Lois came around the corner of the house. “I thought I heard voices.” She had a grease smudge on her forehead and her fingers looked like they’d been soaked in oil.
“Lois, this is a student of mine.”
Donnie turned to shake her hand and hesitated.
Lois looked at her own hands as if surprised, then said, “How do you do?”
“Fine, thank you,” Donnie said. “What you been working on?”
“The truck.”
“Need some help?”
“Well, I am having a bit of trouble.”
As the two went around the corner of the house, Sophie sighed. The hammer was gone for sure.
“Can I help you with these lights?” Ruby asked.
“You sure can. This strand has a bulb out. We have some new ones in the kitchen.” Sophie considered the irony that Ruby had found Donald all these years later while performing her own acts of contrition.
*
Lois was exhausted when, with Don Smith’s help, she’d finished installing the new battery. She’d replaced the battery on her 1978 Malibu years ago, and it had been easy, but cars were simple affairs in those days. Plus, she’d been over thirty years younger. This time the cables had rusted. With a can of Coke and the added strength of the young man, she’d gotten the job done. She’d planned on getting to the yard Wednesday afternoon to clean up storm damage. But after a shower, she’d lain down and didn’t wake until close to five.
She blinked and lay still for a moment. The house was quiet. She rolled to a sitting position and put both feet on the floor. The familiar radiating pain in her back slowed her down. She stood and pulled her robe on. As she passed in front of the dresser mirror, she caught the reflection of an old woman. Although she could look at her hands and see liver spots, blue veins, and skin that wrinkled into little diamonds as her hands moved, she still felt like herself inside. She’d had plenty of time to get used to her white hair and extra weight. But even as her body betrayed her, her mind refused to come along for the ride.
She found Sophie in the kitchen with a cup of coffee looking at the paper while the Thanksgiving pie was in the oven.
“I’m glad you’re up. I want to show you something.”
“Any of that coffee left?”
“Sure. But come out onto the porch with me.” Sophie took Lois’s hand and led her through the living room to the front door. Christmas lights were wrapped around the rails with some kind of leafy garland.
“You planning to turn them on?”
“No. Not tonight.” Sophie pointed toward the west and said, “Look at that sunset.”
The November gloom had broken in the west. Gray clouds were edged in coral from the sun beneath. But it was more than that. The stringy gray clouds arched like a roof of red and gold. Lois squeezed Sophie’s arm.
“Remember Key West?” Sophie asked.
Lois nodded.
“People actually took pictures of the sunset from Mallory Square. It was nothing like this.”
Lois chuckled. “Maybe we should make a batch of brownies and sell them to people as they stand on this porch to take pictures.”
“God. I’d forgotten that brownie lady on her bike.”
Lois propped herself against the house and looked at Sophie. At length she said, “Was that young man, your student, Donnie of the knife?”
“Yes.” Sophie looked at her. “You make him sound like some twelfth-century knight instead of a black boy who held an old nun at knifepoint.”
Lois said, “He asked me about the trailer hitch. I told him it came with the truck, but we’d always wanted to get a camper of some kind. Then I told him how we’d like to spend the winter in Florida sometime. He said that one of the older guys at the meetings has a good-sized motor home for sale.”
“We may be better off financially, but we’re not ready to buy something like that.”
Lois said, “He gave me the phone number. We’re supposed to look at it Friday night.”
*
The little apartment smelled of stale cigarettes. Frances Owens was a heavy smoker who didn’t let her oxygen cylinders slow her down. The two-room apartment was cluttered but, other than the cigarette smell on everything, fairly clean. Their position consisted of two folding chairs and a TV tray near the front window. Mrs. Owens was happy to cooperate with the police stakeout, but she refused to stay elsewhere while the police were there.
So in the mornings she kept the coffee going and fed them. Then she spent the day on an orange futon. She ate there and she napped there. Now and then music would float up from the apartment below where an elderly man owned an upright piano. But mostly the Owenses’ apartment, except for the drone of daytime game shows and soap operas, stayed quiet.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, Morgan came in late. The sky outside the two front windows was gray. The warm air in the little apartment was stifling. Morgan’s blazer hung on the back of a chair, and circles of sweat marked the underarms of her yellow Oxford shirt. Robert Redick seemed as comfortable as he ever got. His ass was on the edge of a folding chair, his back ramrod straight and shoulders square as he looked at the night-shift report. He seemed cool enough, but something was evidently bothering him.
Morgan eyed the coffee pot. After drinking herself to sleep last night, she’d overslept and had no appetite for breakfast or coffee. Plus, the thought of using the bathroom with the extended toilet seat made her deliberately put the coffee out of her mind. She heard a strange sound and looked around the room. There it was again—a sigh. Redick had sighed.
“You okay?”
He looked at her and said, “This is a waste of time.”
Morgan shrugged. “If Ward says to do it, we do it.”
Redick looked ahead and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “You didn’t spend yesterday sharing a turkey roll from the food pantry with Mrs. Owens and her son.”
“Couldn’t get out of it?”
“Not without pulling my gun.”
Morgan said, “I have a story to top that.”
“Take your best shot.”
She’d never seen him smile. It was kind of cute, maybe handsome. She began the story. “I had dinner with my mother at the Prairie Flower. She didn’t want to share the rolls, so she poured a glass of water over the little old lady next to her who asked for them. That lady jumped up and ran. She collided with a table full of pumpkin pies. While the kitchen workers scrubbed up the mess and the lady with the ice water on her head got cleaned up, the rest of the old people glared at my mother. I suppose they’d been counting on the pie. Anyway, after that, she calmly ate her dinner.”
Redick chuckled. “You’re right. I can’t beat that.”
“She didn’t even remember the rolls. Ate without them.” When she said that, Morgan braced herself. She refused to cry. Her hands were shaking a little, so she worked them beneath her, sitting on them.
After a moment Redick said, “So you had a couple of drinks to calm your nerves?”
“None of your damn business.”
He held up both hands, fending off her attack. “Hey. I’m just saying…you look a little tired.”
“I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m not a marine.”
Redick got up and went to the coffee pot and poured the strong liquid into the pink and blue cups that Mrs. Owens had designated as theirs. He set the pink one on the TV tray and handed the blue one to Morgan. “Marines can take some pretty rough stuff, but mothers, that’s a whole other thing. You going to visit your mom Sundays and holidays, taking care of things for her all alone. I couldn’t do it.”
Morgan looked at him, puzzled. “How do you know about that?”
“Henry Zimmerman.”
“What? When?”
“He called me after her escape—after the D.B. across the street. He told me to cut you some slack.”
“Damn him.”
Redick touched her arm. “No. Don’t be upset with him. If I’d been the partner I should ha
ve been, I would have known. You would have told me yourself.”
The coffee was strong, but by the third sip, it started going down smoothly. In fact, she felt a little better. “Thanks.”
When he turned and stared out the window at the gray sky, she studied him carefully. He’d gotten up early enough to eat or have a nasty protein shake, whichever. He hadn’t had too much to drink the night before. His mouth probably wasn’t dry and his head didn’t ache. He had a bottle of cold water sitting on the floor next to his chair. He’d drink half of his coffee, then sip on the water and make it last most of the day. In addition to that, he wasn’t sweating and his hair didn’t feel like he hadn’t washed it in two weeks, because he didn’t have any hair.
Redick said, “Why the big smile?”
She laughed then, but stopped when a searing pain shot through her right temple. She closed her eyes and with shaking fingers massaged the spot.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
He stood. “Let me get you more coffee.”
“It’s too strong.”
“I’ll put some sugar in it. Or I could make some fresh.”
“I’ll be okay.”
But he stepped across the room, picked up the pot, and headed for the sink to rinse it. Then Morgan heard Mrs. Owens call to him, “Let me take care of that, Red. You have a job to do.”
She looked at him as he sat in the folding chair next to her. “Red?”
He nodded. “If you ever feel we’re on a first-name basis, I’d like for you to call me Red. It’s a nickname I got when I was a kid. Back then, I had red hair. Anyway, it kind of stuck and I kept it even when the red hair was mostly gone. It’s close enough to Redick.”
Morgan dug around in her bag for a bottle of aspirin. She set it on the TV tray and waited for the fresh coffee. It actually smelled pretty good, but when she put the blue mug to her lips she gagged. It took several minutes to get the aspirin down and finish the second cup.
Mrs. Owens came up behind them and said, “My son brought me doughnuts yesterday morning. I can’t eat a dozen. You two have some with your coffee.”
They both thanked her and let the open box sit between them.
After a few moments Redick said, “How did you end up, of all the things in the world a woman could be, a homicide officer?”
“My dad was a cop. I never seriously considered any other line of work. Okay, my mom wanted me to go to college, so I did and took pre-law. But it wasn’t for me.”
“Why not? Sure would pay better.”
She didn’t answer but stared at the doughnuts. How could she explain that the wanton woman next door cut short her first attempt at college in Texas? Actually, Chelsea didn’t make her quit. It was her desire for Chelsea that made it hard to think about much else. She’d tried college again while working as a meter maid right after her father’s death. So she’d come up through the ranks the hard way. But she was happy with her work—until lately.
“What?” Redick said. “Don’t need the money?”
She chose one of two glazed doughnuts and took a bite. Still chewing, she said, “Truth is, the law isn’t about justice.” She swallowed and started to take another bite, but hesitated and said, “I thought as a good lawyer I could make things come out fair. But the law is only about some kind of dance criminals do through the legal system. I started to see that the only justice was in the streets—making cases that would hold up through the court system. Even then, there’s no guarantee. Sometimes really sick shit happens and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Redick scooted to the edge of his folding chair and picked up the bottle of water. His eyes were still on the building across the street, his voice so soft she almost didn’t hear him say, “I know.”
Her headache was starting to clear. Dry as it was, she finished the glazed doughnut and hungrily reached for a cinnamon roll. Across the street, wind whipped at the striped awning in front of the shabby hotel. An old man came out of the door, looked both ways carefully, then left the building and walked down the street to the McDonald’s on the corner. Morgan checked her watch. It was 10:17. He walked back a few minutes later carrying a bag. She brushed the sugar from her fingers and picked up the clipboard to record the activity. She looked at a list of notes about the comings and goings of the people who lived in the hotel. All things considered, they didn’t go out much. With Tia Johnson out of the drug business, there hadn’t been much of that kind of activity over there either.
After a while, she broke the silence. “So, how did you end up in Homicide?”
Redick smiled. “Believe it or not, I grew up on Don Johnson and Miami Vice. I just knew that was the life for me. From the time I was twelve all through my teens, I could see myself living on a boat with a pet alligator, driving a Ferrari, having shoot-outs with bad guys once a week, and, pardon the expression, getting all the pussy I wanted. Then when I was eighteen years old, a marine recruiter convinced me the best way to the job I wanted was through the military. Sonny Crockett was a Vietnam veteran, if you recall.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Not a fan. I see it on reruns late at night sometimes when I can’t sleep.”
“Well, I have DVDs, five seasons, if you want to see more. I’ve watched that pilot episode so often I know most of the lines by heart. You know, at the end, Sonny’s on his way to stop this dealer, who they had once, but he was let go because of some screwup. It’s night and the top is down and Phil Collins is in the background singing “Something in the Air Tonight”—a totally haunting sound. And Sonny stops the car at a pay phone and calls his ex-wife and asks her if what they once had was real. Man, that gets me every time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. See, it shows his humanness, his vulnerability. Before Miami Vice all the cop shows were like Gunsmoke. The cops were tough. They were cold “just the facts, ma’am” kinds of guys, who always solved the case and got their man. They were sure of themselves and sure of the women they had. Can you see Marshall Dillon making a call like that to Miss Kitty?”
“No. There weren’t any phones—”
“Plus the drug dealer gets away. They fail. It was a new kind of program. Before that the good guys always won. But the bad guys get away, and Crockett and Tubbs are left standing there with nothing. And on the next episode they’re right back at it. That’s real life. Nobody has 100 percent clearance rates. We sure don’t. I’d like to get this sniper, but the odds are against us.”
Listening to Redick carry on, Morgan automatically picked up the last doughnut. Before she bit into it, she said, “He’ll make a mistake.”
“This stakeout’s a waste of time. We both know it. Ward knows it.”
“So, what else have we got? You know, I feel like we have something, but we just can’t see it. Like we’re close.”
Redick glanced at the empty doughnut box, then at Morgan. “Feeling better?”
“Yes. A little.”
They were silent for a while. Behind them Mrs. Owens was watching a show with Christmas music. Maybe it was a commercial. Up and down the street below, red ribbons whipped in the wind. One room at the St. Peter’s Hotel had blinking white lights around the steamy window.
Redick started talking again. “There was this one great episode with Willie Nelson—they had some pretty big guest stars. Willie plays this retired Texas Ranger come to Miami to get revenge for the death of his son. Final scene is a shootout in a cemetery…”
This Miami Vice thing confirmed Morgan’s belief that Redick was more than a little OCD. She simply nodded and asked, “Any regrets? I mean, with your choices.”
“Naw. Once I was in the marines, I found I was happy with it. I like the structure and discipline. It gives me the illusion of control.”
Definitely OCD. Morgan chuckled. “Don Johnson.”
“You tell that to anybody and I’ll deny it.”
Morgan caught something from the corner of her eye. “Who’s that?”
&nb
sp; Redick leaned toward the window for a better look. “This could be our guy.”
Morgan stood and craned her neck. He was younger than she’d thought he’d be, wearing a baseball cap and a fatigue jacket. “That’s him all right.” She turned, started to grab her coat, then changed her mind and sprinted out the door and down the stairs behind Redick.
The kid was talking to an old man, waving his arms in the air angrily. It was the old guy who made them. He said something to the kid, who turned, and when the kid saw them, he ran.
Morgan heard Redick swear softly, and then he was gone. Morgan fell behind, so she tried to figure a way to head the kid off. After the first cross street, instead of following Redick, she cut off at the alley that ran between the buildings. She knew this part of town. While some alleyways didn’t go all the way through, this one did. The light was gone, and she could only see the shapes of garbage dumpsters on either side of her. This was a calculated risk. If the kid didn’t turn, Redick would be on his own. But if he did, she had to get to the intersection before they did.
She pushed harder and her foot slipped on something—probably garbage. She grabbed the cold metal of a dumpster to steady herself, and as she started out again, she felt something cold and sticky on her hands. She exited the alley and made a wide turn left. At the next corner she stopped with her back against a rough brick wall, drawing deep breaths as quietly as possible. She could hear them coming. The kid, approaching her corner quickly, was widening the distance between Redick and himself. Morgan bent over, both hands on her knees, sucking in cold air. Sweat from her forehead ran into her eyes. She waited a few seconds, then kicked her leg out and the kid went flying.
He landed on all fours.
She leapt on top of him, and he went to the ground with an “Ooof.” Her handcuffs were out, and she struggled to get them around his wrists. Sweat dripped from her face. Her eyes stung and she felt faint and nauseated. Behind her, Redick said, “Let me have him.” She snapped the cuffs closed and started to stand. Then her guts convulsed and vomit sprayed out her mouth and nose. She put a hand up to stop the half- digested doughnuts and coffee from covering the back of the suspect, but it was no use. She felt Redick lifting her, heard him say, “Easy, girl.”
Retirement Plan Page 18
