Night Work

by Steve Hamilton

  “Okay, look,” I said. “Those shoes are a couple years old. I think they were the first pair I bought, back when I started training. Anderson took one look at them and told me they were cheap pieces of crap and that they’d probably give me blisters. He was right. So I went out and bought a better pair.”

  “You didn’t throw the old ones away?”

  “Obviously I didn’t. I put them in the back of the closet. You saw my apartment. I don’t throw many things away.”

  “And the laces?”

  “I must have taken them out at some point. I must have broken a lace in another pair … Hell, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t specifically remember doing that?”

  “If I wanted to lie to you, I’d say yes, I remember exactly when I took them out. But I honestly don’t remember.”

  “Well, okay then. A couple of things … First of all, the shoelace we found around Mrs. Barron’s neck was very long. Again, we have it in evidence if you’d like to see it. It’s the kind of shoelace that you wouldn’t use in just any shoe. You’d need a shoe with a lot of holes to go through. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You ever notice that when you lace up a shoe, you get those little markings on the lace where the holes are? I keep calling them holes … but I think there’s a better word, isn’t there?”

  “Eyelets,” Shea said.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Rhinehart said. “You get those markings from the eyelets. Now, we haven’t had the chance to try it yet, but I have to wonder if the laces that killed Mrs. Barron would match up with the eyelets on your boxing shoes.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “You’re not honestly suggesting …”

  “I’m not suggesting anything right now,” he said. “I’m just showing you how it all looks on paper. You’ve got to admit, Joe, it doesn’t look real good.”

  “Why would I do it?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, Detective. What on earth would possess me to go out and start killing people? Have you thought about that part yet? Have you thought about how insane that sounds?”

  “Like I said, Joe, I’m not accusing you of anything right now. I’m just laying out the facts. If I start thinking about a motive … I can’t even imagine why you’d do something like this. I mean, obviously I can’t imagine why anybody would do it, but you, in particular … You seem like a perfectly decent man to me. You work a tough job. You help people. It makes no sense to me whatsoever.”

  Finally, I thought. He finally says something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m having a bad dream.

  “Of course,” he said, “someone might look at your history and start to wonder a little bit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just thinking out loud, you understand.”

  “And?”

  “I’m just saying. Somebody might look at your circumstances … having lost someone close to you so suddenly … so violently …”

  I met his eyes, stared at him without blinking. “Which would do what to me, exactly? What would that make me do?”

  “People who’ve suffered serious trauma will sometimes exhibit erratic behavior,” he said. He didn’t look away from me. “It might be suppressed for a long time, years even, until something comes along to set it off.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Understand, Joe, we’re still talking on paper.”

  “On paper.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are we about done here?”

  “Come on,” Shea said. “We need your help. Give us something to work with so we can clear you right now.”

  “Like what? What can I give you?”

  “Somebody who saw you after you left Miss Frost’s apartment on Saturday night, before the estimated time of death. Or Sunday, when Mrs. Barron was killed. Give us one solid thing we can take back to Albany to satisfy them.”

  “I was alone both times,” I said. “You already know that.”

  “Then let’s all try to find something else.”

  “You’re wasting time, guys. He’s out there somewhere. And you’re sitting here asking me about my shoelaces.”

  “We’re doing our job, Joe.”

  “Fine, let me know when you get somewhere. In the meantime, I assume I’m free to go?”

  “Of course you are,” Shea said. “If you want to talk a little more later …”

  “Yeah, let’s do that,” I said, standing up. “I’ll see you around.”

  “You’ll need a ride back to your place.”

  “It’s a mile. I’ll walk.”

  If Shea said anything else, I didn’t hear him. I already had the door closed and was moving down the hall. I passed the chief’s office. His door was open, but the room was empty. I kept walking.

  The sun was down now, but the air was still hot. I was a hundred yards up the hill when I turned around to look behind me. Nobody was following me. At least nobody I could see. I kept walking.

  I heard a car coming up behind me. It slowed down as it came beside me. For one second I was sure it was him, the man without a face, pulling up next to me so he could shoot me or grab me or God knows what else.

  “JT!” a voice said. “Will you stop already?”

  It was Howie, driving an unmarked police vehicle.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “I’ve been yelling at you ever since you left the station.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “What happened? You look terrible.”

  “I don’t even know. I think the BCI guys just arrested and booked me, except without the actual arresting and booking.”

  He let out a string of profanity, reached across the seat, and swung open the passenger’s side door. “Get in here!” he said.

  “They’ll have your badge for this,” I said as I did. “Aiding and abetting a suspected murderer.”

  “You’re funny.” He gunned it as soon as my ass hit the leather.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Okay, tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Well, they searched my apartment, and then—”

  “What? Are you kidding me? Did they have a warrant?”

  “No. They asked me, and I let them.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I knew they wouldn’t find anything. Because I wanted them to eliminate me as a suspect and get to work on finding the real killer.”

  “Okay, JT? Do me a favor. Never say ‘finding the real killer.’ It makes you sound like OJ.”

  “I guess that’s not good.” I looked out the window.

  “Seriously, man. Are you all right? You look like you’re in shock.”

  “I’m fine.” I’m sure I didn’t sound convincing. I didn’t believe it myself.

  “Did they Miranda you?”

  “No. I’m telling you, they never actually accused me of anything.”

  “You realize they may be using the fact that you’re in law enforcement against you.”

  “How so?”

  “They can push the line on reading you your rights,” he said. “Think about it. Who’s gonna believe you didn’t know them when you can recite the whole damned code yourself, word for word?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re doing exactly what they should be doing, and I’m just turning into a paranoid lunatic.”

  “From the beginning,” he said. “Every word they said. Every word you said. Go.”

  I tried to replay the whole conversation for him. First the part about them doing things the right way, doing me a favor even, clearing me completely so everyone would be above reproach. Then the full litany of details, all the little things that seemed to point my way, including the tie and the shoelaces.

  Howie drove while he listened to me. It didn’t take long to get to the gym, so he pulled over on Broadway and kept the car running while I finished my story.

&nb
sp; “Typical BCI,” he said when I was done. “You’ve worked with them before, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, you know how some of the New York State Troopers are real arrogant assholes?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Some, yes. Take one of those guys and cross him with an FBI agent. Now you’ve got a BCI investigator.”

  I let out a short puff of air, as close to a laugh as anybody was going to get from me today.

  “Billy the Kid,” Howie said. “And the Rhino. What a one-two punch.”

  “They call him the Rhino?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No.”

  “Save it for when you really need it. It’ll put him off his game.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Seriously, JT, what are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to keep going through my old cases,” I said. “I’m going to keep my eyes and ears open, see if I can figure out who’s doing this.”

  “You want to get a drink or something? Come on, we’ll go to the Shamrock.”

  “You’ll get in hot water with your chief,” I said. “You don’t need that.”

  “You don’t think I am already? I’m supposed to be meeting with him right now. He’s probably looking all over the building for me.”

  “Why are you pulling second shift these days, anyway?”

  “Why do you think? To keep me away from you-know-who.”

  “You better go, then. Get back to work.”

  “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right?”

  “I’m sure.” I opened the car door and got out. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, JT.”

  I was just about to close the door. “What?”

  “Anything you need. You know that. No matter what.”

  “I know, Howie. I appreciate it.”

  “Go get some sleep.”

  “Good night.”

  I closed the door. I stood there on the sidewalk, watching him swing the car around and head back down the hill. He drove fast, like a cop.

  I looked up at the building, at the tall dark windows. Then I scanned the street, looking at every parked car, at the one man walking past the YMCA, at the group of kids coming out of the Planet Wings. I wondered if I’d ever be able to go anywhere again without looking over my shoulder.

  I went around the side of the building to the back door. It was dark, like on any night, as I stepped out from under the streetlamp and into the little alcove. I had my keys out and was reaching for the old metal door, ready to give it a good yank after turning the key. That’s when the whole world came crashing down on my head.

  I saw bright cartoon stars for a second, as something hit me hard above the left eye. Then a pair of strong hands slipped around my throat. I grabbed for them, my own hands wrapping around a pair of thick wrists. I had no leverage, no way to break his hold on my neck. I tried to dig my fingernails into his flesh, but his grip got even tighter.

  “You,” a low voice said. “You.”

  I kicked at his knees, tried to run the edge of my shoe down his shins. He swung me around and banged the back of my head against the metal door.

  “You. You.”

  I tried to yell out. Help. One word. Help. I had no voice now. No breath at all. He was squeezing the air out of me, the life right out of my body. I raked at his wrists again, took a swing at his head. I couldn’t reach him.

  “You. It was you.”

  I saw his face. It was vaguely familiar to me, a faint bell ringing in the back of my head. A part of me was watching the whole struggle, as if from above, with no panic, no desperation, watching my own body losing its power, my mind losing its consciousness, everything draining away, the lights growing dim.

  No. I won’t go down like this.

  Pull back, pull back. Push him away, just one inch, so I can breathe. Just one breath and the lights will come back on.

  I jerked my head back, felt his grip weakening for one instant. I tried to take a breath, felt his hands tighten again, felt him pulling me close to him, his breath hot in my face now.

  “You. God damn it, it was you.”

  So close to him now. I have an opening. One chance to take my shot. Anderson’s voice in my head. Right there, Joe. Hit him right there, kid. The old liver shot and he’ll fold up like a cheap umbrella.

  Right hand into a fist. Bring the whole body behind it, from the feet up. Turn the shoulder and drive.

  I hit him in the gut, felt my fist go into his soft belly, like reaching right inside him. He made an elephant sound and dropped his hands from my throat. I gasped for air and swung again, hooking an overhand left to his chin. All the times I’d hit a heavy bag or the target mitts that Anderson would hold up for me. One two three, Joe, bang bang bang, just like that, then the big one, boom, only now it was real and I was hitting live flesh and bone, feeling the give in my knuckles as I swung again and again, connecting on most of them, keeping my balance whenever I missed, keeping my weight above my feet the way I’d been taught. I hit him right in the face, three times in a row, solid shots I could feel all the way up through my shoulders, then one more final body shot, so hard I could feel it rippling through his soft gut. He fell back against the door, slid down slowly until he was sitting on the concrete.

  I went halfway down myself, stayed bent over for a long time, flexing my hands and sucking in the night air. My lungs were burning. When I finally looked over at him again, he was crying softly, hardly making a sound.

  This isn’t the man, I thought. This is not the man I chased, not the man who outran me. This guy is at least fifty pounds overweight. I could run circles around him.

  “Who are you?” I said, rubbing my throat. “Tell me your name.”

  The tears kept running down his face. His body was shaking.

  “She’s dead,” he said. “Sandy’s dead and you’re still walking around a free man.”

  “Sandy,” I said. Then I remembered where I had seen him before. This was Sandra Barron’s husband, the man whose door I had knocked on that day, the man who watched me give one of my cards to his wife.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he said. “I’m going to strangle you to death just like you did to Sandy. If it’s the last thing I do, I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

  “I didn’t do it. Listen to me. I didn’t kill your wife.”

  “Yes, you did. I know you did.”

  “I swear to you, Mr. Barron. It wasn’t me.”

  “She came here to see you. I know she did. You tried to take her away from me.”

  “No. Mr. Barron—”

  “But you couldn’t hold on to her, could you … She came back to me. Like I knew she would. So you killed her.”

  “No.”

  “I told the police all about you,” he said. “I told them, God damn it. Why aren’t you locked up yet? Why are you still walking around after what you did?”

  “I don’t know how to convince you,” I said. “I didn’t kill your wife, but I’m going to find out who did, okay?”

  He shook his head. He started to cry again. I had no idea where he would have ranked on the abusive husband scale when his wife was alive, but as a grieving widower he was sure as hell hitting his marks.

  “Just get out of here,” I said. “Go home.”

  “I’ll be back. I promise you.”

  I watched him pick himself up off the ground, one unsteady leg after the other until he was standing again.

  “I’ll be watching you, Trumbull. You can count on it.”

  “I hate to tell you,” I said, “but you’ll have to get in line for that.”

  He winced with every step, moving like a man of a hundred. I let him pass me, keeping a few feet between us just in case he had any more ideas.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. I couldn’t help saying it.

  He stopped. For a moment I thought we were going to start all over again, but then he k
ept walking. I watched him until he turned the corner, then I found my keys on the ground. I unlocked the door, went in, and made my way up the back steps, already wondering how bad I’d feel the next day.

  I turned on the light in my apartment, blinking at the sudden glare. Ice, I said to myself. Ice and aspirin.

  I went to the refrigerator and emptied out a tray of ice cubes into my last clean dish towel. I pressed it to my forehead, above my left eye.

  “Hell of a day,” I said to Laurel’s picture. I looked at her face. I wanted to reach into the photograph and touch her.

  That’s when it came back to me. The night I was standing on the other side of the room, my back to this picture, like she was really there watching me, like I had something to hide from her. What I had done with the other woman that night…

  Over here, I thought. I went to the window, where the row of shelves ended. This spot right here, where the metal bracket sticks out. My back is turned to Laurel and I’m taking the tie from around my neck, draping it over the bracket, hardly even thinking about it, my mind elsewhere, wondering if I had done the right thing that night, if Laurel was watching me from somewhere, and if she was, if she was beyond jealousy and betrayal and heartache.

  Standing right here, putting that tie right up here, like so. My red tie.

  I put down the ice. I got on my knees, looked around on the floor, looked under the bottom row of CDs, where the tie might be hiding, kicked down there in a careless moment maybe. I started taking the CDs off the shelf, carefully at first, stacking them neatly, growing more frantic as I uncovered nothing but a bare wall and a few dusty cobwebs.

  It’s here somewhere, I said to myself. That tie could not have ended up around Marlene’s neck. It’s here in this room and I have to find it.

  I looked everywhere. I tore the place apart.

  There was no red tie.

  ELEVEN

  Another night passed. A thing more useless to me than ever. Gone were the nights when I’d actually lie down in my bed and sleep, when I’d recharge my batteries and maybe even have a nice dream or two. When Laurel was killed, I spent twenty nights in a row sitting in a chair, a coat or a blanket or whatever else happened to be within reach wrapped around my shoulders, no matter how hot the room was, until the sun came up again. Or walking the dark streets of Kingston, usually finding myself uptown, somehow drawn to the old buildings and more than once to St. Joseph’s Church. On one side of the building there are statues, a whole scene laid out, the Holy Mother appearing to the children at Fatima, with an iron fence around the statues with a timeworn bench for people to kneel on. I’d never seen anyone praying, but then I was usually there at two or three in the morning. I’d lean over with my elbows on the top of the fence and I’d look at Mary, the three children, the two sheep. I wouldn’t know why I was there, but a few nights later I’d be back.