“As a suspended officer, you had no right to order the work done.”
“Yeah, well, I needed it. This is one of the killers. His name is Mac.” He held up the sketch.
“You have proof of this?”
“I know it.” He replaced the drawing and pulled the rubber band off one pile of cards. “These are notes on other hits I believe have been committed by the same—”
“Simon,” Friedkin broke in quietly, “have you considered getting professional help?”
Simon was puzzled again. “Sir?”
“I think you need some psychiatric help, Simon.”
He looked at the Chief. “Sir, I want to come back. Please. I need the job. My family . . .
“Give up the case, Simon.”
His hands pulled the pile of papers closer. “I can’t. I have to find him.”
“He’ll be caught, Simon, sooner or later. If not by us, then by some other department.”
“He belongs to me!” Simon wasn’t aware that he was shouting, until he heard his own words echoing back. “He belongs to me,” he repeated in a whisper.
The room was quiet for a long time. Finally, the Chief sighed. “Would you wait outside, please, Inspector? We’ll try not to be too long.”
“But . . . ?” Didn’t they want to hear? Didn’t they care? He stared at the four men as he gathered together all the papers and shoved everything back into the briefcase.
He stopped by the door and looked at them once more. “I don’t understand this,” he said quietly. “I’m only trying to do what’s right. If this was a movie or a TV show, I’d be the goddamned hero, don’t you know that?”
He closed the door very quietly.
Kimberly was sitting on the couch, a drink in her hand. “Well?” she said.
He dropped the briefcase and sat down. “They said I couldn’t come back. They said I’m not . . . emotionally stable enough to be on the force.”
She didn’t look surprised as she took another slow sip of the Bloody Mary. “What now, Simon?”
“I don’t know.” He yanked off the tie. “I don’t know.” He shook his head, trying to clear away some of the fog. “I just don’t understand what’s going on here, Kim. None of it makes any sense.” He stood again, picking up the briefcase, and clutched it tightly. “I don’t understand.”
She only looked at him. He couldn’t read anything in the flat grey eyes, and after a moment, he turned and walked out to the porch.
It was late. Simon didn’t really know what time it was, but he knew that it was very late. He was stretched out on the cot he’d set up in one corner of the porch. Although he was tired as hell, he couldn’t seem to fall asleep. So he smoked one cigarette after another and stared at the ceiling.
Kimberly came out to the porch, her slipper-clad feet making no sound on the carpet. “Simon,” she said, “we have to talk.”
He shrugged.
She pulled the chair closer and sat down, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. “I’m going to give you a choice, Simon,” she said firmly.
He rolled onto his side and looked at her. “What choice?”
“Either you give all this up and get help, or . . . or I want you to leave.”
He smoked in silence for a moment. “Give what up, Kim?”
Her eyes moved around the office. “This insanity. This . . . obsession. Give it up, Simon. Talk to Manny. Get help.”
“I can’t do that, honey,” he said gently.
“You’re ruining our lives. Your daughter is ashamed to bring her friends here anymore, do you know that?”
He was genuinely bewildered. “Why?”
“Because she’s afraid they’ll see you out here talking to yourself, piling up some more of those damned cards.”
“It’s my job,” he said with dignity.
“It’s madness.”
“You don’t understand.”
She gestured hopelessly. “You’re right. I dont understand. But, Simon, I don’t want to understand anymore. I just don’t care.”
“What should I do?” His voice was soft.
“That’s your decision to make.”
“If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
“Thank you.” She stood.
He grabbed the edge of the robe. “Don’t you love me anymore?”
It was a long time before she answered. “I feel very sorry for you,” she said, staring down into his face.
Nodding, he released her. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Without responding, she went back inside.
Simon lit another cigarette. It wouldn’t be forever. This whole thing would work out sooner or later. In the meantime, it was probably all for the best. Now he didn’t have to worry about the job or his family. It was as if his universe were getting smaller, more manageable. All he had to think about now was finding him. When that was done, when he had the blond guy, then he would worry about how to straighten out these things.
He took his daughter to lunch the next day. They bought hamburgers at McDonald’s and took them to Golden Gate Park to eat, sitting on the grass and watching the frisbee throwers. He unwrapped his cheeseburger. “I’m going away for a while,” he said, not looking at her.
“Are you and Mom getting a divorce?” she asked.
“No, what makes you ask that?”
“It’s the usual next step.”
He chewed thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Whatever she wants, I guess. Do you understand why this is happening?”
She swept blonde hair from in front of her eyes, looking just like her mother. “Sort of.”
“Yeah?”
“You lost your job. You and Mom stopped sleeping together.” She ate a french fry. “It’s because you don’t seem to care about anything but this stupid case.”
“It’s not stupid to me, Tammy. It means a lot.”
She suddenly looked older than her years. “More than Mom and me?”
“No, but—”
“But what, Dad? If we mean more to you than the case, then why are you leaving?”
“Because I have to,” he said softly, gathering the food wrappers and shoving them into the sack. “I have to do this, because I don’t know what else to do. Can’t you try to understand that?”
“And so what are Mom and I supposed to do while you’re off playing knight-in-shining-armor?”
He plucked at the grass. “Is that how you see it? You make it sound like I’m just playing some kind of game.”
She shook her head, sending golden curls tumbling. “No, Dad, it’s not a game. You want to know what I think it is?”
“What, honey?”
“It’s a sick joke.” She jumped up. “I hate this so much. Maybe I even hate you. I’ll catch a bus home.” She was gone before he could speak.
Slowly he gathered the remains of their lunch and got up to throw it all into a trash bin. He walked back across the park to his car.
He went to the bank and took exactly half the money from their joint checking account. He also cashed some bonds given to him by his grandfather. Kimberly had a little money from her family and she could probably get more. Besides, that wasn’t his problem anymore; she was kicking him out, so she could just handle life on her own.
From the bank, he went back to the house. Neither Kimberly nor Tammy was there, probably by design. He packed everything from the porch into a couple of cardboard boxes, and loaded them into the car. His clothes and other things fit into two suitcases. When he stopped to think about it, there wasn’t much in the house that meant a whole lot to him. The house was Kimberly’s and everything in it reflected her image, not his. He wondered why he’d ever thought he belonged here anyway.
The street was strangely deserted as he packed the car, as if no one wanted to witness his departure. He went back inside for a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator and paused long enough to take a drink out of the milk carton.
He tossed the six-pack into
the front seat and got behind the wheel. One small boy stood at the curb, aiming a toy six-shooter at him. “Bang, bang, you’re dead,” the kid said.
Simon grinned and clutched at his chest. The kid stuck out his tongue and ran off.
He started the car and drove away without looking back.
Chapter 10
He lived like a gypsy, sleeping in the car to save money, eating at fast food joints, moving, always moving, either in the car or on foot. Most of his movement had no real destination; it was the motion itself that mattered.
After nearly a month of this restless existence, he called Campbell. “Doug, can we meet someplace?”
The cop hesitated. “Okay,” he said finally. “Chico’s for lunch?”
“Thanks, man.” He hung up and walked back to the cooling Egg McMuffin that was his breakfast. The newspaper article absorbed his attention again. SUSPECTED MOBSTER SLAIN was the headline, and the article was datelined Kansas City.
Reputed gangland boss Sam Lancinelli was shot and killed early yesterday. Lancinelli, long a powerful figure in local union dealings, was slain as he was preparing to give testimony before a grand jury investigating charges of the misuse of union funds. According to Artie Day, an aide to
Lancinelli, he was in the next room preparing a breakfast tray when there was a knock at the door of the penthouse apartment. Lancinelli himself went to answer it, and Day heard a single shot. By the time he reached the living room, the killer had vanished. Police are questioning Day further.
The story ended there.
Simon grinned to himself. Day was that close and didn’t even get a glimpse of him? Hell, my boy is good, but he’s not a goddamned wizard. Five’ll get you ten that the son of a bitch was in on what was coming down, and that was why he just happened to be in the next room. He could only hope that the dumb cops in Kansas City knew the right questions to ask.
When breakfast was over, he drove out to Mike’s house. It was a visit he’d been intending to make for a long time, but which he’d kept putting off. Today, though, he needed to go.
One of Mike’s sons was playing in the front yard and he looked up curiously at Simon’s approach. “Hi, kid,” Simon said. “Remember me?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah, sure. You’re my Daddy’s friend.”
“Right. Is your mother home?”
“Uh-huh. In the backyard.”
Simon stood there a minute longer, feeling as if there were more to be said to Mike’s son, but not knowing what. Then he only smiled vaguely and walked around the corner of the house. Siobahn was bent over a small flower garden. “Hi,” he said.
She jumped a little, then turned. “Oh, Simon, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry. The kid said you were back here.” She stood, wiping both hands on the front of her jeans. “It’s nice to see you.”
He stepped forward and they embraced fleetingly. The human contact felt good, and Simon realized that he didn’t touch people anymore. He wondered when he’d stopped being touched. And why. They pulled apart. “How are you, Siobahn?”
“Fine.” She looked tanned and relaxed. “We’re getting along. Sit down, and I’ll get some iced tea.”
He perched uneasily on a lawn chair and she vanished inside, returning a moment later with two glasses and a pitcher. He watched as she poured. “Thanks,” he said, taking a glass.
She sipped the tea, eyeing him. “I’m glad you came by, Simon. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“Have you?” He grinned suddenly. “This old patio looks pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Hell, how long ago did we put this in? Six years, it must be, right?”
“Yes.” She was still watching him.
“Neither one of us knew what the hell we were doing, but it looks pretty damned good. Had a lot of fun that day, didn’t we?”
“Uh-huh,” she replied absently. “I heard about your problems with the department, Simon.”
He glanced at her quickly, then away. “Yeah, well . . .”
“And about you and Kimberly. I’m really sorry.”
He played with the sprig of mint floating in the glass. “The problem,” he said slowly, “is that nobody understands what I’m doing. I kept trying to explain, but I couldn’t get anybody to listen.”
“Explain it to me, Simon,” she said gently. “I’ll listen.”
He looked up in surprise. “I didn’t think I’d have to explain it to you. You must know already.”
Siobahn poured them each more tea. “I’d like to hear what you have to say. If you’d like to tell me.”
He shrugged. “All I want to do is find out who killed my partner. That isn’t so damned remarkable, is it? I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Why does that make me so peculiar? Sometimes they all treated me like I was crazy or something.”
Siobahn’s finger moved up and down the side of the glass. “I know you think that you’re doing the best thing, Simon, but at what cost? Your job? Your wife and child? Mike wouldn’t want that sacrifice from you.”
“Yes, he would,” Simon said sharply. “He’d do the same for me, if it was the other way around.”
Siobahn sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Simon looked at her. “Yes, he would. Mike was my partner.”
“I know. And he loved you, Simon, truly he did.” She was silent for a moment, watching the drops of moisture run slowly down the side of the pitcher. “He used to worry about you, did you know?”
He hadn’t known. “Why?”
“Because you were always so . . . intense about everything. Sometimes he practically had to force you to let go for a little while, and remember that there was a life beyond the job. Sometimes you just wore him out, Simon.”
He could feel something beginning to crumble deep inside and he wished that he hadn’t come here at all. “You make it sound bad. Mike and I, we worked so hard because we liked it.”
“Yes. But Mike also cared about other things.” She was frowning, as if the effort of trying to say what she wanted to in just the right way was very difficult. “You could be just overwhelming sometimes, but he cared so much that he never wanted to hurt you by saying anything.”
Simon couldn’t quite understand what she was telling him. The words seemed like little shafts of ice cutting into him, and he wanted to tell her not to say anymore. Instead, he gulped tea and stared at the patio he and Mike had built. “Say, you remember how we—” He stopped suddenly, realizing that she didn’t want to listen to any more of his memories.
“Mike always said that a good partnership was like a marriage. He could handle that, Simon. Mike had so much caring in him that he could give me and the children everything we needed, and still have enough left to offer you. Not everyone can do that.” She stopped and carefully set her glass on the small table. “It hurts me to see you like this, Simon.”
“I’m not any different,” he mumbled.
She stared at him, then nodded slowly. “I guess that’s true, really. You’re too skinny, and your hair is getting too darned long. Your clothes look like you slept in them, and you need a shave. But that’s all superficial, isn’t it? Basically, you’re still the same man. That’s why Mike worried about you. He thought you ran on the edge too much. He was afraid that someday you were going to fall over.”
Simon put his glass down next to hers and stood. “Don’t tell me any more, okay?”
She got to her feet, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m not saying any of this to hurt you. Just please stop and think about what you’re doing. For your own sake.”
He stared at her coldly. “I guess you’re getting along just fine, aren’t you? That’s nice. You don’t think about him at all, I guess.”
She released his arm, stung. “That’s not true. I think about him every day. Every night. But I have to live, Simon. My children have to go on. Mike is dead, but we’re alive. You’re alive, too, Simon. Don’t let your life
end because his did.”
Simon walked to the end of the patio, then stopped, crouching down to look at the rocks set in concrete, rubbing a hand over the edge. “We did a damned good job on this.” He sighed. “I always thought that he cared the same way I did.”
“He did care, Simon.”
“Yeah? Not as much, though, I guess.”
She held out a hand as if to touch him, but stopped in midair. “No two people can care in exactly the same way.”
Simon straightened, kicking lightly at the crumbling border of the patio. “We screwed this part up. It’s falling apart. It’s all falling apart.” He looked at her. “I feel like he just died all over again. All I had left was the memory, and now you’re taking that away from me.”
“No,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“I gotta go. I gotta get out of here.” He walked away quickly, his head ducked.
“Simon!”
He stopped by the corner of the house, one hand resting on the weathered wood. “Needs painting again,” he said. “We did it two years ago, right?”
“Let go, Simon,” she said softly. “Let go so that you can both find some peace.”
He glanced around at her, smiling with half his mouth. “I can’t let go, Siobahn. Because if I let go of Mike, then I won’t have anything left to hold on to. And then I’ll go over that edge.”
He ran back to his car, not stopping even when Mike’s son called out to him.
It was no good anymore. Siobahn had taken what was left and shattered it beyond repair. He could feel himself falling, slipping away, and he tried desperately to find something he could hold on to.
He started to think about the killer. Mr. X. The missing character in this fucked-up Greek tragedy. It was a strangely comforting thought that somewhere out there the deadly blond stranger was waiting for him.
He was almost smiling as he started the car.
Campbell was already waiting when Simon walked into Chico’s. They both ordered tacos and beer, then carried the food to a rear booth. “Anything break on the hooker killings?” Simon asked as he sprinkled hot sauce on his order.
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