so often, if nobody else was at the stop, Slade waved an approaching bus onward by shaking his head and pointing up the street with his thumb. I took a post outside the building. I leaned against one of the office park coffee kiosks and looked at images of the Castaneda bodies on my cell. The FBI headquarters shared a building downtown with a host of other federal agencies. We didn’t look too suspicious, I hoped. Just your everyday city cops staking out a federal agent. By mid-morning, I began to think that Dames might not appear. In fact, I felt stupid standing there and waiting for an agent who, for all we knew, could be chasing down a lead somewhere.

  Slade disagreed.

  I called him on my cell and watched him put down the crossword and answer. “What now, Frank?”

  “What if he’s not here?”

  “He’s here. Or the woman is. One of them is here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, Frank, not everybody is trying to clock in and go down to the local dive bar. You know, like a city cop? Most people work for a living and, surprise, they really fucking work.”

  I flipped him off. “You know, technically, I’m working for free right now.”

  “The fuck you are. You’re suspended with pay.”

  “It’s reduced,” I said.

  “Well, Frank. I’m sorry you have to do some actual fucking detective work.”

  I shook my head and thought about hanging up on him.

  Slade said, “Frank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is that the woman agent? Look, she’s coming down the steps.”

  I twisted my head and saw a short woman in tight slacks jogging out of the building. Short bobbed hair, a dark long-sleeved blouse and the fast walk of a born athlete. “Fuck, that’s her.”

  Slade said, “You’re on her first. I’m right behind you.”

  When you’re big, like me, people remember you. Though I met Tracy Atkins once, I knew she’d remember me for my size. I followed about a half block behind her as she weaved through the street crowds. She walked fast and I imagined she had a meeting in one of the hotel bars or numerous lounges. I knew Slade was right behind me, but I wasn’t sure he marked Atkins as clear as I did. I didn’t want to lose her so I started to jog. As I did, she turned into the downtown Marriott and nodded at the bellman as he held the door. The same bellman held the door when I approached and I handed him a dollar bill. He smirked at me. Inside the hotel, I crossed through the check-in area and into a sunken lounge area with big oak tables and luxurious leather couches. I stopped for a moment to search for Atkins. I saw her at the bar in the lounge’s far corner. She waved down the barman and spoke to him for a few seconds. He sauntered off to make Atkins a drink. I sat down on the nearest couch. Atkins spun on her barstool and surveyed the lounge and lobby area. I hunched down and pretended like I was reading a menu. When Atkins turned back to the bar, I called Slade. “She’s hanging at the bar. I think it’s just lunch time. You want me to stay on her?”

  “Yeah, let’s wait. I want to think for a second.”

  We hung up and I leaned back into the couch, crossed one leg over the other. A cocktail waitress approached. I waved her off. The barman brought Atkins a flute of champagne and she sipped it with slow and deliberate poise. Drinking on the job, huh? A second later, Slade called me. “What’s up? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m wondering if I should go back to sit on Dames?”

  To me, that sounded right. “It’s probably best. I’ll watch Atkins eat her Cobb salad and head back to meet you—that sound like a plan?”

  Slade didn’t answer.

  “Slade? That sound like a plan?”

  “Frank,” he said, “do yourself a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t do anything until I get in there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  And then Ronald J. Applewhite walked right past me in a pinstriped suit and neon pink tie. He tapped Atkins on the shoulder, gave her a peck on the cheek, and slid onto a barstool. �
��Fuck, man.” I didn’t believe it.

  Slade said, “I’m crossing the street now.”

  Slade sat next to Atkins and I took the barstool next to Applewhite. As we sat down, Slade said, “You two look cute together.”

  Applewhite let a big breath seep out from between his lips. “You two fucks again? What do I have to do to get you to cool it? Don’t you two know any goddamn thing about pay grade?”

  I waved at the barman. “Cold beers for me and my partner here.” The barman poured two draft beers and set them in front of me and Slade. I took a long sip and left the white froth on my mouth. “Yeah,” I said. “We know all about it. We know all about a wannabe DA in bed with a drug trafficker too. Lots to know in this big old world.”

  Slade said, “What we can’t figure is what Agent Atkins here has to do with all this. Other than covering up the Jacoby murder with that partner of hers. What’s his name?” Slade snapped his fingers a couple times.

  Atkins said, “Xander doesn’t have shit to do with this. He’s back at the office looking at DNA results right this minute.”

  Applewhite nudged her. “These fucks don’t deserve to know anything. They can’t do shit.”

  I swiveled on my barstool and faced Applewhite. I leaned into him so he could feel my weight on his torso and right thigh. “Maybe you forgot we’re murder police, Applewhite.”

  “Not you, Pinson,” he said. “You’re not even police at all. Not anymore.”

  “Well, looky-look at this…” Slade was tapping at his cell phone. “Special Agent Atkins here did a juris doctorate at Jefferson.” He squinted at his screen. “Says here you wanted to get into politics. Is that right?”

  “I graduated top of my class.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “What’s all this got to do with—”

  “She’s networking with the next DA, Frank,” Slade said. “I’m guessing she’s looking for some kind of special appointment. Something she can make her political bones on, but something that can’t be fucked up. Hell, it’ll look pretty good for a former FBI agent to run for state senator.”

  Applewhite said, “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Ryerson.”

  “Am I though?”

  “I don’t give two fat fucks about your career trajectory, Atkins,” I said. “What I do give a fuck about, and I give lots of fucks about this, are the three dead bodies we found in the desert. We want to know how they got there. And we want to know who did it.”

  Neither Atkins nor Applewhite said a damn thing.

  “Well,” Slade said, “I guess me and Frank need to make a stop at the Tribune newsroom.” He looked at the time on his cell. “Plenty of room for this to make tonight’s print deadline. They’ll have it up online around this evening I expect. They’ll want to beat the TV news.”

  “What’s the story?” Applewhite sipped his vodka martini.

  “Local DA and regional FBI office collaborate on not giving a shit about a triple murder.”

  “You think Jacoby was an innocent?”

  “No,” I said, “but his daughter and wife were.”

  “The wife was as dirty as her husband.”

  “The girl then.” I leaned into him more, finished my beer with one big gulp.

  “Look,” Applewhite said, “you want to know who killed the Jacoby family? It wasn’t me…I don’t have that in me. Jesus, what do you think I am?”

  “You ordered it done,” I said.

  Slade said, “Fucking A, right.”

  Atkins bowed her head.

  Applewhite shook his head and used one hand to point a finger at the ceiling.

  “What’s that supposed to fucking mean?” God, that anger came up in me at that second. I wanted to bite the finger off his hand, shoot him in the face.

  “I’m just a foot soldier in all this shit.”

  I removed my pistol from its snug holster and shoved it into his ribs.

  “Jesus, Frank,” Slade said.

  Applewhite grunted and said, “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Let’s say I’m exploring who the fuck I’m faithful to.”

  Atkins made a move for her gun, but Slade had his own gun in her belly before she could get there. “Nada, señorita,” he whispered.

  I shoved the gun deeper into Applewhite. “Give us something to go on. And, yeah, we’ll go to the press. But we might—no, I might—try and do worse.”

  Atkins said, “Talk to Decassin’s wife, assholes.”

  Slade made a sound with his lips. “Finney Portray?”

  I bent over the bar and met Slade’s gaze.

  Applewhite said, “We’re all dead.”

  I put my gun away and finished Applewhite’s martini for him. “That’s true,” I said, “eventually.”

  Chapter 37

  Slade exited the freeway and headed west toward the housing development where we first met Finney Portray. I thought about the raised eyebrows she gave me that night, her feigned annoyance at us being there. The way she tilted her champagne flute to her lips, a perfect statue sipping the nectar of life. And to think Decassin sat there all high and mighty, looking like Napoleon on a fucking plush throne. I didn’t know what to expect when we confronted Portray, but I kept hoping—somewhere deep inside myself—for Atkins and Applewhite to prove liars.

  Slade said, “You really think this woman is behind all this death?”

  “I don’t know, Skinny. Would it be a surprise?”

  “Man, nothing fucking surprises me anymore.”

  “That’s the truth,” I said. “Every second you turn around—it’s a fucking surprise.”

  Slade nodded and said, “Frank, I want to say I’m sorry about the way this went. I don’t know why it is that Jackson did you so wrong. And this thing you told me about Miranda. I mean, shit Frank. I’m sorry about it and…I don’t know what I can say.”

  I touched my sore face and winced. Johnny’s brass knuckles left their mark. I said, “You’ve done me right all the way through, Skinny. What we need to do right now is solve this fucking thing. We need to put it behind us.” And I decided then—without a second thought—to put my hate for Johnny behind me. Or to pretend it didn’t exist. There were worse evils in the world.

  We crested a hill and descended through a cool section of road with golf course ponds on each side. It was still bright out this early in the afternoon and I enjoyed the brief moment of cold air. Up ahead, the guard kiosk sat with the big wrought-iron gate behind it. Slade pulled the car up to the same plump guard with his polo shirt and the senseless grin on his face. Slade rolled down his window.

  The guard said, “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  Slade nodded. “You can open the gate without giving us a bunch of shit.”

  I removed my gun and held it on my lap where the guard could see it. “And you can make sure not to call anybody when we pass through.”

  The guard hesitated for an instant. I shifted in my seat to face him. That was all it took. He turned and entered the kiosk. A moment later the wrought-iron gate slid open and Slade drove forward onto the pristine black asphalt of the country club.

  We rolled slowly down the streets, both of us taking in the pleasant yet antiseptic sight of mission-style tract homes. The lawns were bright green and all the flowers were in a state of perpetual bloom. A few older men in golf carts passed us in the opposite direction. We got kind waves and smug smiles. In a way, it was nice—maybe that was the biggest problem I had with it.

  “Fucking postcard living,” Slade said.

  “Don’t let it fool you. These motherfuckers here are just as dirty as your average street pimp, your run-of-the-mill drug dealer. Maybe dirtier. Everybody shits from the same place, and it always smells. A fat bank account ain’t perfume.”

  Slade’s mouth turned down at the corners. He swung us around a long curve and pulled the Ford to the curb outside Decassin’s house. No pleasant sounds of jazz or sprinklers today. Only the
rush of blood in my ears.

  We walked to the front door and Slade rang the doorbell.

  A middle-aged white woman with a pinched-up face answered the door.

  “Is Mrs. Portray here?”

  “Upstairs—I’m the housekeeper. You want me to get her?”

  Slade revealed his badge. “I’m a homicide detective, miss. I’m just here to ask her some questions. She knows me, and I’m supposed to meet her this afternoon.”

  “Come in, detectives. Please.”

  We passed into the foyer and the woman nodded at me. I didn’t have my badge to show her. It was a blessing she didn’t ask.

  She said, “I’ll just go and let Finney know you’re here.”

  We nodded and watched the woman climb a nearby staircase.

  “It’s going to feel nice to use my cuffs,” Slade said.

  “I bet.”

  We stood there in silence, both of us staring at the expensively decorated room. Lots of modern art and huge vases with fake sticks poking out of them. What an odd way to live, all this well-planned crap everywhere. It reminded me of a movie set, though I’d never been near one.

  From the floor above, we heard a sharp crack—like a balloon popping. Slade led the way up the stairs, both of us moving cautiously and with our guns drawn.

  When we reached the landing, there was a rush of movement to our right. Somebody moving into a room. The hallway stretched in both directions. I saw two doors opposite each other on the left. I leaned into Slade’s ear and said, “Let me clear those rooms.” He nodded. I crested the landing with Slade covering me to the right and prodded open the nearest door. It was a bathroom and it was empty. The other door led to a study with a big oak desk and a bunch of Aztec masks and other artifacts. Decassin would never enjoy those again. I wondered what would happen to them. The study was also empty. I moved out into the hall behind Slade and we slunk forward toward the two doors on the other side of the staircase. We reached the first bedroom and took up positions on each side.

  Slade said, “It’s the police! Get on the ground and put your weapons on the floor!”