Back on Murder rm-1

by J. Mark Bertrand

  “It’s a matter of time, that’s all. Your work on this. . everything before pales in comparison.” He glances around, retrieving his copy of The Kingwood Killing from the shelf behind him. “This pales in comparison. Really. Good work.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door closes behind me. The farther I get from it, the less his confidence reassures me. We know what happened and we can pretty much prove it, and by some standards that’s enough, even if no one spends a day behind bars. The detective work is the same, either way. But there are things you can live with and things you can’t.

  If Rios left his girlfriend behind as part of a payment to Octavio Morales, and then he put three bullets into Hannah Mayhew for trying to help her friend, the idea of him walking away, growing old somewhere in Mexico or under another name here in the States, in this very city where a man can walk in plain sight for decades without being recognized for who he is, that concept is unacceptable. If the world works that way, I want no part of it.

  But it does work that way.

  The guilty walk, it happens all the time, either because people like me can’t make the charges stick, or we can’t even find the suspect to stick them to.

  Cavallo comes through the squad room door, flicking a strand of hair behind her ear, not yet noticing me. I fall in behind her, overtaking, prompting a surprised smile.

  “I’ve just been patted on the back,” I say, “but I don’t feel like a good boy.”

  “Maybe this will make you feel better. I just saw Wilcox in the elevator. The case against Keller lost one of its legs. The hospital called. Salazar flatlined this morning.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Some kind of blood clot,” she says. “It got in the lungs.”

  “I need to sit down.” I slump into the nearest chair, pulling my tie loose.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Let’s see. I’ve been shot. I got a bad cop with a conscience murdered. I killed a rent-a-cop and just found out I killed a real one, too, even if he was dirty. And I’m still missing both of my murder suspects. But I’m doing a great job, and they’re putting me back on rotation — ”

  “Which is what you wanted, right?”

  “What I wanted,” I say, “though I was never foolish enough to think it could happen, what I wanted was to find that girl alive. And instead I’ve found two of them dead.”

  But that’s not right. I know it’s not. I never wanted to find her alive. All along I wanted her dead, I wanted to be the one who made the connection, the one to point the finger and say, The girl you’re looking for? She was here all along. And in a way, that’s exactly what I’ve gotten. I’m only whining because, having gotten it, I find I don’t want it anymore.

  “Hollow victories are still victories, at least on paper, but I find them a little hard to celebrate.”

  “You were almost killed,” she says, pointing to my leg. “And if you hadn’t shot the rent-a-cop, he’d have killed you — or worse, me. The same goes for Salazar. He dealt the hand, not you. Tonight you’re going home alive, and you get to sleep in your own bed. Tomorrow, you can get up and hunt the bad guys again. In my book, there’s nothing hollow about any of that. So if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, why don’t we get back to work?”

  She charges down the aisle, heading for the crowd near the interview room. I climb off the chair, brush my pant leg off, and follow.

  CHAPTER 29

  Days have passed, Coleman’s list of haunts is long exhausted, and the hunt for Frank Rios continues. His face is plastered all over the news. The tip lines are flooded with dead-end sighting reports, pinpointing him all over Houston, in Mexico, and as far away as California. Patrol drags in a young illegal who more or less fits the description, then another, but it’s all for nothing. Rios is in the wind.

  At first, Bascombe lets me slide. This isn’t homicide work, after all. He ignores my riding out with the surveillance teams, knocking the same doors I knocked yesterday and the day before. He doesn’t raise an eyebrow at Cavallo, who’s still camped in my cubicle even though our case is technically down.

  Then he appears at my desk, coffee mug in hand, and says, “All good things come to an end.”

  We troop down to the captain’s office, where chairs are already set out, and I’m congratulated again for the good work. Hedges gives Cavallo a sideways glance, like he wants to check her out without seeming to. She’s busy tracing her fingertip along her pant leg, following the course of a pinstripe. Not looking up, just waiting for the inevitable heave-ho.

  “I think Wanda wants her detective back,” Hedges says. “And I’m feeling the same way about you.”

  I clear my throat. “Finding Rios is a top priority. The chief said so himself on the news.”

  “Which is why there’s a full-court press out there. But let’s face it, your talents can be put to better use. It’s time. Right, Lieutenant?”

  Bascombe’s grunt is open to interpretation, but the captain takes no notice. Later, outside the office, he puts a big hand on my shoulder, shaking his head in commiseration but not saying a word.

  Cavallo perches on the edge of my desk, arms crossed, blowing a stray hair out of her eyes. She blinks a lot, then tries to smile.

  “Oh well.”

  “I’ll talk to Wanda,” I say.

  “And tell her what?”

  “She’s closer to this thing. She’ll understand.”

  “No,” she says with a resigned sigh. “Hedges is right. We’ve done all we can do for now. When Rios comes up for air, they’ll grab him, and then we’ll take this thing to trial. In the meantime — ”

  “We’ll keep working it, you and me. After hours. They can’t dictate what we do on our free time.”

  But Cavallo’s not buying it. She gets up, twists her purse over her shoulder, and gives me what’s meant as a reassuring smile.

  “You should transfer out of there,” I say. “Come to Homicide. You could hack it up here, Theresa.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” She heads for the door. “I’ll be honest. I think I’d rather be hunting for the victims, not the killers. It’s better for the soul.”

  Aguilar sees her going and stands. Lorenz does, too. By the time she makes it out, the whole squad is on its feet, even Bascombe leans through his open door.

  “I’ll miss that one,” the lieutenant says.

  Aguilar nods. “She’s a good one.”

  But I don’t have time for sentiment. I grab the phone, start dialing the number, slumping in my chair as it rings and rings.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re a patient kind of man,” I say, “the kind who likes to sit and watch a place for hours on end. Isn’t that right?”

  After a pause, Carter Robb answers in the affirmative. He’s already proven himself, staking out James Fontaine like he did.

  “You said you wanted to do something this time.”

  “I do,” he says.

  He knows Rios, has seen him up close. He won’t mistake someone else for him, the way a uniform working from a photo and a physical description might. “Well I have something, assuming you’re still interested.”

  “I am.”

  “We aren’t giving up,” I tell him. “That’s the main thing.”

  And just like that, I set Robb loose on the street, another set of eyes. I give him the list from Coleman, give him my home number, and tell him that in the unlikely event he catches sight of Rios, he should call me right away.

  “It’s a wild goose chase, I realize that. But it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’m on it,” he says, then hangs up.

  When I put the phone down, there’s a warmth running through me. I like this kid. I haven’t misjudged him. Just like that, he’s taking up the task. What I’ve just done, it’s wrong. It’s outside the bounds. But I don’t regret it, not even a little.

  Charlotte returns from Dallas looking tan and rested, with a canvas tote full of new clothes and
a determination to see the last of our tenant. While he’s out in the suburbs winging his way through one of the many community college classes he teaches for extra money, she and Ann pack up the sleeping bag and dirty clothes and men’s magazines he’s littered around the living room in her absence, boxing everything neatly, then climb the stairs and do the same thing in the garage apartment. Thanks to the neighbor’s chain saw, the roof is free of tree limbs, so they work in the heat beneath the rustling blue tarp, so focused they barely speak. My offers of help are uniformly rejected. Clearly the sisters cooked up a strategy on the drive home.

  “I’m not sure this is entirely kosher,” I say. “Tommy has rights here as a tenant.”

  Charlotte hardly glances up. “Don’t worry.”

  She’s gotten tired of waiting for me and has taken matters into her own hands.

  Just as they finish carrying all the boxes down to the driveway, leaving nothing upstairs but the furniture, a moving van pulls up to the front curb. Ann gives instructions while Charlotte watches, a contented smile on her lips.

  “It wouldn’t be right,” she says, “to expect a tenant to live in conditions like this, and there’s no telling when the insurance will pay up. Finding him another place is the decent thing to do, Roland. Anything else would be irresponsible.”

  “Shouldn’t he get a say, though?”

  “His dad pays the rent, and I’ve already talked to him.”

  “You have? When?”

  Her smile widens. She has been busy, very busy during her absence. The thought of Tommy’s reaction worries me a bit, but it’s a relief to have the old Charlotte back, in control of her life once more, the refractive, toxic influence of the anniversary finally in abeyance. I put my arm around her bare shoulders, squeezing her tight, as the movers head up the stairs to do the heavy lifting.

  “Go up and change,” she says, brushing her hand on my suit jacket. “We’re all going out to dinner when Tommy gets home.”

  “Dinner? All right then.”

  In the bedroom I peel off my work clothes, changing into jeans and a short-sleeved pullover, leaving it untucked over my backup gun, a slim Kahr K40. My mobile phone rings, a number I don’t recognize.

  “Mr. March? It’s Gina Robb. I’m sorry to bother you, but — ”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering. . have you seen my husband? It’s just, he’s been out looking, you know, and he didn’t come home last night — ”

  “Out looking for what?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.

  “That man. The one who killed Hannah.”

  “He’s up to his old tricks,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I told him when he staked out James Fontaine’s house to leave it alone. I figured he’d learn his lesson.”

  “Well, he hasn’t. He thinks he has to do something. No matter how many times I tell him it’s not his fault, no matter how much he’s already done — and he’s done a lot. No offense, but I don’t think anyone’s done more than him. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he does can bring her back — either of them, Hannah or Evey.”

  “And he’s not answering your calls?”

  “I’m afraid. Either something’s happened to him or. . he’s done something.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch.”

  “If you hear from him — ”

  “I’ll make sure he calls you.”

  Once she hangs up, I dial Robb’s number. Charlotte, who’s come inside with Ann, interrupts her conversation to call up the stairs. As the phone rings I tell her I’ll be down in just a second. Robb answers.

  “I just got a call from your wife,” I say. “She’s worried that you didn’t come home last night, and you’re not answering her calls.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Listen, Carter. I wouldn’t have given you that list if I didn’t think you’d be cool. You’re freaking out, and that makes me worry.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” he says.

  “It’s going to take more than that to reassure me.”

  “I’ll call her. I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You were out all night?”

  “I couldn’t leave. I had a feeling he was gonna show up. Every time I’d put the key in the ignition, I’d know the moment I left he was gonna be there. So I couldn’t do it.”

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I say. “I’ve made a string of bad calls lately, so I guess this is just the latest. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. But look, it’s time to pull the plug.”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s time,” I say. “You’ve spooked your wife, and you’re starting to spook me, too. So let’s put an end to it, all right? I appreciate your help. You made a real difference. Without you, we wouldn’t have put this case down. You’ve done good work, okay? It’s time to let yourself off the hook.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I understand you feel responsible. Get over it. This isn’t your load to carry. You’re absolved, all right? So go home to your wife.”

  He’s quiet a long while, long enough for me to picture him. Not in a church van but in his own car — I’ve already lectured him about that — a mess of fast food wrappers and water bottles on the floor, his worn out little Bible on the dashboard or across his lap, so he can read and pray and watch all at once, convincing himself his freelance surveillance has some kind of religious significance. I recall his eagerness when I first made the offer, like a starving man invited into the bakery. I should have known right then what I was doing was wrong.

  “Carter?”

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll go home.”

  “You promise? I’m going to call Gina later, so if you don’t — ”

  “I said I would.”

  Charlotte calls up the stairs again. Apparently Tommy has arrived home. I want to press Robb harder, but I don’t have time. I’ll have to assume his promise is good. And I will be making that call to Gina sooner rather than later. Trust but verify.

  When I join them in the kitchen, Tommy seems baffled by the sudden goodwill coming from Charlotte, but he’s sufficiently in love with himself to imagine that, given time, anyone could share the feeling, so he doesn’t peer too deeply into the matter.

  “Hey, I just need to run up to the apartment before we go.”

  “No time,” Charlotte insists, tapping her watch face. “We’ve got reservations.”

  Ann loops an arm through his. “Besides, you look perfectly fine. Don’t go changing on our account.”

  On the way out, he glances toward the living room, but if he notices all his things are gone, he doesn’t let on. We crowd into Ann’s car, the sisters in front, and accelerate into the early evening traffic. As we cruise past the Paragon, Tommy and I exchange a look. But our table is booked at a trattoria on Morningside in Rice Village, not far from the Bridgers’ West University home, where the manager seems to be on friendly terms with Ann. This is all, I realize, her doing. In spite of her bleeding heart when it comes to humanity in general, she can conjure up a ruthless streak for one-on-one dealings.

  My hunch is borne out by the way my sister-in-law plays hostess, an unaccustomed role for her, offering a running commentary on the menu, drawing Tommy out about his teaching, the intangibles of his dissertation, and what he calls his activism, which consists mainly of attending various coffeehouse meet and greets and dropping in on the occasional protest. The funny thing is, I can tell she likes him. They have a good bit in common, really.

  She gets him talking about West Africa, no doubt having learned from Charlotte that his summer in Ghana is such a touchstone. He can talk about it for hours. I relax and sneak a look in Charlotte’s direction. She still wears the contented smile, as if she’s reclining poolside in the sun, her eyes hidden behind big round sunglasses, her fingers trailing in the water.

  By the time the bill arrives, we’re all good friends. The wine has flowed on Tommy’s side
of the table, and now he glows with a damp-skinned sense of social triumph. In the car he talks at length about what’s wrong with the world, using words like bourgeois, consumerism, and globalization to great effect. Ann and Charlotte smile encouragingly, the car heading amiably down Kirby past Dryden, making a left onto Swift. We cruise the vehicle-lined street, block by block, until Ann pulls to a stop in front of a white brick duplex with black shutters, a hulking structure from the 1940s that looks part Tara and part art deco.

  “Here you go,” Ann says.

  The car is silent. Tommy glances toward me in confusion, noticing the keys dangling from Charlotte’s hand as she reaches between the seats.

  “What are we doing here?” he asks, a baffled smile on his lips.

  Charlotte puts the keys in his open palm. “Dropping you off.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “This is your new place,” Ann says, adjusting the rearview mirror for a better look.

  “I’m afraid the insurance isn’t going to come through anytime soon,” Charlotte says, “so I had a talk with your father, and he thought it was best for you to relocate. You’ll like this place.”

  “It’s great,” Ann agrees. “Original fixtures and tile. And plenty of space out back for entertaining. The old lady downstairs is charming.”

  He turns to me. “Is this a joke?”

  In spite of everything, I feel for him. The occasion calls for a quip of some kind, but I have a hard time mustering anything, so an anticlimactic shrug has to suffice. Tommy sputters a few objections, only to find the sisters ready, swatting him down with ramrod charm. His things are already in the new apartment waiting for him. The first month’s deposit has been made. Charlotte digs through her purse, producing an envelope from the bank with his prorated rent refund in cash. That seems to clinch things. Fingering the stiff bills, he pops the door open and climbs onto the curb, waiting for the rest of us to get out.

  He seems to think we’re all going upstairs to have a look at the place, but Ann quickly disappoints him. Her foot punches the accelerator, slamming the passenger door shut.