by Tim Downs
“Neither do I—especially when she gets woken up by phone calls in the middle of the night from some idiot in Philadelphia who expects her husband to jump out of bed and drive all the way up there just to get him out of jail.”
“Tell her you’re sorry—that’s what I would do. How long does it take to get up here from DC, anyway? I called you hours ago.”
Donovan shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just shoot you myself. Think of the time I’d save—think of the wear and tear on my car I’d avoid. I could get away with it too— I’d probably get commendations from police departments all over the country.”
“Would you stop whining? Who else could I call?”
“How about your fiancée? You’re supposed to be her problem now.”
Nick slapped his forehead with the butt of his palm. “Oh no—I forgot. I was supposed to call Alena last night—I told her I’d call her at exactly nine o’clock.”
“Well, call her now. And put it on speakerphone—I want to hear this. ‘Hi, hon! Sorry I didn’t call last night—I got myself arrested and they threw me in jail.’ ”
“Maybe my future wife is more understanding than yours,”
Nick said.
“You think so? Let’s call her and find out.”
“I can’t,” Nick said. “She doesn’t get cell phone reception up on that mountain of hers. That’s why I told her nine o’clock— she has to drive down to Endor to get a signal.”
“Let me get this straight,” Donovan said. “Your fiancée had to travel all the way down a mountain just to get a phone call from you, but you didn’t call because you got yourself arrested and spent the night in jail.” He threw back his head and let out a deep belly laugh. “Man—she better be way more understanding than my wife.”
“I’m glad to see your mood is improving.”
A voice behind them said, “Are you two still here?”
Nick turned and found himself looking into the smug and self-satisfied face of Detective Danny Misco. Nick let out a groan. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”
“We were just leaving,” Donovan said. “Any last words for your prisoner before he returns to society? Maybe something about ‘respect for authority’ or ‘a citizen’s duty to obey the law’?”
“Yeah,” Misco said. “Now that you mention it, there’s a couple of things I’d like to clear up.” He looked at Nick. “That big yellow tape you found on the door? That’s not for decoration— that means it’s a crime scene and you’re not supposed to go in.
If you look real close, you’ll find it actually says that right on the tape: police line—do not cross. But maybe you couldn’t see that because it was so dark and all.”
“Look, Detective—”
“No, you look. I told you I didn’t want your help and you wouldn’t listen; I told you not to come back, but you did it anyway. Do you always have this much trouble following instructions?”
Donovan let out a snort.
“Shut up,” Nick whispered.
“When you crossed that crime scene tape you violated the law, and that’s why I had you arrested. And I could press charges against you if I wanted to, but I’m not going to—you know why?”
“Because you don’t know how?”
“Because of this man here,” Misco said, nodding at Donovan. “Agent Donovan vouched for you and he told me about some of your . . . quirks. He tells me you’re a professional and that, believe it or not, you actually know what you’re doing. Personally, I don’t see it—but I’m taking his word for it, and I’m dropping the charges against you out of respect for him.”
“You respect somebody besides yourself?” Nick said.
“Shocker.”
“As a matter of fact I do, Polchak. I respect the FBI, and I respect fellow law enforcement professionals like your friend here. What I don’t respect is a guy who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong—even after he’s been told not to.”
“Are we done here?” Nick said. “Because I really need to go somewhere and have a good cry.”
“Get out of here,” Misco said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”
When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Donovan said, “Well, Nick, I just hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“You make me sick,” Nick grumbled. “ ‘Fellow law enforcement professionals’—I’m surprised the two of you didn’t go out for a couple’s massage.”
“You’re just jealous,” Donovan said. “Hey, I don’t see your car. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “As a matter of fact you can.”
***
“You gotta be kidding,” Donovan said. “Are you trying to get me arrested too?”
They sat parked across the street from Pete Boudreau’s house in Upper Roxborough; the yellow crime scene tape barring the front door was clearly visible from the street.
“I’m not going inside the house,” Nick said. “I’m just picking something up.”
“What?”
Without bothering to reply, Nick exited the car and crossed the street. He walked around to the left side of the house and surprised an older woman trimming her shrubs with an old pair of wood-handled garden shears. Nick held up one hand and said reassuringly, “Don’t mind me—just a pervert passing through.” He walked along Pete’s hedge to the living room window, then squeezed between the bushes and retrieved the manila file folder he had dropped there the night before.
As he passed the old woman again she squinted at him suspiciously. “Does that belong to you?” she asked.
“It does now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—and I always obey the law.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a list of all the people in the neighborhood who need to mind their own business. Have a nice day.”
Nick climbed back into Donovan’s car and set the folder on his lap. Donovan nodded at the folder. “What’s that?”
“That’s the reason Pete Boudreau is dead,” Nick said. “I left my car about three blocks from here—let’s swing by and pick it up on the way.”
“On the way to what?”
“I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re buying me breakfast.”
9
Bill—it’s Nick Polchak.”
“Nick—you back in North Carolina already?”
“No, I’m still in town. I decided to stay over.”
“You sure beat a path out of Vidocq yesterday. I figured you couldn’t wait to get back to that fiancée of yours.”
“I had some things to take care of first. Look, I was wondering if you could do something for me.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ve missed a lot of the Vidocq meetings lately—haven’t made it up here since last fall. I’m looking for a list of presenters from the last six to nine months.”
“Yeah, we’ve got that. What are you looking for?”
“I need contact information: names, addresses—especially phone numbers. Case summaries would be helpful too.”
“Six months of case summaries . . . that could take a little time.”
“Then the summaries can wait—just send me the contact info.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“No hurry—the next three minutes would be fine.”
There was a chuckle on the other end. “Nick—can I tell you something about marriage?”
“Can you do it while you’re typing?”
“Marriage will make a patient man out of you.”
“As long as it happens fast,” Nick said. “Are you sending it now?”
There was a brief pause. “Okay—it’s on its way. What’s this for?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Thanks, Bill.” Nick punched the End button and dropped the cell phone into his shirt pocket.
Nick and Donovan sat at a table in Chubby’s Steaks on Henry Avenue with papers spread all over the table and Nick’s laptop open in front of him. Chubby’s cherry-r
ed awning was a landmark in Roxborough and Manayunk; people drove from miles around to sample the best cheesesteak sandwich in all of Philly, and Nick never missed the opportunity whenever he was in town. Chubby’s didn’t open until late morning, and Nick and Donovan were waiting at the door when it did to allow them to beat the lunch rush and spread out a bit—which they were currently doing.
Nick stared in annoyance at his laptop screen. “How long does it take for an e-mail to travel across town?”
“Electrons only travel at the speed of light,” Donovan said. “Sorry we can’t make it faster for you.” He used his fork to heap more onions onto his savory sandwich. “Is this your idea of breakfast?”
“Shut up and eat your cheese fries,” Nick said. “You want a balanced diet, don’t you?”
“Does Alena let you eat like this?”
“Does she let me? What’s that whipping sound I hear?”
“You talk tough now. Just wait.”
Nick looked at him. “Why is it that every time I tell someone I’m getting married, they say, ‘Just wait’? Is that somebody’s idea of premarital counseling?”
“They’re trying to tell you that marriage is an adjustment. People might handle the adjustment better if they knew it was coming—most of them don’t. Marriage might not be so hard if people didn’t expect it to be so easy.”
“What’s with all the marital advice all of a sudden?”
“You’re the one who keeps calling me, remember?”
“Yeah, but now you’re volunteering. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
“I just don’t want you showing up at my door a week after the wedding with suitcase in hand—’cause I’m not letting you in. Marriage is a one-way street, Nick, so you better decide if you’re ready to drive before you make the turn.”
“If I’m ready? Donovan—I’m getting married in three days.”
“I know. So what are you doing?”
“I know. So “What?”
Donovan pointed his fork at the table. “Pete’s phone records—and you just asked for contact information for everybody who’s presented a case to Vidocq in the last few months. I know you, Nick—I’ve worked with you before, remember? I know how you think and I know what you’re doing here. You think maybe somebody killed Pete Boudreau because of something he was working on. So you’re planning to match his phone records against the phone numbers Vidocq sends you—right?”
Nick just made a little shrug.
“And if you find a match, then what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t lie to me. You’ll follow it up—you know you will. You’ll call the presenter and you’ll ask about the case. And if you don’t like the answers he gives you or the sound of his voice, you’ll go visit the guy—right now, today—and it doesn’t matter if the guy lives in Kathmandu.”
“Nepal is a bit far,” Nick said. “I only have half a tank of gas.”
“Yeah—and you should be using it to drive back to Endor.”
“Pete was a friend of mine, okay? What am I supposed to do, just walk away and leave the investigation to that idiot Misco? You know what will happen, Donovan: Misco will ask who, but he won’t take the time to ask why—and Pete deserves better than that. Misco will do the basics and nothing more; he’ll dust for prints and he’ll run ballistics and he’ll ask the neighbors if they saw anyone suspicious hanging around the house in the last few days.”
“You mean like you?”
“And then he’ll look for suspects—the usual suspects. But if there’s a Vidocq angle to this, the suspect probably isn’t from Philadelphia. But Misco will never consider a Vidocq connection—you know why?”
“Because you stole the phone records?”
“No, wise guy—because Misco thinks Vidocq is a joke. Do you know what he calls it? ‘The Women’s Murder Club.’ ”
“Wow,” Donovan said with a grin. “I wish I’d seen the look on your face.”
“I’m so glad my suffering entertains you.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Nick, but I don’t think you’re giving Misco a chance. The Philadelphia Police Department has a great reputation, and Misco earned his shield. He probably knows what he’s doing.”
“Misco is a pigheaded egomaniac.”
“You should know.”
Nick squinted at him. “You’re my friend, right? Just thought I’d clarify.”
“Yeah, I’m your friend—the kind of friend who would drive two hours on I-95 just to get your sorry butt out of jail. And that’s why I can say this to you: You’re the king of pigheaded egomaniacs, Nick. You know it, and I know it—and Misco knows it too.”
“So that’s what you think this is about? Me going toe-to-toe with little Danny Misco? Me trying to prove that I’m a better detective than he is? Please.”
“No, I don’t think that’s what this is about—but I don’t think it’s just about Pete either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve worked with you, Nick. Every time you get a case in front of you it consumes you—it takes you over like some kind of parasite. You can’t let it go; you can’t think about anything else; you can’t stop until you figure it all out.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
Donovan leaned closer and lowered his voice a little. “You forgot to call her, Nick. You left Alena sitting in some restaurant in Endor wondering what happened to her fiancé. She still doesn’t know.”
“The pastor who’s doing our wedding is an old friend of hers,” Nick said. “I’ll give him a call and ask him to take a message up to her so she doesn’t worry.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
“Then what?”
“Work consumes you—but you’re about to take on a wife, and she’s supposed to consume you too. You’re getting married in less than a week, and you’re not acting like a man who’s about to get married. Why is that?”
“I’ve still got a few days,” Nick said. “I just need to take care of this first.”
“You need to take care of your fiancée. Go home, Nick—do it now while you can still walk away from this thing. If you open that e-mail from Vidocq and find some connection, you’ll follow it up—you know you will. And you’ll keep on following until it’s all done. When will that be? Where will you be when it happens? And what about Alena?”
“You make it sound like I’m running from my own wedding.”
Donovan said nothing.
“You’re wrong,” Nick said. “I’m not running. I know what I want and I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Then prove it. Get in your car and drive home.”
Nick’s laptop emitted a single note, announcing the arrival of an e-mail in his in-box. He looked at the message; it had an attachment titled “Vidocq Presenters’ Eyes Only.”
Nick looked across the table at his friend. “Thanks for breakfast, Donovan—and thanks for driving up here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to read this.”
10
Alena watched the dogs as they wandered through the unmowed grass around her feet. Some of them rolled on their backs in the morning sun, some of them pawed at each other in mock combat, and some of them sniffed at invisible spots their companions had just marked moments before. There were about two dozen dogs of every imaginable age, shape, and size, from a six-week-old puppy barely weaned to a worldly old hound with a graying muzzle. Alena looked over the pack; sorting out the different bits of breed was like trying to pick socks from a moving dryer. She could see a lot of beagle and shepherd and Lab in the group; a little rottweiler too, judging by the head shapes and the size of some of the paws. She could make out terrier and poodle and schnauzer in the smaller animals, but there were a couple that defied all classification—“pure dog,” her father used to call them. But they were good dogs, every one of them, and they deserved a better fate than the one that had been awaiting them.
&nb
sp; She watched the young family standing in her meadow as the dogs mingled around their feet. The little girl seemed afraid of them; she ducked behind her mother’s legs every time one of the pups came near. The boy was a few years older and he was grinning from ear to ear; he jumped from dog to dog like a flea, patting and stroking and scratching each one behind the ears. The mother and father just stood there, watching and smiling—and probably wondering how they would ever choose.
“Where do you get them all?” the woman asked.
“Shelters,” Alena replied. “Over in Front Royal and Winchester—sometimes down in Culpeper and Harrisonburg.”
“We saw your sign on the road—‘Free Dogs.’ When you got them from the shelters, did the dogs have any . . . you know . . . problems?”
“Yeah, they had a big problem,” Alena said. “It’s called ‘death by lethal injection.’ ” Alena felt suddenly irritated—like she was being accused of trying to stick these people with damaged goods. And she wasn’t even selling these dogs—she was giving them away! But she knew it was more than the woman’s simple question that had triggered her anger. She was mad because her gate was open, and she never left her gate open. She was mad because their car was parked on her land—they had driven right in and pulled off the gravel onto her grass. She was mad because they were standing in her meadow, looking at her dogs, expecting to take one of them away from her.
But what bothered her most of all was that it was her own idea.
Well—not completely. It was Gunner’s idea first—he was the one who had encouraged her to try to open up to people more. It was just the kind of thing a nosy pastor would suggest. Gunner reminded her that she was getting married soon, and that her husband was a college professor with responsibilities and social obligations, and that she couldn’t just hole up on a mountaintop anymore. Marriage would mean moving to Raleigh and becoming part of Nick’s world; marriage would mean a whole new life for her, Gunner said, a life full of not just dogs but people. But Alena had lived alone on this mountain since her father disappeared when she was only ten years old. She had surrounded herself with dogs like these ever since— faithful, beautiful creatures that she seemed to somehow understand and connect with on an almost supernatural level.
