Straw Men

by Martin J. Smith

  “It’s digital. Not sure how that works.”

  “But it’s still on the machine, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You recognize the voice?”

  “There’s no talking. Just a recording. The verse from ‘Tunnel of Love.’ ”

  Brenna didn’t elaborate; the police captain was intimately familiar with the details of the Harnett attack. He knew what it meant.

  “I’ll get someone over there,” he said.

  “No hurry.”

  “Look for a patrol officer in the next fifteen minutes. You’re in Shadyside?”

  She gave him the house number on Howe Street. “Brian?” she said, regretting the uncertainty she betrayed by using his first name. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Or it could be a lot of things.”

  “Just make sure to keep the Harnetts in the loop,” she said. “They should know. But don’t screw me on this.”

  “You did the right thing, calling. Let us do our job. I know what you’re probably thinking. You probably know what I’m thinking. But either way, we need to be involved. Fifteen minutes. If it takes longer, call me back.”

  As reassuring as she found Milsevic’s words, they suddenly struck her as overly concerned. “I’d almost rather you didn’t take this so seriously,” she said. “What exactly are you thinking, anyway?”

  “You don’t really want to know,” he said.

  “Humor me.”

  Milsevic waited. “It is kind of funny, sort of a coincidence. You spring DellaVecchio, and suddenly we’ve got a Springsteen fan with an attitude running around out there.”

  Bastard. “He wouldn’t threaten me. Just forget it, OK. I should have known better.”

  “You asked my opinion.”

  “Your opinion is so goddamned predictable,” she said. “You want to know what I think, Captain? I think whoever savaged your friend Teresa is still out there. I think he’s worried Carmen’s off the hook. This misguided soul may actually think someone there would take a new investigation seriously. He may not know any better. So he’s going after me, because I’m the one all over TV and the papers talking about how somebody other than Carmen DellaVecchio nearly killed Teresa. That’s what I think, Captain, and you can bet your ass I’m going to track down your boss in San Diego and let him know what I think.”

  She was breathing hard and covered the phone’s mouthpiece so Milsevic wouldn’t hear. After a long pause, he said “Touché. Fifteen minutes, OK?”

  Brenna hung up without another word.

  Chapter 9

  Fifteen minutes, on the nose. The young patrol officer knocked, politely introduced himself, and stepped into the foyer. He looked like somebody’s kid. Over his shoulder, Brenna could see a panting German shepherd pacing in his cruiser’s back seat. She showed the cop to the living room, briefly told him her story of coming home and finding the phone message, then waited while he scribbled some notes.

  “And you think it’s somehow connected to a court case you’re working on?” he asked.

  “Long story, but yes.” She told him the shortest possible version; he nodded as though he’d never heard of Teresa Harnett or Carmen DellaVecchio. As they talked, she memorized the name above his badge and the badge number itself.

  “May I hear the message?” Officer Plantes asked when she was done.

  Brenna led him into the kitchen, to the corner where the answering machine continued its red-eyed wink. He listened to the recording, scribbled a few more notes, then tried to find the machine’s cassette-tape bay. “Go figure,” he said. “I’m way out of date. Mine still uses tapes. Guess I’ll take the whole thing.”

  “I’d like a receipt for it, though,” Brenna said as she unplugged it. “And if you wouldn’t mind, officer, I’d like you to note the time and date on the receipt. Oh, and just note on there the reason why you’re taking it.”

  Brenna smiled. He actually blushed. If her paranoia bothered him, it didn’t show. The young patrol officer complied with all her wishes and apologized for the trouble.

  “So you’ll file a report when?” Brenna asked.

  “Before I’m off tonight,” he said. “Not supposed to send out copies, since they’re available in the records room. But I could send you a copy if you’d like. This address OK?”

  Brenna touched his hand lightly and nodded her appreciation. “ZIP code’s 15232,” she said. “Thank you so much. Is that all you need from me?”

  She opened the front door just as Jim was herding Annie and Taylor away from the police cruiser and the huffing beast inside. “Bren?” he said from the sidewalk, shifting two plastic bags of groceries from one hand to the other. He picked up the briefcase he’d set down during the switch. “What’s up?”

  “Your dog smells,” Annie interrupted as the smiling cop approached his car. “You shouldn’t feed him beans or else you should keep the car windows closed or something.”

  “Does he bite?” asked Taylor, her eight-year-old bundle of anxiety.

  The cop ignored Annie’s commentary. “He only bites bad guys,” he said to Taylor. “You’re not a bad guy, are you?”

  Her boy’s eyes strayed to the cop’s holster and the weapon inside. Taylor shook his head, speechless.

  “Then you wanna pet him?”

  Taylor shook his head again. The cop turned to Annie. “How about you?”

  “What’s his name?” Annie demanded.

  “Carmack.”

  Brenna blanched, then shot a look at Jim. He seemed just as astounded as she was. Did Kiger know his cops had named a K-9 dog after the victim in one of Pittsburgh’s most notorious police brutality cases? Brenna filed that delicious little tidbit away for the next time one of the city’s finest got too rough with one of her clients.

  “But we call him Ace. You know, like Ace Ventura?” He paused. “Get it?”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Pet detective. Duh.”

  The officer bent low so he could look Jim’s younger daughter in the eye. He tried again to win Annie over. “Ace loves kids. Wanna pet him?”

  “No way.”

  “You sure?”

  “He smells and probably has fleas and I saw a show once where this guy was wearing one of those big padded suits and a police dog chewed on his arm.”

  “Ace only does that with bad guys.”

  “Yeah, well,” Annie said. “Why are you here, anyway? Somebody gettin’ busted?”

  Officer Plantes stood up and turned toward the porch, apparently convinced that nothing he could do would impress her. “I’m gonna let your mom explain that, OK? Time for me and Ace to hit the road.”

  “She’s not my mom,” Annie said. She pressed her nose against the car’s rear window and sang, “Beans, beans, are good for your heart—” until the dog’s low growl backed her off.

  “Annie,” Christensen said. “Inside. Now.”

  Taylor was already clinging to the jacket hem of Brenna’s Jil Sander suit as Jim and Annie climbed the stairs.

  “I’d like both kids upstairs,” Jim said, his eyes fixed on Brenna’s. “Let’s get the homework started. Dinner’ll be maybe forty minutes, and the grown-ups need to talk.”

  “What are we having?” Annie asked.

  Jim held up the plastic bags. “Tacos!” he said.

  “Ooh, there’s a new one,” Annie said.

  “First time this week,” he protested. “You guys love tacos.”

  “I like tacos,” Taylor agreed.

  Annie withered the boy with a glare, then trained it on her father. “Remember, no cheese.”

  They watched the kids haul their backpacks up the stairs. Jim sighed. “When
did Patty Hearst move in?”

  “She’s pretty angry these days.”

  “Is it me? Her dominatrix-in-pigtails thing used to be charming, right? Now it’s, I don’t know, bitter.”

  “She misses her mom,” Brenna said.

  Jim’s face fell. “Why? She said something?”

  Brenna shook her head. “I found Silkie two nights ago, under her pillow.”

  “Molly’s old nightgown? She hasn’t asked about it for, what? Almost a year?”

  Brenna shrugged. “You know, for somebody who’s supposed to understand people, you can be pretty dense. Maybe it’s a guy thing. Think what time of year it is.”

  She knew as soon as she said it that she’d connected.

  “Oh God,” he said. “The sixth anniversary of Molly’s accident. First time I forgot.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, you know,” Brenna said. “You’re healing.”

  “But Annie remembered?”

  “Melissa mentioned it when she called from Penn State last weekend. Annie must have dug Silkie out of her closet after talking to her big sister.”

  Jim stood there, a tightening knot of guilt. “I’ll talk to her tonight.” He leaned forward and tried an awkward hug. His briefcase and the grocery bags bounced against Brenna’s back and shoulders. “Thanks.”

  The cop started his cruiser, and they both turned. Officer Plantes waved brightly, then eased the black-and-white out onto Howe Street. They watched the car turn the corner onto South Aiken and disappear. Jim turned back to her.

  “Mind filling me in?”

  Chapter 10

  The streetlight outside their second-floor bedroom was broken, its lens and bulb shattered. Glass shards sparkled like diamonds on the street below each time an oncoming car’s headlights swept across the debris. Christensen stared down at the glimmering pool of glass, then at the cars lining both sides of the street. He was a man on the edge of darkness.

  “Close that, would you?” Brenna said as she stepped from the bathroom.

  He watched her reflection in the window. She wore only a towel, which she unfastened as she crossed the room. It fell to the floor in midstride, and he hesitated before twirling the miniblind rod. When he turned around she was naked, but he found no joy in it.

  “You don’t usually care, open or closed,” he said.

  “Not usually.”

  He studied her face for implication. “The call, you mean?”

  Brenna shrugged. “It’s probably nothing. I told you that.”

  “Crank caller, you said.” Christensen thought about the similar call that had so rattled Teresa. He wanted desperately to tell Brenna, but couldn’t.

  “Right,” she said.

  “And you wanted the cops to know about it.”

  “I wanted it noted. Why take chances? Plus, I wanted to make sure Milsevic let Teresa Harnett know what had happened.”

  Teresa knows. Christensen choked back the words, remembering his promise, struggling with a silent surge of fear. He was struggling, too, against an impulse to confront the most explosive issue between them: Could he trust Brenna to make unselfish choices? She enjoyed the spotlight’s glare—and the glare had never been more intense than during DellaVecchio’s original trial—but at times it had blinded her to danger, both to herself and to their blended family. Once, during the Underhill case a year before, she’d put the kids in harm’s way. Christensen wasn’t sure their relationship could survive something like that again. Lately, he wasn’t sure it could survive, period.

  For nearly six years, he had loved her intelligence, her powerful sense of right and wrong, and her extraordinary passion as both a lawyer and a lover. He knew Brenna loved him to the best of her ability in ways that only someone who knew her well could appreciate. She loved him as much as she would ever love any man, and that he never questioned. But he’d known for some time that he ranked third behind Taylor and her role as one of the city’s most sought-after criminal-defense attorneys. Was it enough?

  “So, you think Milsevic will follow through? I mean, crank call or not, do you think he’s taking it seriously? We’re all exposed here, you know.”

  She slid some panties on and turned away from him as she tugged on a well-worn T-shirt. Her movements grew sharp as she stood before their dresser’s mirror and pulled a brush through her hair. Suddenly, she wheeled on him.

  “If you’ve got something to say, just say it,” Brenna said. “Don’t give me twenty questions.”

  He stared. “The only dumb question is the one you don’t ask.”

  “But why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?”

  He crossed the room and tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.

  “Bren, it’s just weird, is all. I mean, whoever left that message is smart. No spoken words, just a recording. Nothing that could identify who it came from.”

  “You think I haven’t thought of that?” she said.

  “So what if it wasn’t just some crank? What if it was somebody worried about you recognizing their voice?”

  “You think it’s DellaVecchio, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But you think it could be. Just like Milsevic.”

  Christensen paused. “What did Milsevic say?”

  Brenna circled him, out of range, stopping at the head of their bed to strip back the covers.

  “You’re not convinced the police are going to investigate this, are you?” he said.

  She didn’t look up, busied herself setting her alarm. Her hands were a blur as she moved from task to task, a study in agitation.

  “Please talk to me,” he said.

  Brenna took a long, deep breath. Her hands slowed, and she ran one through her hair, pulling it back from her face. A single tear had rolled down her cheek. It fell onto her shirt, leaving a translucent mark in the cotton above her heart. He approached again, and this time she stood still as he took her in. He waited for a sob that never came.

  After a while, she said, “Don’t you see how this plays perfectly into their theory about DellaVecchio? He’s dangerous, and now he’s out. I just handed them something they can use against us at the hearing, or before the hearing if they decide to push it.”

  “But you called the police anyway,” Christensen said.

  “I wouldn’t take a chance with the kids, with you. Never again. Even if it’s just some idiot getting his giggles.”

  Christensen hesitated, thinking again about Teresa. “And if it’s not?”

  She tried to pull away, but he held her. She tried again, feebly, then put her arms around his neck and looked him in the eye.

  “Whoever did this to Teresa Harnett, he’s still out there,” she said. “But we don’t know how he’s reacting. In a couple weeks, this becomes an open case. We know the cops probably won’t reinvestigate the attack. They’re afraid of proving themselves wrong. But he doesn’t know that. The real attacker just knows it’s all coming undone. What he thought was over isn’t really over.”

  “And it’s your fault,” Christensen said.

  Brenna nodded.

  “Why can’t Milsevic see that then? Tunnel vision?”

  “Exactly. Nailing DellaVecchio’s the goal here. Nothing else matters.”

  “But what if—”

  “I’ve made a liar out of Teresa Harnett. I’ve made liars of the cops. How can I expect them to get excited about somebody making phony phone calls?”

  “Because you’re a private citizen, just like anyone else. Because you have a right to police protection.”

  Brenna pushed away with an impatient-teacher look. “What planet did you say you’re from?”<
br />
  “Other options, then? State police? The FBI? Don’t they get involved whenever someone uses the phone to commit a crime?”

  Brenna walked to the window. She absently twirled the dangling plastic rod, opening and closing the miniblinds once, twice, three times. Beyond the window, only darkness instead of the streetlight’s soft glow.

  Christensen snapped off the bedside lamp. “Somebody broke the streetlight,” he said.

  Brenna turned to him. “I’ll call Milsevic again tomorrow,” she said, her voice calmer in the darkened room. “By then he’ll have heard the message. Then I’ll get a better feel for where he’s coming from.”

  “And if he’s blowing you off?”

  “I’ll figure something out. I left a voice-mail message for Kiger. Maybe he’ll call. If nothing else, at least we’ve alerted the Harnetts. Teresa’s the linchpin here. If this guy’s scared enough to be watching me, I’d bet he’s watching her.”

  Christensen stopped Brenna’s hand as she reached for the miniblind rod again. He rolled the blind shut tight, then laid his hand on her left cheek. “I love you, Bren.”

  She kissed him, her lips lingering on his as she spoke: “I know.”

  Chapter 11

  Flasher coat. That’s what the hump-backed greaseball at Army-Navy called it, like, twelve years ago, when he laid out twenty dollars and took it home. Heavy as hell. Hung way down past his knees. Air Force blue. Looked fine. Main thing was the collar, man, big as a pair of wings. Turn it up at the back, button it at the neck, pull a Pirates cap down over your eyes. Shit, you practically disappeared. No worries, especially in this neighborhood. People just think it’s a new look. Come back in a week, see this getup all over Shadyside, cap and all. Fucking sheep.

  How long she been in there? Guess if you pay three bucks for a cup of coffee, it better take some time to make.

  Junkies were easy. Didn’t matter—crack, booze, caffeine. They all had their routines. Practically set your watch by ’em. Every morning he’d followed, three times now, she got here the same time, 8 a.m. on the nose. Left her house and drove a couple blocks, straight here, parked in the alley behind the coffeehouse. Got a takeout coffee and something to eat. Only thing he didn’t know was whether she took cream and sugar, and he wasn’t about to get that close. Wasn’t that invisible. From half a block away, she’d never know.