The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  “So was I,” Connor said.

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “Don’t kiss my ass.”

  “Fine. Why did they suspend you if you were only doing your job?”

  Connor didn’t answer.

  “I could subpoena you, Detective.”

  “You could.”

  “I will.”

  Donley reached into his pocket for the subpoena at the same time Connor lifted the Magnum off the counter and pointed the barrel directly at Donley’s head. The bartender stepped away from the bar. Donley heard the doors behind him creak open and closed, presumably the other two men leaving, but Donley didn’t see anything except the barrel of the gun. Mike Harris had once told Donley that looking down the barrel of a gun was like looking down a sewer pipe. You saw nothing but the black hole. It had been an appropriate analogy.

  “You don’t want to do that, counselor.”

  Donley froze, hand still in his jacket.

  He won’t shoot. There’s a witness. He’s just trying to intimidate you.

  But the more Donley tried to convince himself, the more he saw the reality in Dixon Connor’s black, lifeless eyes. He would shoot. And as if to emphasize that point, Connor pulled back the hammer.

  Frank Ross struggled to read the coffee-dampened newsprint. Lou Giantelli had been taken from a courtroom on a stretcher, but nothing indicated what kind of shape he was in. He searched through the other articles but did not find a name identifying the attorney representing the priest.

  Ross opened the second paper. The priest not only had been arraigned but had entered a plea of not guilty, and the court had scheduled a preliminary evidentiary hearing that week. The article mentioned an attorney named Peter Donley. Things were moving fast, and Ross was well behind, assuming he was even still working on the case. Ross picked up the telephone and pressed the buttons for a number committed to memory. “Detective Frank Ross for Sam Goldman,” he said out of habit.

  After a moment, an animated voice boomed through the receiver. “How are you, hero?”

  Sam Goldman called everyone hero, great hero, friend, and chief.

  “Curious,” Ross said, holding the phone from his ear. “When are you guys going to print some stories with some meat on the bones?”

  Goldman laughed. “You’ve been complaining since the day you walked into my journalism class twenty-five years ago and haven’t stopped since.”

  “Hey, at least I’m consistent.”

  “How were the holidays?”

  “Good. Spent a couple of days in Tahoe to recharge. Now I’m back reading about the priest. What’s going on, Sam?”

  “Is that something or what? The circus is in town, friend.”

  “I thought I’d call the premier newspaperman on the West Coast and try to find some of the facts your reporters left out of their stories.”

  “You can flatter me all you like, hero, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  “If you don’t have it, Sam, no one does.”

  “The DA’s office has been tight-lipped. We’re prying, but the jaws are clenched. The party line is, they were waiting to notify the next of kin. Then Judge Trimble issued a gag order. I’ll tell you this, though. A lot of people are going to get dirty on this one. All those people who openly supported that guy and his shelter will be trampling one another to get out from under the avalanche. Step back, and watch the dominos fall.”

  “Do you know who the detectives were? Who arrested the priest?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

  “What about the victim? Anything more on how he died?”

  “Stabbed, according to the ME. I can tell you The Chair is handling it. What’s your interest in this, hero?”

  “Lou Giantelli hired me to take a look.”

  “Lou Giantelli’s in the hospital. Collapsed in court.”

  “Read that, too. So, why the warp speed on the court proceedings?”

  “I guess Ramsey wants one more high-profile conviction on his résumé.”

  “Paper mentioned an attorney named Donley.”

  “Works for Lou Giantelli. Barely wet behind the ears, though. Likely won’t be the priest’s lawyer for long.” Goldman changed subjects. “Have you heard anything?”

  “On my reinstatement? No, nothing. Last time I spoke to my attorney, he said the police commission is stonewalling him. I think he’s stonewalling me. I’d fire him if he wasn’t my brother-in-law.”

  “OK, chief, I got to run. You keep your chin up. Something will break through. How’s private enterprise treating you?”

  “Better before I learned my client was in the hospital,” Ross said.

  “So, when do I get to see the great Sherlock Holmes in action?”

  Ross looked at his surroundings, just the hint of red now shading the room. The rising sun had reached the glass pane over his right shoulder. “Boring stuff, Sam. Let’s meet for lunch. I’m out an awful lot. Probably easier if we picked a spot.”

  “All right. All good things must come to an end, hero. I have sources to call, deadlines to meet, and teaching plans due after the new year. I still think I could have made a damn good reporter out of you.”

  “You’re an optimist, Sam. I can’t even type a grocery list.”

  Ross hung up. He’d once been like Sam Goldman, a guy who saw the world as a glass half-full. Now he saw the glass empty. He’d finally gotten a real case to work, and his client has a heart attack and ends up in the hospital. As for the appeal of his dismissal from the police force, he’d filed it only because it offered a glimmer of hope he wouldn’t be sitting inside the kaleidoscope the rest of his career. Still, he wasn’t naïve or ungrateful. Things could have been a lot worse. It had taken one hell of a lawyer just to keep him out of jail. Ross had been drunk when he’d hit the small sedan carrying a mother and her two children. He could have killed them.

  Lou Giantelli had been that lawyer.

  Ross retrieved his raincoat from the hook behind the door and locked the office behind him. He needed to find Peter Donley and find out who would be representing the priest. In the interim, he needed to pay this month’s rent, and that meant catching employees dipping into the cash register and getting pictures of a debutante screwing around on her husband.

  Donley forced a smile, though inside, his rage burned. “You going to shoot me, Detective?”

  Connor didn’t answer.

  “You have a witness. Is this wise?”

  “Maybe I’ll shoot him, too,” Connor said.

  “Take it easy, Connor.” The bartender turned to Donley. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but you got more balls than brains. Why don’t you just get up slowly and leave? Right, Connor? No problems. He just gets up and leaves.”

  Donley slowly pulled his hand from his jacket without the subpoena. The rage inched its way through his body, overtaking him. When he’d been younger, he hadn’t been able to control it. His coaches had taught him how to focus it on opposing teams. Kim had taught him to release it, but he was finding it more difficult. For now, he was focusing it on Dixon Connor. He picked up the beer bottle, never taking his eyes from Connor’s face. He finished the beer, a long pull, put the bottle on the bar, and slid backward off the stool.

  “I’ll leave now.”

  Connor’s lip curled into a grin. He lowered the hammer on the gun and turned to put it back on the counter.

  Donley grabbed the hand and bent it back violently at the wrist. The gun clattered to the floor. Donley kicked it away and bent the arm at the elbow, yanking it halfway up Connor’s back. He thrust his left hand forward and pressed Connor’s head against the bar, upending a bowl of bar mix, the wooden bowl flipping off the counter.

  “I don’t like bullies, Detective. And I don’t like people sticking a gun in my face.”

  Connor was strong, stronger than Donley had anticipated. Even with an arm twisted violently behind the man’s back, Donley could feel his power.

  “H
ey!”

  Donley looked up. The bartender held an ax handle above Donley’s head. “Let him go.”

  Unbelievable.

  Donley maintained pressure on Connor’s arm. The detective continued to strain, his skin red, veins bulging. Donley stepped back quickly, kicked the legs of the bar stool out from under Connor, and hit him in the sternum with his right fist. The force of the blow knocked the detective over the stool, both crashing to the floor.

  Donley ripped the subpoena from his jacket and tossed it on Connor’s chest. “Consider yourself served,” he said, backing quickly to the swinging doors. Outside, he turned and ran for the Saab.

  Late that afternoon, a uniformed guard sat posted outside Father Thomas Martin’s hospital room. Donley found the priest asleep, bandages wrapped around his head. The confrontation in the bar remained vivid, but the adrenaline rush had subsided, and now Donley felt an oncoming headache and fatigue. He sat in a chair beside the bed and leaned his head against the wall. He’d known trying to serve Connor was a risk, but Donley had spent his whole life taking risks and courting confrontations. Still, he’d never for the life of him thought the detective would point a loaded gun at him. It had unnerved him, and the episode lingered. Though he’d washed his hands and face in a bathroom sink, he couldn’t get rid of the smell of Dixon Connor—cigarettes, sweat, and cheap cologne. It clung to his skin and clothes and permeated his nostrils. Each time he closed his eyes, the image of Connor’s face and those dark, hollow eyes returned—eyes that looked capable of just about anything.

  It was that familiar smell and those eyes that kept pulling Donley back to a place he didn’t want to go, back to a night he had fought so hard to bury, determined not to let it, or his father, ruin his life. But now that night seemed just as determined to push through the walls Donley had so carefully built around it.

  Head down, his father struggled to remove the key from the front door lock, unaware Donley stood on the staircase, watching.

  When Donley had been younger, his teachers at Assumption Middle School had assured him there were no such things as monsters, and that the boogeyman was make-believe. But his teachers had never smelled that smell, something not quite human, stale and putrid, like a wet basement. They’d never seen those dark, lifeless eyes.

  Monsters were real. The boogeyman existed.

  Night was something to fear.

  His father freed the key from the lock, closed the door, and started for the stairs.

  “What the?” The keys clattered when they hit the floor, and his father rocked back on his heels, eyes straining to see. He pawed at the wall and flicked the light switch, but the house remained dark.

  “What are you doing, boy?”

  Donley did not answer.

  His father continued to flick the switch. “What’s wrong with the lights? What’re you, deaf, boy? Where’s your mother?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  Donley didn’t answer.

  “She’ll be back.” He started up the stairs.

  Donley stretched an arm across his father’s path, gripping the bannister. His father turned his head. They stood face-to-face, no longer a boy and man. Same height. Same weight. Same size.

  “Get out of my way.” His father pushed against Donley’s arm.

  Donley tightened his grip.

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “You bucking me, boy?” His breath was tart and acidic. “I asked if you’re bucking me. Move your arm . . . before I break it.”

  Donley didn’t move. He would not be bullied. Not any longer.

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Both of them had known for some time this confrontation had been inevitable. As Donley had grown, so, too, had the tension in the house. They had avoided each other as much as possible, but it was like putting a lid on a boiling pot. Eventually, it would explode.

  Tonight.

  His father stepped down one stair and turned as if to descend. “I want a beer, anyway.”

  Donley relaxed. Mistake.

  The back of the hand struck him hard across his face, knocking him backward. His head struck the plaster wall with such force, the wall fissured. Donley lost his balance and slipped off the stair, landing hard on his back, dazed and in pain. He saw stars.

  His father stepped past him. “I warned you to get out of my way, boy.”

  Donley shook the pain and stars and scrambled to his feet. He lunged, grabbing his father by the back of the collar. He yanked, and his father fell back into him. They rolled down the steps, the wood railing snapping and giving way. They hit the floor hard, shaking the house and rattling the windows. Donley got up first. For a moment, his father did not move. Then, slowly, he got to his knees—wheezing, guttural sounds escaping his throat.

  “Who do you think you are? This is my house.”

  Rather than turn and run, as he had as a boy, only to be cornered and beaten, Donley stepped forward. “Not anymore. You don’t own it, and you don’t pay the rent.”

  His father stood. The first swing was wild. Donley easily ducked beneath it. The second fist struck him in the shoulder, but his legs absorbed the force. He raised his arm and grabbed the third punch, stopping it.

  Donley countered with a right hand, and his father crashed into the front door. Stunned by the blow, he wiped a hand across his mouth and looked disbelieving at his own blood. Then he charged forward, yelling.

  Donley shifted to the side like a bullfighter, grabbed his father by the waist, and hurled him into what remained of the bannister. More wooden poles cracked and splintered. The hallway table spilled the trophies and framed pictures, glass shattering.

  His father rose, clenching a piece of the railing, swinging it wildly. Donley avoided the blows, retreating into the living room. He blocked the wooden stick with a forearm and countered with a punch to his father’s stomach that buckled the man’s knees. Donley lowered his shoulder and barreled into him, slamming him hard against the brick fireplace. The years of pain and anger exploded. Donley rained blow upon blow, knuckles striking bone again and again and again. His father slumped under the assault. Donley grabbed him by the collar, lifted him to his feet, and drove a knee into his stomach, hearing the air escape his lungs. Then he gripped him about the throat, blind with rage, squeezing. His father gasped and gagged and grabbed at Donley’s arms, but Donley was determined not to let go.

  He looked up and found himself staring at an unfamiliar, grotesque face, eyes bulging and bloodshot, nostrils flared, teeth bared.

  A reflection in the mirror above the mantel.

  His face.

  Horrified, he released his grip, stepped back, and hurled a lamp from an end table at the mirror. The glass exploded, cascading to the floor.

  He grabbed his father and lifted him to his feet. “It’s time for you to leave,” Donley said, breathing heavily, barely able to get the words out. “We don’t want you here. We don’t need you. I won’t leave her here with you. So it’s time for you to leave. Tonight. Now. And if you ever come back, if you make any attempt to contact her, I’ll find you. And next time, I will kill you.”

  He released his grip and stepped away. His father fell like a weighted sack, slumped against the hearth.

  Glass crushed beneath Donley’s shoes as he made his way to the front door to leave. He reached the entryway when he heard the noise behind him. A low hum, it sounded at first like a distant motorcycle that grew in intensity and volume. When Donley turned back to the living room, his father charged, the scream becoming a deafening roar.

  Chapter 14

  Frank Ross adjusted the notched knob between the eyepieces and focused the oversize binoculars on the front entrance of the brick apartment building. Bronze-plated numbers illuminated beneath a small light confirmed the address.

  He lowered the binoculars and looked up and down the block of manicured trees and three-story apartment buildings, but did not see Michael Whitney’s blue BMW sports coupe. Ross wondered how a
tennis instructor afforded such a luxury item or rent in a high-end apartment building.

  Earlier that afternoon, Ross had driven by Lou Giantelli’s office, but it was closed. A sign on the door indicated the office would be open sporadically throughout the end of the year. Until Ross found out whether he was still on the case, he was resigned to chasing down an unfaithful wife.

  He picked up the handheld tape recorder and pressed the “Record” button while considering his watch. “Ten forty-two p.m. I have confirmed the address to be 1281 Clay Street. According to retrieved information, apartment 6B is occupied by a tenant of the last name, Whitney. DMV and credit-card records confirm the address. Mr. Whitney currently leases a navy-blue, two-door BMW sports coupe. He was seen leaving the Geary Theater with a woman fitting the description of the subject, Abigail Collins.”

  Ross turned off the recorder. “The guy must be a hell of a lay.” He depressed the “Record” button. “Attempts to confirm relationship with Abigail Collins earlier in the evening unsuccessful.”

  Ross had been unable to snap any clear pictures of Collins and Whitney as they left the 8:00 p.m. performance of The Phantom of the Opera. The crowd of attendees on Geary Street, dressed in bulky raincoats and carrying large umbrellas, made it impossible for Ross to raise his camera and snap off a couple of quick shots. Thinking like a guy, Ross suspected Whitney would bring Abigail Collins back to his apartment. Whitney was paying a pricey chunk of change for his Pacific Heights address and would see no reason to spend money on a hotel. The fact that they went to a public show confirmed Mrs. Collins and her lover were unconcerned about Mr. Collins, who had deliberately left town to tempt his young wife.

  Ross opened a thermos as old and conspicuous as the football-size binoculars and poured hot coffee into the cap. His car phone rang, an extravagant item for an underpaid private “dictective,” but Ross had put the $2,100 cost on his credit card to pacify his wife. She worried about him, and unlike his time on the police force, the department could not reach him on the radio. “Hi, honey.”