Definitely cops. Loving couldn’t be too critical of them, though, even if they were making total asses of themselves. They had a hell of a hard job, in this wonderful world of drug pushers with 1-800 numbers and pimply teenagers bearing submachine guns. They were underpaid and little respected. No, Loving made a point of supporting the police whenever he could. Except, that is, when they were going after the Skipper.
He and Ben might be worlds apart, but that didn’t in any way diminish the respect he had for the man. He’d never had so good a job, never been treated so well by a boss, and never felt like the work he was doing was so important. With Ben, every case was a holy crusade, and they were on the side of the angels. But this time, he suspected, he would have a hard time convincing anyone inside the bar of that.
Scene of the Crime was not just a cop bar—it was the cop bar. It was the numero uno watering hole for law-enforcement officers throughout the city, and most of the suburbs, for that matter. The top hangout used to be Harry’s Squad Room, a place opened by a retired cop at Forty-first and Peoria, but since it shut down, Scene of the Crime got all the action. Anytime you wanted to find a cop who wasn’t at home or on duty, Scene of the Crime was your best bet.
Loving understood why. Anyplace else the cops went, there was always a chance of being hassled by some sorry lowlife, the last thing on earth they wanted during their off-hours. Or they could be put in an awkward, uncomfortable position—i.e., when the guy at the next table decides to light up a joint.
Loving stepped inside. The decor was predictably black-and-white, like a cop car. Instead of pictures and paintings, the walls displayed handcuffs and billy clubs and truncheons and other such police accoutrements. Somehow, the owner had managed to get a full-length section of the grille from a patrol car behind the bar, where the mirror should have been. The placards on the tables offered mixed drinks with cute names like Police Blotter Punch and Book ‘Em Banana Brandy, though Loving noticed almost everyone in the joint appeared to be drinking tap beer.
Truth was, Loving liked it here, and he came often, even when he wasn’t fishing for information. Cops and private eyes shared a lot of the same interests and concerns. And no one had opened a private-eye bar yet.
Hey, Loving thought to himself. Maybe there’s an idea for my retirement.
It was easy to see around. Whatever other vices these boys might have, smoking wasn’t one of them. Presumably they had the intelligence not to ingest anything that would kill them that surely, or cut the speed that might be critical in a chase.
Loving spotted a familiar face and sidled up beside him. “Come here often, big boy?”
The face next-door went through a series of rapid-fire changes: first, puzzlement, then understanding, then horror. “Loving! What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Gettin’ a drink.” He asked the bartender for a beer. “How ’bout you, Dodds?”
The paunchy man beside him did not seem to appreciate the joke. “But—I mean—why are you here?”
“I come here all the time. I like to swap stories.”
“Maybe you used to. But no one’s going to swap anything with you today.”
Loving was unperturbed. “What’d I do, forget my underarm deodorant?”
The other man leaned close. “Everyone in here knows who you work with. You need to get out while you can still walk.”
“Dodds, Dodds, Dodds. We’re all friends. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” He looked around. “See, no one cares about me.”
“No one’s noticed you’re here. But as soon as they do, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Ya think?” Loving pondered a moment. “Then I guess we should talk fast. I wanna know what’s goin’ down, Barry. I wanna know everythin’. And you’re the one who’s gonna tell me.”
If Dodds could’ve segued into an alternate universe and disappeared, he surely would have. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t.”
“Barry, how long have we known each other?”
Dodds shrugged. “Since back when you drove a truck and were married to that piece of—”
Loving raised his hand. “Good enough. Now don’t you think I’ve been around long enough to know when something’s up?”
“Loving, one more time, I’m—”
“It’s the Blue Squeeze, isn’t it?”
Dodds’s eyes diverted to his drink. “You’re imagining things.”
“I gave up my imagination when I was twelve.” He grabbed Dodds and turned him around on his bar stool. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? The boys are puttin’ the blue squeeze on my man Kincaid.”
Dodds’s voice dropped. “Could be.”
“Why?”
“You know why. He helped that—that—”
“He did his job.”
“Call it what you like. It’s not going to go down any better.”
“Ben has gotten perps acquitted lots of times—”
“This is different, Loving. Joe was a cop. We protect our own.”
“So what have they done, Barry? Did they plant that knife in Ben’s office? Is there more yet to come?”
“Who the hell are you talkin’ to, Barry-boy?”
Loving did a slow pivot and found himself face-to-face with a stubble-faced, middle-aged man. He was tall and lean and had a practiced mean look that probably worked well with petty hoodlums. “He’s talkin’ to me. And it’s a private conversation, if you catch my drift.”
The other man didn’t flinch. “We don’t allow private conversations in here, sonny. If you catch my drift.”
Loving made a point of being unimpressed. “You’re Matthews, right?”
“Yup. Arlen Matthews, that’s me. You can call me—Detective Sergeant Matthews.”
“How ’bout I just don’t call you?” Loving turned back toward the front of the bar.
Matthews grabbed Loving’s arm and spun him around. A crowd began to gather.
“Let go of my arm,” Loving said, in a low voice that bordered on a growl. Personally, all this macho gamesmanship bored him to tears, but he knew if he didn’t go through the motions no one here would ever talk to him.
Matthews let go of the arm, although as he did he let out a little sneer designed to let everyone know he wasn’t intimidated.
A shorter man with a rounder face stepped forward. “I’m Mark Callery. And I know who you are.”
“Great. Then we can skip the formal introductions—”
“You’d be smarter to skip this altogether. And leave.”
“Who is he, Mark?” Matthews asked.
“Don’t you recognize him? He’s a P.I. Works with Kincaid.”
“I knew it!” Matthews barreled toward Loving. “I knew it. You work with the cop killer!”
“I work with an attorney who never wanted to hurt anybody in his entire life,” Loving said. “And frankly, jerkwad, you’re not worthy to lick the dirt off his briefcase.” A bold move, Loving realized, but one likely to command the attention of the room.
Matthews clenched and unclenched his fists, puffing his cheeks. “Joe McNaughton was my best friend.”
“You know, I never knew Joe, but he must ‘ve been a hell of a guy, ‘cause since he died, everyone I talk to turns out to have been his best friend.”
“I don’t like your attitude!” Matthews barked.
“And I don’t like your breath, so why don’t we both go back to our conversations and leave each other alone?”
Matthews gave Loving a little shove on the chest. “We want you out of here, and we don’t want to see you again. You or your cop-killing boss.”
“Is that right? Does that go for all of you?” Loving let his eyes scan the bar, even though he knew it was dangerous to take his eyes off this cretin for a minute. “Does that go for you, Barry?”
Dodds looked away.
“Ben Kincaid helped you out when you were hauled in front of IA, didn’t
he?” Loving asked. “Saved your butt, the way I remember it. What about you, Bert?” He pointed toward a gray-haired man in the back, who immediately looked away. “I kinda recall when the Board was tryin’ to cancel your pension, just three weeks before you retired. Let me think, what was the name of the attorney who gave you your future back? Oh yeah, I remember now. Ben Kincaid.”
Matthews shoved Loving again, this time harder. “We’ve had it with your games. Get the hell out of here before I throw you out on your ass!”
Loving glanced over his shoulder. He was hoping a manager or bartender might intervene, but no one was coming. It seemed the management was cowardly in the extreme—or perhaps, extremely on Matthews’s side.
“You’re pretty brave, aren’t you?” Loving said, walking toward Matthews in slow steady steps. “You’re a tower of strength—when you’ve got, oh, fifty or sixty other guys to back you up. But I wonder how brave you’d be if it were just you and me?”
For the first time, he saw Matthews blink. “I could take you standing on my head, but it doesn’t matter, ’cause if you don’t haul ass right now every damn one of us is going to be pounding your brains into pudding.”
“I know what’s going on,” Loving said, in a much louder voice. “I know you’ve put the Blue Squeeze on Kincaid.”
“You’re hallucinating, chump.”
Loving continued as if Matthews wasn’t there. “I know you’ve framed him—some of you, anyway. And I want it to stop.”
“And I want a Jaguar XJS. But that ain’t gonna happen, either.”
Loving felt his jaw tightening. Control, he reminded himself. You came here to open potential channels of communication. Not to start a barroom brawl. In which the odds against you would be roughly fifty to one. “All I want is the truth.”
“Last chance. Leave now or pay the price.”
“You know you can’t keep this secret long,” Loving said.
“Too many people know about it. Eventually someone will talk to me. And when they do—”
Loving never got to finish his sentence, because before he could, Matthews’s fist materialized at the edge of his vision and slammed into his jaw. It was a good punch; it knocked him several steps back and would’ve done more if he hadn’t seen it coming.
“Consider that a warning,” Matthews said. “Now get the hell out.”
Loving massaged his aching jaw. It would be so … pleasing to deck Matthews, right here and now. But that wouldn’t advance the investigation. He dropped a few bills on the bar and headed toward the door. “One of you is going to talk to me,” he repeated quietly, just before he left. “It’s just a matter of time. And when they do”—he cast a sharp eye in Matthews’s direction—“I’ll be back.”
15
CHRISTINA FOUND ANDREA MCNAUGHTON at the John 3:16 soup kitchen, scooping red beans and rice onto tin trays. The priest at St. Dunstan’s, Father Danney, after being assured that her intentions were honorable, had told Christina this is where Andrea would be. Even with forewarning, however, Christina found it hard to adjust reality to fit the preconceived mental image. Andrea McNaughton had been all over the newspapers for months, and she had been portrayed in a variety of roles. Grieving. Long-suffering. Betrayed. Most of the coverage in the World had suggested that she was the true victim of this sordid affair. Most of its readers, particularly the female ones, empathized with her and had elevated her to the status of tragic heroine, like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana.
Had they run pictures of the woman feeding the homeless, she might have attained sainthood.
Christina waited until Andrea finished serving lunch, which was a considerable wait. John 3:16 was the oldest and largest of the Tulsa shelters that undertook the monumental job of feeding the hungry; there were more than a hundred people, mostly elderly men, in line for a fundamental but life-preserving meal. Some had found a place to live in permanent shelters, but Christina knew far too many of them would return to the streets, a cardboard box under a bridge, a downtown gutter, or some other hellish place they called home. She strengthened her resolve to continue contributing to her retirement fund and to work the daily crossword to keep her mind sharp. Homelessness was not for sissies.
As soon as lunch was served, Christina tapped the shoulder of the woman behind the serving counter. “Mrs. McNaughton?”
Andrea looked at her warily. No doubt the past few months had taught her to be cautious about strangers who already knew her name. For that matter, even if she couldn’t quite place the face, she probably recognized Christina from the courtroom. “Yes?”
Christina extended her hand. “My name’s Christina McCall. I work with Ben Kincaid.”
Not surprisingly, Andrea turned away. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“I just have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
Andrea moved away, untying her apron. “Please. I don’t want to talk.”
Christina followed her into the kitchen. “I’m sure you don’t. But it’s very important.”
Andrea continued walking away from her. “I’ve already said everything. Over and over again.”
“Not to me.”
Andrea whirled around, and in her eyes, Christina saw a sudden flash of anger. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone!”
Instinctively, Christina reached out and took the woman’s hand. “Please. Just give me a moment of your time. I know this must have been hideous for you—losing the man you loved. But now I’m about to lose my—someone I care about. Deeply. And I can’t just stand by and let that happen.”
“You’re talking about Keri Dalcanton.”
“No. I’m not. She’s our client, but we don’t have a personal relationship.”
“Just as well. Let me give you a news flash, honey. Your client did it!”
“I realize that’s your opinion. Frankly, that’s not why I’m here.”
Andrea’s face seemed to soften slightly. “You must be talking about the lawyer. Kincaid.”
A slight tincture of pink appeared on Christina’s cheeks. “I am.”
Andrea drew in her breath, then released it, slow and full, as if purging demons from her soul. “It wasn’t my idea to go after the lawyer. The D.A. came up with that one on his own. I thought it was a little extreme, even under these circumstances.”
“It was a grandstand play. A desperate gambit to get the case reopened.”
“But it worked.”
Christina nodded. “Which is why I need to talk to you. Now more than ever.”
Andrea’s eyelids fluttered heavily. She seemed to relent, not so much from a sense of obligation as from weariness, from an inability to muster the strength to maintain the fight.
“Excuse me. Is everything all right in here?”
Christina turned and saw a white-bearded older man poking his head through the swinging kitchen doors.
“I’m fine,” Andrea said. The man disappeared. “That was Father Danney, from St. Dunstan’s.”
“I know. He’s a friend, right?”
“And then some. He likes to check on me. I get a lot of people wanting to talk to me, even this long after the murder. Spectators, the idle curious. Investigators. Actually, what I get most of all is other women who’ve been betrayed and think of me as some kind of soul sister. They want to tell me their stories. ‘I was abused, too,’ they say. ‘My man done me wrong.’ Which of course are the last things on earth I want to hear. So Father Danney keeps an eye out for me. He’s a very kind, gentle man.”
Andrea gestured toward the nearest table. “But that’s not what you want to talk about. What is it I can tell you? “
Christina glanced down at the notes she’d made on her legal pad. “Did you know Keri Dalcanton? I mean, before the … incident.” She mentally chastised herself for her awkwardness. Ben had warned her that talking to a woman about her dead murdered husband, not to mention the affair he’d had before his death, was not going to be easy. But the full truth of that statement didn�
��t hit home until she was confronted with Andrea’s large brown, doelike eyes. “Had you met?”
“Let me think,” Andrea said, with a remarkably even temper. “Had I met a sleazy teenage big-boobed topless dancer from the bad part of town? I think that would be a no.”
“But you did … find out about her. Right?”
“Oh, yes. Some concerned friend decided that I needed to know. Why, I can’t imagine. People just can’t resist the urge to butt into other people’s business, can they? And they love to be the one who drops the big bombshell. It’s like we’re all still out on the playground. ‘I know something you don’t know,’ ” she said in a singsong voice.
“So who was it?”
“Marge Matthews. Another cop’s wife. I guess everyone on the force knew about the affair for some time. I was the only one in the dark.”
“What did you do when you found out?”
“First? I cried. Then I cried some more. Cried a whole Friday away. I was a basket case. We’d been married for almost fifteen years, you know? I mean, I’ve heard people use the word betrayed, but I never really knew what it meant, never felt it, until that day.” Her hand, sculpted nails with bright red polish, rose to her forehead. “I’d probably still be crying, except that around eleven that night, he came home. That snapped me out of it.”
“Did you confront him?”
“That would be one way of putting it, yes. I attacked him. I’m not exaggerating, either. Knocked him flat on his ass. Started pounding on his chest. He didn’t know what hit him.” She shook her head. “It was as if all that sadness, all that despair, suddenly converted into anger. Rage. I even bit him.”
“Did he resist?”
“Not by much. ’Course, he was drunk. He’d been out with the boys. Might’ve been with … her … for all I know.” Her eyelashes, dark with mascara, fluttered. “Poor snockered schmuck. He didn’t know what was going on. At least not till he sobered up.”
“Did he confess?”
“Eventually. Marge had been kind enough to give me many specific details. He couldn’t possibly squirm out of it. He was busted.”
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