The Apostrophe Thief

by Barbara Paul

  The seconds ticked off silently. It was the calm before the storm: “You could have been killed!” Kelly shouted. “He could have shot you! He could have shot you and Holland and anybody else he felt like shooting! How dare you take this so calmly! Why aren’t you a basket case? Why aren’t you screaming and hollering and pounding your fists on your desk? And what do you mean, you prepared yourself? How can you prepare yourself for killing someone? This whole thing is unnatural, and aren’t you glad I called to cheer you up?”

  Marian laughed in spite of herself. “I called you.”

  “I called first. Marian, why did you have to go after him? Of all the cops there are in this city, why did it have to be you?” Her voice broke. “You could have been killed.”

  Aw. “Hey, Kel, listen. It’s over. Put it out of your mind.”

  “Easier said than done.” A sound something like a snuffle came over the line. “Can you get free for lunch? Or dinner?”

  “Dinner. What time do you have to be at the theater?”

  “No performance tonight—Monday, remember? The director’s called us in this afternoon to smooth out a few rough spots, but we should be finished by six. Seven at the latest. How about seven-thirty at Sonderman’s?”

  “I’ll be there. And Kelly, don’t feel bad. There’s no need, I promise you. Hold on a sec.” Her thorn-in-the-side partner had come up to her desk and was grinning evilly at her. “What, Foley?”

  “Shooflies want you. In the lieutenant’s office.”

  Marian’s stomach knotted; she wasn’t as ready for this as she thought. “Gotta go, Kelly. See you at seven-thirty.”

  When she’d hung up, Marian took a moment to compose herself. She hoped Holland appreciated what she was going through to keep his neck off the block. Hold it … not fair. It had been her idea to take the responsibility for the shooting; Holland had been ready to face the music when she stepped in, diverting official attention from him toward herself. It was your choice; now get yourself together.

  Temporarily kicked out of his own quarters, Lieutenant Baxter was busying himself at a file cabinet and sneaking looks at her out of the corner of his eye. Marian stood up and walked purposively toward Baxter’s office, steeling herself for her confrontation with Internal Affairs.

  2

  Her interrogation by Internal Affairs was indeed high-sweat, but not the devastating ordeal she’d expected. It was a given that cops had the right to kill to save their own lives; the two men from IA were interested only in nailing down the fact of self-defense. Marian was one of their own and if she had indeed been threatened, no censure would result.

  The two IA men, named Connelly and Reed, had her go over her account of the previous night’s events again and again, giving her every opportunity to contradict herself or slip up in some other way. They asked questions, they wanted details of things she hadn’t even noticed, they made her relive the scene minute by painful minute. But Marian stuck to her story, which was truthful except for that one minor matter of who actually did the shooting.

  There was one sticky moment. Marian told them she’d been acting independently, that Captain DiFalco had, in fact, pulled her off the case. “He thought he had it solved, you see,” she explained. It was only when she’d proved him wrong that he stepped forward and claimed Marian had been following his orders all along.

  The Internal Affairs men were interested, in an unofficial way; Connelly even appeared amused. “DiFalco lied?”

  “He lied.” No elaboration necessary.

  Connelly barked a laugh. “Doesn’t surprise me. DiFalco could get something for himself out of an earthquake.”

  But Reed didn’t find it amusing. “Sergeant, did somebody hear him order you off the case? Was anyone else around?”

  Marian thought back. “No, we were alone.”

  “Any paperwork? Anything in writing to show he pulled you off?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then it’s the word of a sergeant against the word of a captain?” Reed spread his hands. “Not good, Larch, not good. Better be careful what you say.”

  Marian felt like a fool. In anticipating the pleasure of exposing DiFalco, she’d never considered the possibility that she might not be believed. Reed was right; the word of a captain would be taken over that of one of his subordinates. She shook her head angrily. Too much trauma in the last twenty-four hours; she wasn’t thinking straight.

  But Internal Affairs wasn’t probing into Ninth Precinct politics and the two men had Marian go over her story one more time. Eventually they were satisfied and told her she could go. “All we need is Holland’s corroboration and it’ll go down as a righteous kill,” Connelly said. “We ought to be able to wrap this thing up today.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “That was good shooting, Sergeant.”

  So it was over. As she got up to leave Lieutenant Baxter’s office, it occurred to Marian that the interrogation would have gone even more smoothly without the complicating presence of the FBI. They would be checking into what happened every bit as thoroughly as Internal Affairs. It was the joint police-FBI investigation that had thrown Holland and her together in the first place. Holland was an FBI agent—correction: yesterday Holland was an FBI agent, as dissatisfied with his job as Marian was with hers. Today he was … what? A free man? Unemployed? While Marian had only thought about resigning, he had actually done it.

  So it was with her thoughts full of Holland that she opened the door and found herself face-to-face with the man himself. Two other men were with him—FBI, of course. A tired-looking Holland stared at her with eyes like dark bruises, and she felt a quick surge of that same craving that had propelled them toward each other the night before. Marian caught her breath and pushed the feeling down. Holland was pressing his lips together … doing the same thing?

  But before either one of them could speak, one of the other men said, “Sergeant Larch? I’m Agent Greer, and I must inform you there’s to be no communication between you and former agent Holland until this inquiry is completed. Do you understand?”

  Irritated, she said, “Of course I understand.”

  “Then I must ask you to come back to Bureau headquarters with me. I’ve cleared it with your captain.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, please.” So polite.

  Holland gave her a wry half-smile and stepped into Lieutenant Baxter’s office for his turn with Internal Affairs. The other FBI man followed him in.

  “Do you have a raincoat?” Agent Greer asked. “Nasty out.”

  Marian collected her raincoat and handbag and followed him down to the parking lot. The cold drizzle hadn’t let up; Marian shivered inside her coat. How could it turn cold that quickly? Yesterday had still been late summer.

  Greer drove her to Federal Plaza and escorted her to an upstairs room of the FBI building. There he made a quick round of introductions and discreetly disappeared.

  The room was larger than Lieutenant Baxter’s office, and cleaner. Marian sat at a small conference table and calmly looked around at the not-new, not-old furniture, the flag in the corner, the President’s picture on the wall. She felt detached from it all and even from herself, somehow not involved with this person who had come here to lie to the FBI.

  This time her interrogators numbered four instead of two, but the procedure they followed was the same as the one she’d just been through. Tell the story, tell it again, now tell it a third time. Answer the questions, provide details, go over it once more. The only real difference from her session with Internal Affairs was that this time she did not mention she’d been acting on her own.

  When it was over, the man who seemed to be in charge told her that her story corroborated Holland’s. “We’re satisfied that you did the shooting, and it was clearly self-defense.” Unexpectedly, he snorted. “It’s just that we had trouble believing Holland didn’t execute an old enemy when he had the chance—I think he’s capable of it. Between you and me, Sergeant, I’m glad Holland has resigned. He didn’
t really belong in the FBI.”

  Amen to that. “Then you’re closing the case?”

  “We’ll need to consult with your Internal Affairs Division, but I see no reason to keep it open. As far as I’m concerned, this one is history. Agent Greer will drive you back. Thanks for your help, Sergeant. I’m sending a letter to your captain expressing appreciation for your cooperation—never hurts to have a few of those in your permanent file, hm?”

  I get a cookie because I was good. Outside in the hallway, Greer was waiting to escort her downstairs to the car. On the way back to the Ninth Precinct Marian realized it was almost two and she’d missed lunch. The cold drizzle had stopped, but she still wanted something hot in her stomach. She asked Greer to drop her at a small restaurant near the stationhouse. He waved a cheery goodbye and was gone.

  Inside, Marian ordered a large bowl of chili and dug in. The place was crowded, so she had to share her table with a Texan—who, like all Texans, felt compelled to announce, “Real chili don’t have beans.” Marian finished her late lunch and left to keep her appointment with the police psychiatrist.

  It was a strange session. The psychiatrist kept probing for guilt feelings, for signs of self-recrimination. Marian kept expressing regret over the shooting while being careful never to blame herself for creating the circumstances that made the shooting necessary. “It came down to him or me,” she said, “which one of us was going to walk out of there alive. I wasn’t about to let myself be killed when I had the means of stopping him.”

  Evidently that was the right thing to say; the psychiatrist gave her a clean bill of health and told her to call him if ever she felt the need to talk. She thanked him for his understanding, feeling more like a hypocrite than ever, and headed back to the stationhouse.

  Captain DiFalco was not in his office. Just as well, since protocol required her to report to the lieutenant first, though what she was doing worrying about protocol at this stage of the game was beyond her. Lieutenant Baxter’s door was open; he motioned her in. “So? How did it go?”

  “Okay—not as bad as I thought it’d be.” She sank down into the chair at the side of his desk. “The FBI’s satisfied it was self-defense, but they were more interested in making sure I was the one who did the shooting than anything else. But they want to consult with Internal Affairs before they close the case.”

  “Then your problems are over,” Baxter said, “because I just got a call from IA. They’re calling it a righteous kill. It’s official.”

  She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. The lie had been accepted. “Hallelujah.”

  “Yeah—big relief, huh? Congratulations. You did good, Larch.”

  “Lieutenant, I want to take some personal time tomorrow. The whole day.”

  Baxter was interrupted by the phone before he could answer. Marian tuned out the one-sided conversation. She wanted some time off just to think. DiFalco had outmaneuvered her, every step of the way. She’d had some vaguely formed vision of solving her last case as a cop (by acting against orders), then flinging the results at DiFalco’s obtuse head and marching out in a blaze of glory. But the good captain had hopped on her glory train before she’d even noticed, and the IA man, Reed, had made her see that simply accusing DiFalco of being a liar and a fraud wasn’t enough. She knew she should just walk away … forget DiFalco and her useless partner Foley and everything else that was wrong, forget the entire Ninth Precinct. But it galled her, like leaving a case unsolved.

  Marian was distracted from her musing by the sight of Baxter prissily patting the curls on the top of his head. It was a mannerism that everyone in the station had laughed at, one time or another. Gloria Sanchez said he did it to reassure himself his hair was still there. Baxter was a pencil pusher, a paper-shuffler, a maker of lists. Nothing gave the lieutenant so much pleasure as the keeping of records. And he kept good records, Marian had to give him that; his obsession with written data had saved the Detective Unit a lot of grief. No perp arrested in the Ninth ever walked because of fouled-up paperwork, and that was Baxter’s doing.

  The lieutenant hung up the phone and turned back to Marian. “You were saying …?”

  “Personal time. Tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah. Sure. Take a week if you want—as much time as you need.”

  Marian raised an eyebrow.

  Baxter grinned. “Instructions from Captain DiFalco. ‘Give her whatever she wants,’ he said. You could probably ask for the moon right now and get it.”

  She sighed. “Well, maybe two days. I’ll call in tomorrow.”

  He cocked his head at her. “Are you all right? I mean, are you all right?”

  “Just tired, mostly. But I do need some time to myself.”

  “Then take it. Take whatever you need to get yourself back together. A screwed-up cop is no use to anybody.”

  Gee, thanks, Lieutenant. Marian thought that an appropriate note to leave on. She went back into the Detective Unit room and sat down at her desk. For a long moment she stared at the typewriter, wondering what she was doing there. It wasn’t four yet, the end of her shift; but she couldn’t think of any reason to hang around. The only one there she’d care to talk to was Gloria Sanchez, and Gloria was out on a case. So was Foley, thank god. Marian gathered up her things; but before leaving the building, she wanted another look into DiFalco’s office. This time, he was there.

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “We need to talk.”

  “Did Baxter tell you IA’s calling it a clean shoot?” he said hurriedly. “They didn’t even—”

  “Captain. Let’s stop this pussyfooting around and get it out in the open. You pulled me off the case and I went ahead with it anyway. Then when I wrapped it up, you stepped in and pretended I was acting under your orders. That makes me disobedient and you a fake.”

  “What are you talking about? I never pulled you off the case.”

  Marian stared at him with her mouth open. “Are you telling me you don’t remember that shouting match we had in the parking lot? When you threatened me with every little dirty job that came along if I didn’t fall into line?”

  DiFalco waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that. Look, we were both angry and saying things we didn’t mean—”

  “I meant it.”

  “All right, I lost my cool, I admit it—Jesus, didn’t that ever happen to you? But you were never off the case. God, if I knew that’s what you were thinking—”

  “I see.” Marian let her disgust show. “You didn’t really mean it.”

  “Yah, that’s right—I thought you understood that.” DiFalco didn’t look the least uncomfortable at telling such a whopper. He knew she knew he was lying, she knew he knew she knew … “Hey, I’m sorry for this little misunderstanding, but everything worked out okay, didn’t it?”

  Little misunderstanding. “No, Captain. Everything is not okay. I have no intention of working under these conditions—”

  “Hold it. Whatever you’re going to say—don’t. You look and sound composed, but I know you can’t be. Killing a man … that screws you up inside. I know, happened to me once. Go home, unbend. Take a vacation. Do something physical, work it off.”

  “Don’t you patronize me!” she snapped. “We’d be having this conversation whether I shot a man or not, and I’ll not have you pretending it’s because I’m ‘screwed up’ inside. You’re the one that’s screwed up.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m going to overlook that, because I know you’re under stress. Let me show you something.” He pawed through the papers on his desk and came up with a carbon of a letter. “Read this.”

  She took the carbon copy, still standard at the uncomputerized Ninth. It was a letter to the Commissioner in which DiFalco endorsed Marian for a commendation. He gave full credit to her; he said she organized and directed the investigation and brought the case to a satisfactory conclusion even at risk to her own life. Unstated but still implied was that all these wonderful things were done under the ever-w
atchful eye of Captain DiFalco himself.

  Marian wadded the flimsy paper into a tiny ball and flicked it lazily toward DiFalco. “You insult me, Captain,” she said, “to think you can buy me off that cheaply.”

  That didn’t come out exactly the way she meant it, implying as it did that she could be bought off at a higher price. But it made as good an exit line as any. She left.

  Marian and Holland watched each other warily across the tiny table in Sonderman’s bar. He’d shown up at her apartment just as she was leaving to meet Kelly Ingram for dinner and proceeded to invite himself along for drinks. Marian could have told him no, but didn’t.

  Holland asked, “Do you feel as if you’ve been x-rayed, CAT-scanned, fluoroscoped, spectroscoped, blood-tested, Geiger-counted, and mind-read? Your Internal Affairs was even more thorough than the Bureau’s boys. I wish you hadn’t had to go through that.”

  Marian shrugged. “It’s over now, and everyone’s satisfied. It could have been worse.”

  “Still.” He took a swallow of his drink; the table was so small that his knees were pressed against hers.

  “All day long people have been asking me if I’m all right,” she said, “but I doubt that anyone has asked you. Are you?”

  He made an ambiguous sound. “I’ll live.”

  There was something she had to know. “Is this the first time you’ve had to shoot someone?”

  His eyes flickered. “No.” A short silence followed. Then: “I will find some way to repay you. Somehow.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. I don’t like owing people.”

  “I’m not people, Holland. And you can repay me by not letting it bother you.”

  He nodded in acknowledgment of her point, and then gave her a sardonic smile. “No. You are definitely not people.”

  They had quickly reached a point where their talk could veer into either intimacy or distance; Marian chose distance. “What are you going to do, now that you’re out of the FBI?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. What are you going to do when you resign from the police force?”