by Ed Gorman
She wore another faded maternity top. This one was a kind of puce color. She’d put on makeup and combed her hair. The gamine face was somber. “He isn’t here, Mr. Conrad.”
I’d hoped to get something helpful from Heather before coming out here. Something that would help make my case when I talked to Bobby—but nothing.
“You know the police are looking for him. And there isn’t any time for this, Gwen. He’s in real trouble. Now let me in.”
“I told you, Mr. Conrad, he isn’t—”
“Gwen, listen. He’s inside and he’s in trouble. I’m trying to put this whole thing together. He can help me and maybe I can help him.”
“Oh, Mr. Conrad . . .”
“Screw it, let him come in.” A male voice, young, despondent.
“You sure, honey?”
“Am I sure? Of course I’m not sure. I’m not sure of a thing right now. But you might as well let him in.” Hard to know which was the dominant tone, the fear or the self-pity.
“He didn’t kill anybody, Mr. Conrad. He really didn’t.”
I followed her into a room that was a coffin of old griefs and old fears, the sort of place the human animal goes to hide out like any other animal that is being chased by yesterday. The room was painted mustard yellow. There was a double bed that appeared to slant from both ends into the middle. The ugly brown bedspread once had merry nubs on it. Most of the nubs were gone. There was a bathroom. The doorknob was missing, so all that remained was a hole. The tiles on the room floor curled upward in places. I couldn’t be sure, but tiny pieces on the floor looked like rat droppings.
Bobby Flaherty sat in the only chair, a beaten armchair with so many stains they looked like part of the design. He was a handsome kid in a sullen way. He wore a black sweatshirt, jeans, and blue running shoes. Gwen closed the door behind me. “You be nice to him, Bobby. He wants to help us.”
Bobby added to the haze of smoke in the room by tamping out another cigarette from the pack on his lap. He dug out a long blue plastic lighter and snicked it into flame. He blew out enough smoke to hide behind. He just watched me, animal-alert, assessing a potential enemy.
“You call the police before you came over here?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you.”
“You be nice,” Gwen snapped. She might have been talking to her snarling dog. “Tell him you appreciate how he’s helped me. You promised you would.”
He laughed but in a tender way. “Honey, I do appreciate it. But I want to make sure he didn’t call the cops. Is that all right?”
“He said he didn’t call the police. And I believe him.”
He stared at me through the blue haze. “All right, I believe him.” Then: “I didn’t kill anybody.”
“All right. But you were seen running from Monica Davies’s room. And there’s a witness who said you’ve had several fistfights with your father.”
“Heather,” he said. “He could really pick ’em.”
The east wall hummed with TV dialogue from the room next door. I sat on the edge of the bed.
“How did your father get back in touch with you?”
“Why?”
“Because your mother is very worried about you. And so is Jim Shapiro and so am I. You’ve got to face this, Bobby. I’m trying real hard to believe you’re innocent, but I have to know what happened, starting with your father coming back into your life.”
“If you don’t tell him, Bobby, I will. You need to let him help us.”
Bobby’s glance met hers. He sighed and looked back at me. “I got adopted out to the Flahertys when I was little, that’s where I picked up the name. I didn’t know anything about my old man until a year ago. He managed to track me down.” The smile was bitter. “He was a con man. Did some time in Joliet for running a scam in Chicago, so he wouldn’t have had much trouble getting through the adoption system and finding out where I lived. He gave them a bullshit story that they went for. He was very good at bullshit.” There was nothing but contempt in his voice for his father. “But I’m probably being hypocritical. I did a little time in county myself. The six longest months of my life. Got drunk and got into a fight and beat the guy up pretty bad. By then the Flahertys didn’t want me around anymore and I couldn’t blame them. I’d been in trouble a lot in school and they just couldn’t deal with me anymore. All the time I was in county I kept thinking of how good they’d been to me and how I’d hurt them. I was a real asshole.”
“But you’re not anymore, honey.”
This smile was warm. “She’s my number-one fan.”
“What did your father say to you when he found you?”
He fired up another cigarette. As a card-carrying liberal I should have whipped out my CD about the dangers of secondhand smoke, especially around pregnant women, but I decided I’d be selfish and push him for more information instead.
“He gave me a line of crap about how sorry he was he’d never contacted me and how he wanted to make it all up to me and how he’d had some rough times—the way he told it, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and he’d made the mistake of hanging around the wrong kind of people and he’d had a bad childhood, all the usual bullshit—and that he wanted to help me make some money so I could get the chance in life that he’d never had. I just sort of watched him—I actually thought it was kind of funny. The way he was trying to work me, I mean. I think he actually thought I believed everything he was saying about wanting to be my old man now and how we’d hang together the rest of our lives.”
“He scared me. There was just something about him.” Gwen had her hands pressed protectively against her stomach as she said this. “And I hated what he got Bobby involved in.”
Bobby’s shrug hinted at my reaction to her words. Bobby was smart. Bobby was tough. Nobody involved him in anything—he involved himself.
“The blackmail?”
“Yeah.”
“His idea was to present you as proof that you were his son with Susan Cooper?”
“Right. We were going to make a lot of money. And the way he figured it, we’d keep on making money as long as she kept running for office.”
“I was totally against it,” Gwen said. “By that time I hated that man. And now look what’s happened.”
“Why did you go to Monica’s room?”
His eyes found his wife’s. “I was going to tell her to forget it. That I didn’t want any part of what she and my old man were up to. I wasn’t getting anywhere with my old man, so I thought I’d try Monica. Gwen really leaned on me about it. She said that she didn’t want to bring our baby into the world this way. When I got there Monica was already dead. I ran and that’s when somebody saw me. And as soon as Mr. Shapiro got me out of jail, I went to my old man’s to tell him the same thing—that I didn’t want my name mixed up in it, that I was going to have a kid now. He didn’t care.”
“How did Larson get involved in this? He said that Monica worked this by herself.”
“I don’t know. He just started showing up and one day we got into it. All I knew was that the money was coming from Natalie. And Monica was handling that. Larson wanted to know all the details.”
“Bobby, do you have any idea who killed Donovan and Monica?”
He ran a rough hand across his face. “No. When that Indian detective was firing questions at me, I kept wishing that I knew a name to give her. But I don’t.”
“You need to turn yourself in, Bobby.”
He glared at Gwen. “I told you that he’d say this.” His gaze on me was no less harsh. “No way, man. We can raise our baby in Mexico. Start a life there.”
“You read much about Mexico lately, Bobby?”
“You mean all the drug gangs? I know how to handle myself. And I know how to stay out of trouble.”
At any other time I would have smiled. The life he’d described as his own had been nothing but trouble, ending in this motel room wanted for two murders.
Gwen said, “I don’t want to move to
Mexico. But I don’t want Bobby to give himself up, either. I might never see him again.” She put her head down and started crying softly. Bobby got up and went over and sat next to her on the bed. He held her and I felt good for both of them. He was troubled and half crazed, but he knew enough to care for the one person in his life whose love was clean and true.
I made an effort to sound gentle. “You can’t run, Bobby. There’s no place to go. And I doubt you have any money.”
Gwen sobbed, “You can’t expect him to turn himself in!”
“Shapiro’s a good lawyer. Running will just make things worse.”
“I won’t let him turn himself in! I’ll never see him again!” Gwen sobbed even louder.
“There’s no other choice right now, none.”
But Bobby’s expression had softened. His gaze was more sorrowful than belligerent. He took her to him and held her close and kissed the top of her head. I hoped that my daughter’s someday man would be this loving. Then he started slowly shaking his head, staring at the wall. He must have realized that I was right. Mexico was a pipe dream. And where would he go if he stayed in the States?
I had my own realization to face. There was no way any of this would stay out of the press for long. Police departments are filled with snitches eager to call reporters. And given Susan’s liberal record, they’d likely be eager to help Duffy. Not all of them, but most of them. I hoped that when the news broke, Duffy would be sensible enough to go out and get drunk for at least a day. I would. As for our campaign, we’d be playing defense right up until the election. If neither Susan nor Natalie had anything to do with the murders, the scandal would settle on her bearing a child she’d put up for adoption in her wild days. In recent years some people had been reelected after being outed as wife beaters, check forgers, hooker lovers. The only thing in our favor was that this was an old story. And being cynical, if we could put Susan and Bobby in a loving interview together, maybe we could get lucky and find sentiment on our side.
Bobby said, “Call Mr. Shapiro, I guess.”
“No!” Gwen cried. She was coming apart and I felt like hell for being a part of it. Then she lay back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.
I slid my cell phone out of my pocket. Bobby held Gwen even tighter. Then she was struggling up and heading to the bathroom. Moments later she began to vomit.
CHAPTER 19
When the police station came into view, Bobby made a grunting sound as if he’d been punched in the belly. “This might be the last day I ever spend outside of jail. Maybe Gwennie’s right.”
“I don’t believe that.” The day had turned cold and windy; the light rental rocked as wind gripped it. We had stashed Gwen in a nice warm hotel room.
“Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean to me? You’re in this because of some stupid political campaign. I’m in this for my life.”
I pulled into the parking lot and shut down the motor. I sat there silent for a long moment, then said, “Bobby, I’ll tell you what. You think I don’t want to help you and Gwen, how about this? You open that door and start running. I’ll give you two hours before I let the police know about any of this. How’s that sound?”
He fell back against the seat. He was still strapped in. His eyes closed. From what I could tell, a sob had caught in his throat. “I should never have listened to my old man. I suppose I did because I’m just like him.”
“No, you’re not. That’s bullshit and you know it. The way you treat Gwen, the way you love her—from what I know of your old man, that wasn’t him at all. And you backed out. You told him that and you went to see Monica to tell her that.” I hesitated to say this because I wasn’t sure it was true. “You take after your mother.”
He didn’t speak for a time. He brought his head up and stared out the side window. A few cars passed, their exhaust silver ghosts in the daylight. A black-and-white squad car pulled into the lot and went on past us to the back of the station where a number of other black-and-whites were parked. Wind came then and grasped the rental from below and rocked it back and forth like a boat. In the glass, Bobby was wiping his tears with his fingers and taking deep breaths. “You trust that detective?” He was back to looking at me again.
“Kapoor? Yeah. For a cop, I mean. She’s got her job to do and we’ve got ours. She’ll try and nail you and we’ll try to show her that she’s wrong. Jim Shapiro knows what he’s doing.”
“I get the feeling you do, too.”
“Well, maybe. I hope so. If this thing isn’t going our way by tomorrow afternoon, I’m sending for a private detective we work with in Chicago. He’s relentless.”
A second black-and-white swept in and headed for the rear of the building.
“I really want to open this door and just start running.”
“I know you do.”
“And you wouldn’t stop me?”
“No.”
“Poor Gwennie.”
“Think of what you running would do to her, Bobby. She doesn’t want to think of you in jail, but think of the nightmares she’d have if you were on the run. Not knowing where you were, how you were surviving. Always worried that you’d draw a bad cop some night and he’d kill you just for sport. Think of that, Bobby. Think of what it’d do to your wife and what it’d do to your baby.”
He opened the door and angled around in the seat as if he were going to get out. Then he just sat there. The wind rocked the car again. The cold chased all the heat out of the rental.
He got out then and just stood there, gaping around as if he’d awakened in a new realm. Then he ducked his head back in and said, “C’mon. We might as well get this bullshit over with.” Then: “Think you could pick me up a couple packs of smokes and drop them off? I’ve only got about five or six left in this pack. Generics’d be fine.”
“What kind do you like when you can afford them?”
“Regular Winstons, I guess.”
“I’ll get you a couple of those.”
He nodded and withdrew his head.
A quick minute later we were walking through the front doors of the police station.
It was the day of weeping women.
We passed three young black men watching us suspiciously just inside the doors as we walked up to the information counter. Behind us we heard sobbing. In the corner where I’d waited this morning a young black woman was trying to comfort a sobbing middle-aged woman I guessed was her mother. They both wore Bears jackets and jeans. Large cheap purses squatted on the floor next to them like waiting pets. Her sobs were so sharp I felt them physically. Helpless proximity to suffering is a form of suffering itself.
“May I help you?” This was a female cop in a light-blue uniform shirt. She was built like a wrestler and had a voice to match.
“I’d like to talk to a detective. Preferably Detective Kapoor.”
“What’s this about, sir?”
“I’d rather discuss that with the detective.”
“Well, Kapoor—she’s in court right now.”
“Well, then, whatever detective’s on duty, I guess.”
“And your name?”
“Dev Conrad.”
“And yours?” Her eyes met Bobby’s.
He mumbled, “Bobby Flaherty.”
The hard blue eyes bloomed with recognition. “You go sit down over there. I’ll have a detective out here right away.”
We went to the waiting area and sat down. The older woman had quit crying and had now folded her hands in her lap. Her lips told me she was making a silent prayer. She was worn beyond her years, sweat sheening her dark skin. It wasn’t hot in here. The sweat came from panic and terror. I’d caught just enough of her conversation to recognize that one of her children was in one of the interrogation rooms and that he was in the kind of trouble that would send him away for long years that only his mother would worry about.
Bobby closed his eyes and set his head against the wall. His sighs came out as daggers. His jaw muscles were busy and his
shoes danced in time to music only he could hear.
The detective who appeared resembled the broker my firm used. I put his age at late thirties. He wore a good blue suit, a quiet blue-on-blue tie, his thinning hair was cut military-school short, and he proffered a smile that said he was happy to meet us, even though “us” included a young man who just might have popped two people.
“My name’s Detective Brian Courtney. Why don’t we take a walk down the hall over here and I’ll hunt up some coffee for us.”
The officer at the information desk watched Bobby with her upper lip curled up. She was probably around fifty and hadn’t yet acclimated herself to the public-relations approach cops took these days, at least when there were witnesses around.
Courtney put us in a small beige room with five folding chairs and a five-foot-long folding table. We were being videotaped—standard operating procedure. “I’ll get us that coffee.”
Courtney came back with three paper cups of vending-machine coffee. He did this while opening and closing the doors. When he set them down, he said, “It tastes like shit, but hey, it’s warm, right?” Then he did Police 101. “Bobby, let’s get the basic facts down fast, and then we can go back for the details.”
“What facts?” Bobby snapped.
“Basically, how you killed them—the Davies woman and your father.”
Bobby lurched from his chair. I was sitting next to him and grabbed his arm and forced him to sit back down.
“We didn’t come here to confess,” I said. “Bobby didn’t have anything to do with those murders. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. All we’re doing is honoring the warrant. And in a few minutes Jim Shapiro will be here, and I don’t plan to say anything else about the case until he’s here.”
“Jim Shapiro. Must be nice to have the kind of money it takes to hire him.”
“He says it’s pro bono. He believes, as do I, that Bobby didn’t have anything to do with the crimes.”
“Pro bono. Jim must have bought his allotment of classic MGs for this year. He collects them, you know.”
