“To hell with that prick. How are you doing?”
“Sleep-deprived, but otherwise okay. Where are you?”
“At your place. I must’ve just missed you. Lyle showed me the note you left. That’s how I knew where to call.”
“Has Maddox made contact? On my laptop, or some other way?”
“Not yet.” A pause. “Christ, I think it’s worse not hearing from him. Not knowing what he’ll do next.”
I considered this. “I feel the same way. But it’s part of the game of nerves he’s playing. Making me wonder whose death will come next. And when.”
There was another, longer pause on the phone.
“Listen, Danny,” she said finally. “I’m calling from your bedroom. With the door closed. For privacy.”
“Okay…” Keeping my voice steady. What was going on?
“I mean, it’s no big deal. Not in the middle of this shit-storm. And I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. But Barnes and I were talking about you, and…”
I heard her take a breath, as though preparing herself.
“Look, it’s embarrassing as hell, but I told Lyle about that time last month when I made a fool of myself. Coming on to you, I mean. Totally balls-out. And I’m sorry, it wasn’t—”
“Are you kidding? The only fool I remember from that night was me.”
“Well, I don’t know…”
I chose my next words carefully.
“Believe me, Gloria. You’re not the kind of woman a man wants to disappoint. And at the time…well, there was someone else’s feelings to consider.”
Her voice grew soft. “And now…?”
“I don’t know. She—look, maybe being on a break from each other means just that…that we’re taking a break.”
Gloria fell silent. Then, as if suddenly uncomfortable, as if she’d disclosed too much, her tone lightened.
“Well, for what it’s worth, Lyle thinks you were an idiot for not hooking up with me.”
“I know. He told me. Those were his exact words, in fact.”
“No shit? A wise man, that Lyle Barnes.”
Now I found myself smiling. “You know, in my clinical opinion this a crazy conversation. Under the circumstances.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Doctor. But in some psych course I took once, I learned that levity is a great stress-reliever. So maybe that’s what we’re doing. Relieving stress.”
“I concur, Agent Reese. Now I better go up and see Lieutenant Biegler before the cops put out an APB on me.”
“Yeah, go ahead. Like you don’t have enough to worry about. Meanwhile, Barnes and I will keep trying to get a fix on Maddox’s whereabouts. He’s got to be holed up somewhere.”
“Great, thanks. And if you could, it might help to learn everything we can about his life. His past, his background.”
“Got it. A psych profile. Right up Lyle’s alley.”
I was about to say good-bye when she spoke again.
“And by the way, Danny. If you’re ever interested, I can think of another way to relieve stress.”
She hung up without another word.
l l l l l
I got off the elevator on the fifth floor and strode down to the conference room. Most of the desks lining the corridor were empty, though a few detectives had surrendered their Sundays, apparently to catch up on paperwork. I knew a number of them by sight, if not always by name, and received halfhearted waves in response to my own casual greetings.
Like Polk, most cops in the Department had, at best, mixed feelings about my involvement in some of its more high-profile cases—especially given the media attention that often resulted. Nevertheless, over the years, I’d managed to develop decent relationships with a number of them. Though this was probably due as much to the fact that I was the son of a cop as to any affinity they had with me. And for these few men and women, the fact that I was a psychologist made them uncomfortable.
As I neared the shiny double doors of the conference room, I heard querulous voices coming from within. I couldn’t make out all the words, but it was clear the argument was about me.
I knocked, heard Biegler’s thin voice call out “Come in!” and opened the door.
There were only three of them, Lieutenant Biegler sitting at the head of the conference table, Polk and Jerry Banks on either side. When I entered, Biegler made an imperious gesture toward one of the empty chairs. I sat.
Over the years, Stu Biegler, head of Robbery/Homicide, had shown even less patience with me—and my consultant’s position with the Department—than Harry Polk. Just past forty, yet with the callow face and slim body of a much younger man, Biegler’s career ambitions always seemed to trump any real interest in law enforcement. Which didn’t exactly endear him to the cops under his command. Especially one Harry Polk.
“I heard you guys arguing in here.” I figured I might as well start the ball rolling. “About me, right?”
“We were discussing the Steadman case, Doctor.” Biegler tried on a smile. “Out of deference to your position with the Department, Sergeant Polk feels we should conduct our interview with you in here. Like colleagues. And not in some grimy interrogation room.”
I turned to Polk. “Why, Harry? You guys have grilled me before in interrogation rooms. Plenty of times.”
Biegler gave a short laugh. “That hardly speaks well of your character, does it? Which means it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that I’ve had you brought in today.”
I sat forward in my chair.
“Hell, I can’t say I’m not impressed. Two of Pittsburgh PD’s finest, pulling duty on a Sunday. What happened, did you lose a bet or something?”
Jerry Banks started to chuckle, but wisely stifled it after a warning look from Polk.
Unlike the young detective, Biegler was not amused.
“As you well know, Rinaldi, the victim’s family are quite prominent people. Good friends of both the Mayor and District Attorney Sinclair.”
“And campaign contributors to both those fine public servants,” I said. “So since you guys aren’t happy with the case against Eddie Burke—convenient as it was—you have to work up an alternative theory of the crime. That’s where I come in.”
I’ll give Biegler this much. He didn’t flinch.
“That’s because I think you’re good for it, Doctor. At the very least, I consider you a person of interest.”
“Based on what? Other than your animus toward me.”
“Based on the facts. The alleged affair with the Steadman girl, who happened to live right across the street from you. A girl whose dead body you were the first to find. And whose autopsy revealed the hand of a clever, sophisticated killer.” He spread his own hands on the top of the polished table. “And based on the fact you’re a wise-ass who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. See, I’m not some stupid cop from the sticks, Rinaldi. I know what ‘animus’ means.”
“Good for you, Biegler. But you left out a motive. Why the hell would I want to kill Joy Steadman?”
Polk cleared his throat. “I gotta admit, Lieutenant, I’ve been wonderin’ ’bout that myself.”
After glancing coolly in Polk’s direction, Biegler returned his officious gaze at me.
“Motive is easy. You’re a noted psychologist, a consultant with the Department. And for some reason I can’t fathom, sort of a media darling. An affair with a young, vulnerable woman half your age wouldn’t do much for your image. Especially as part of a romantic triangle with a known drug addict. And a black man, to boot. From the slums of Homewood.”
Before I could respond, he held up a slender hand.
“And, no, I’m not being racist. I just know how the public thinks. How people really think when they’re not talking to pollsters. Besides, maybe the motive is even simpler. You wanted to end things with the girl and she didn
’t. So you killed her.”
“And raped her first?”
“What better way to make it look like the work of someone else? Eddie Burke, for instance.”
I turned from him to Polk. “You know this is bullshit, right, Harry? There was no affair, and I didn’t kill anyone.”
He shrugged his thick shoulders. “Not my call, Doc.”
I’d had enough. I kicked back my chair and stood up.
“Fuck you, Biegler. You have nothing and you know it. Man, you’re so happy at the thought of jamming me up, it’s pathetic. Now either charge me, in which case I’ll call Harvey Blalock—”
“That’s his lawyer,” Polk said helpfully.
Biegler’s jaw set. “I know who he is, Sergeant.”
“Either charge me,” I said again, “or let me get the hell out of here.”
The Lieutenant got up from his seat as well, so that now we were eye-to-eye. His pale face reddening.
“Listen, you arrogant bastard—”
“I’d rather not. I get to choose who I listen to, Biegler, and you’re not on the list. You want to talk to somebody, I’m happy to make a referral. I know a couple shrinks who specialize in assholes. I’m sure one of them can fit you in.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Polk shake his head. Both of us knew I’d crossed the line, and that I’d better make myself scarce. And fast.
So I did.
Chapter Twenty
Back down in the lobby, the desk cop told me that Polk had called him to arrange for a uniform to drive me home.
“No, thanks.” I headed out the door. “I’ll figure something else out.”
I was still roiling with anger from my encounter with Biegler. What was really maddening was defending myself from his ridiculous accusations while knowing who Joy’s real killer was.
But it wasn’t just that. The brown-nosing little prick had been trying to undermine my position with the Department for years, and I was tired of it. Tired, too, of our familiar verbal jousting. What I’d really wanted to do up there was lay him out.
I get like that sometimes. Sue me.
Standing outside the precinct, jangly, still fuming, it occurred to me what I needed to do. I needed to hit something. The mid-morning sun pouring down, people coming and going around me, but it was all I could think about.
It wasn’t because of Biegler. He was a minor irritant. It was the specter of Sebastian Maddox, and my frustration and anger in the face of his campaign of terror, of death. Knowing he would strike again.
And soon.
l l l l l
That was the thing about being a paid consultant to the Pittsburgh Police. On the one hand, I sometimes had to deal with cretins like Stu Biegler. On the other, I had access to the Department’s new health club, a handsome sandstone building abutting the main precinct. Unlike the old Police Athletic League gyms of my youth, this new complex boasted state-of-the-art equipment, a lap pool, and air conditioning. Also, in contrast to the VFW halls and community centers in which I’d fought, there was a boxing ring with ropes that weren’t frayed and leather turnbuckles that weren’t cracked.
I pushed through the club’s gleaming glass doors. As I’d hoped, the place was nearly deserted on a Sunday. Even the few cops lifting weights or using the machines seemed impelled more by rote routine than a desire for a real workout.
As I walked past the racks of free weights, I remembered that the last time I was here was with Eleanor Lowrey. We’d agreed to meet and work out together, which led to that first night in her apartment. The beginning of our relationship.
Now, at her insistence, we were on a “break,” something that was beginning to seem pretty permanent. Especially after what Polk told me about her visits to her former lover up in state prison.
Then there was Gloria Reese, and whatever the hell was going on with that…
I kept a set of gym clothes in the locker room, so I changed quickly, geared up with training tape and gloves, and went out on the floor. For a good twenty minutes, I worked the speed bag. Hard.
Then, the sting of healthy sweat in my eyes, I climbed up into the ring and started shadow-boxing. Throwing combinations at invisible opponents. Bobbing and weaving, though not as steadily or cleanly as usual, due to fatigue, probably. And the distraction of unwanted thoughts was dulling my reflexes, playing havoc with my concentration.
I was just about to call it quits when a young voice shouted at me from outside the ring. Gasping, I walked to the ropes and looked down at a muscular guy in his mid-twenties, in sweat shorts and sleeveless Steelers tee-shirt. He also wore a boyish grin that belied his formidable appearance.
“Ya wanna spar some, mister?”
“I don’t know. You look pretty tough.”
He laughed dismissively. “C’mon, I’m talkin’ about some light sparrin’ here. Just foolin’ around.”
Still, I hesitated.
He took another step closer to the ring. “Look, I’m goin’ nuts just hittin’ the bag. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Now my reluctance felt unwarranted. So, finally, I nodded.
“Okay, sure. Maybe for a couple minutes.”
“Great, thanks!”
I watched him climb up between the ropes. He outweighed me by about thirty pounds, all of it muscle, and the way he tapped his gloves together confirmed that he probably knew his way around a ring. It also seemed more aggressive than necessary.
But what bothered me the most was the abrupt change in his demeanor—the look of grim determination on his face.
“What’s your name, son?” I said as we touched gloves.
“Don’t matter. We ain’t gonna be friends.”
Before I could react to the sudden malice in his tone, he threw a right cross to my jaw that nearly knocked me on my ass. I staggered back, eyes blurring from the impact. Hands coming up in front of me for protection. Blocking his next series of blows with my forearms.
What the hell—?
He tried another right to my head, but telegraphed it enough that I could duck under it.
Then, surprisingly light on his feet, he danced away.
“Whoa…” My voice choked, shaky. “We’re just sparring, for Christ’s sake. Take it easy.”
“Fuck you, man.” Bouncing on the balls of his feet. Throwing a few air-punches. Enjoying himself.
Gulping air, I kept my distance from him, my mind quickly hitting the reset button. Because we sure as hell weren’t sparring. For some reason, I’d been suckered into a real fight.
I ignored the pain shooting up the side of my face and went on offense. I knew I had no choice. Meanwhile, my bruised ribs were screaming in pain. Because he was younger and stronger than me, my only chance was to try to put him away fast. Or else get hammered.
So I went in quick and hard. A solid jab that took him by surprise, then another, even as I felt the pain in my ribs worsening, my legs starting to wobble.
Gasping, sweat pouring down my face, I risked it all and went with an uppercut. It missed by inches, and my momentum behind the swing threw me off-balance.
That was all the kid needed. He drove his right fist into my gut, pushing the air out of me, bringing a hoarse cry I didn’t even recognize from the deepest part of me.
I crumpled to the canvas, heaving, my whole body shuddering from the pain, sweat dripping from my forehead in thick drops.
My head down, eyes lidded, I didn’t even see the kid standing over me. But I could hear his heavy breathing, smell the sweat sheening his face and exposed arms.
Unlike what you see in the movies, a blow to the solar plexus can be paralyzing. You fight for every breath and against waves of nausea. And I was doing both.
When I finally managed to raise my head, I saw the kid looking off, past the ropes. Wincing, I shifted
position enough to follow his gaze.
There was a man in gray slacks and a collared shirt sitting on a bench at the far wall. It wasn’t until he got to his feet, his intense, knowing eyes meeting mine, that I recognized him.
“Thanks, kid,” said Sebastian Maddox. “Nice work.”
“Easiest hundred bucks I ever made, mister.” The young guy broke into a grin. Not so boyish this time.
He gave me one last condescending look and climbed out of the ring. I was still crouched on the canvas, trying to catch my breath, to will myself to get up, when Maddox took a small step forward. Hands in his pockets.
“Tell you the truth, Danny, I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”
“Happy to have a re-match sometime,” I managed to say between labored gasps. “With you.”
He shook his head gravely. “And here I thought this little attitude adjustment would help you to see things more clearly.”
I gulped more air. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t know? This was payback for ruining my plans with the Palermo kid. I don’t take that kind of thing lightly.”
“But how…how…?”
“How did I know where you were? I’m afraid I did it the old-fashioned way. I was watching your house since early this morning. When you drove away with that cop, I followed. Then when you came in here, so did I. Watching you work out from that corner back there.”
I took a quick glance around the gym, hoping someone might be seeing this. Listening. But the boxing ring was in a back corner, away from the maze of equipment. Moreover, by now it was lunchtime, leaving only a few guys in the place, lifting free weights on the other side of the room. Far out of earshot.
Despite the pain radiating from my gut, I tried to bring a measured rhythm to my breathing.
“And the kid…?” I said. “My sparring partner…?”
Maddox shrugged. “I never got his name, though he told me his dad was a cop. That’s why he gets to use this gym. Anyway, when I offered him a hundred in cash to teach you a lesson, he jumped at the chance. Greedy bastard didn’t even ask why. I swear, I don’t understand young people today.”
Head Wounds Page 14
