by S. J. Rozan
The “later” I had promised Brinkman happened in the outpatient department of the hospital in Cobleskill. Lydia was in a room upstairs. Brinkman had been right: she had a concussion, not serious. Prognosis excellent. I’d waited until they could tell me that before I let them take me down the hall and put four stitches next to my left eye. I lay now on a bed in a curtained-off stall in Outpatient because, although they’d made a room ready for me upstairs too, I had refused to be admitted. The doctor who’d sewn me up, a round man named Mazzeo, popped in every ten minutes to tell me a man in my condition couldn’t leave the hospital.
“You can’t drive,” he pointed out, a pudgy finger smoothing his thick mustache. “You probably can’t even see straight. You have a headache to beat the band, am I right? And your hands won’t be much good for hours.”
I flexed my swollen fingers. The numbness was receding slowly, leaving the billion pinpricks of returning circulation behind. My wrists were bruised, red and purple under the icepacks that wrapped them.
“No,” I said. “I’m leaving.” I didn’t try for anything else. I knew that I couldn’t argue with him, but I also knew I wasn’t staying. Everything here was sharp and bright, and outside the curtain I could hear voices and footsteps and the sounds of endless activity. There was no peace here, no darkness, no silence. No music. I couldn’t stay.
Immediately after the third or fourth of Dr. Mazzeo’s disapproving visits the curtains parted again and Brinkman stood smiling and very tall next to the bed. “Shit,” he said, took his hat off. “I brought in four corpses today, Smith, and they all looked better than you do.”
“Go to hell.”
“Christ! For a man whose life I saved, you’re an ornery son of a bitch.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I always was.” I paused, went on, “But I owe you for that, Brinkman. And for Lydia and Jimmy.”
“So pay up, city boy. What the hell’s going on around here, and how come I shouldn’t lock you up, you and Jimmy and that china doll of yours?” He dropped his hat on the bed, pulled a stool close.
I turned my pounding head carefully, groped with thick fingers for the button that would raise the bed. Brinkman vertical and me horizontal was bad odds to start with.
I tilted the bed as upright as it would go, and then I asked Brinkman to find me some water. By the time he got back I’d found a way to tell it, very close to the truth.
“Ginny Sanderson,” I said, after a drink.
“Snotty little bitch,” he drawled. “What about her?”
That jolted me; but then I realized he didn’t know.
“She’s dead, Brinkman. Grice killed her.”
Nothing moved but his eyes. They narrowed into slits. “The hell you say.”
I drank more water, spoke slowly. “She wanted to be part of Grice’s in-crowd. But Grice wasn’t having any. She thought it was her, so she tried harder. She took up with Jimmy; she robbed a house.”
“Robbed what house?” Brinkman interrupted.
“Eve Colgate’s.”
“Miss Colgate didn’t report that.”
“No,” I said. “She called me instead.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Some people aren’t crazy about cops.”
“Smith—”
“Oh, Christ, Brinkman, will you shut up and let me finish? Let me get through this, then you can arrest me or shoot me or whatever the fuck you want.”
His face darkened, and I wondered briefly whether it was beyond him to beat up a man lying in a hospital bed. Maybe I’d get to find out.
Meanwhile, I went on. “I traced the burglary to Ginny pretty easily. She denied it, but sooner or later she’d have come across. But there was a wrinkle: some of the stuff she’d stolen was really valuable. She thought Grice would be impressed with that, so she showed him. He wasn’t.”
Brinkman asked through gritted teeth, “Why not?”
“Well, he was, but it was hard stuff to fence. And Grice had a sweetheart deal going with her father. He didn’t want to blow that by getting caught fooling around with her.”
“Grice? You’re telling me Frank Grice was making deals with Mark Sanderson?”
“Uh-huh. Based on blackmail, I think.”
“Blackmail over what?”
“The murder of Lena Sanderson.”
“The what? Jesus, city boy, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“When Lena disappeared,” I said, “Sanderson called the cops, it’s true; but it would’ve looked too odd if he hadn’t. But he didn’t hire anyone to look privately, after you guys turned up nothing. Okay, so maybe he figured good riddance. But he also didn’t cancel her credit cards. He didn’t close bank accounts she had access to. He never filed for a legal separation. He didn’t make any effort to protect himself from her. All I can figure is he knew he didn’t have to.”
“You’re saying—”
“I think Sanderson killed her. Either that, or he hired Grice to do it; but my money’s on him. In anger; probably by accident. She played around one too many times; the whole county was full of it, from what I hear, but it took him forever to catch on.
“Then I’ll bet he lost his nerve. He called Grice. They knew each other: Grice did muscle work for Sanderson. So Sanderson calls. I’ve got this body in my living room, get rid of it. No problem, Grice gets rid of it. And suddenly Grice is a big shot. He’s running the county. Sanderson buys him a cop, Sanderson buys him information, and he and Sanderson go into business together.”
Brinkman’s eyes were hard, his mouth tight with anger. I thought he was going to tell me to shove my theories, but when he spoke, it was to ask, “What business?”
“Appleseed Holdings.” I told him about that.
Brinkman sat silent for a while when I was through, then stood abruptly. “City boy,” he said, “the Sandersons fought under George Washington. When that war was over they came up here and settled this county. My county, Smith. Now you want me to believe Mark Sanderson murdered his wife and bends over for Frank Grice?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, city boy. I don’t know.”
“I don’t give a shit what you believe, Brinkman. I’m telling you what happened. A real cop would check it out.”
“A—” His hand curled into a fist, but he said, “Ginny. You’re so fucking smart, what about Ginny?”
I told him about Ginny, Wally Gould, Frank Grice. He asked what it was Ginny had stolen that was so valuable, and I told him the only lie I had for him: “I don’t know.”
After a long silence, he asked, “Where are they?”
It took me a moment; then I caught on. “The bodies? I’ll bet you’ll find them if you drag the quarry.”
Brinkman looked at me long and hard, his small eyes like a cold, close weight, stones on my chest. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll check it out. Otis Huttner’s still alive; I’ll see what he has to say. And I’ll drag the quarry. And you’d better be right, Smith. You’d better be right, or you’re fucked.”
He turned and strode out, the curtain closing behind him.
I was right, I knew I was. The part about Lena Sanderson was theory, but it fit too well to be wrong. I thought about Mark Sanderson, what it would be like for him when Brinkman faced him with the two bodies in the quarry, the one he knew about and the one he didn’t.
I was grateful for the emptiness of the room after Brinkman was gone. I’d worked hard to give him what he’d needed to know, but to hold back the one part I’d told no one. I hadn’t been sure I could do it. In the end I had, but the exhaustion I felt now, alone in the curtained alcove, was in my nerves, my muscles, and bones, a tiredness so deep I was, finally, unable to move.
I lay back, my eyes closed, prepared to surrender whenever Dr. Mazzeo bustled back in. I slept for a while; then I heard the metallic slide of the curtain rings. I opened my eyes to see Eve Colgate pulling the curtain shut.
I reached out my hand. She took it, smiling slightly. “Well,” she said, “you do
n’t look as bad as Al Mazzeo said you did.”
“I don’t feel as bad as he says I do.”
“How do you feel?”
“Battered.” A thought hit me. “Jesus, you’ve been here all day, haven’t you?”
She nodded. “I was stranded. Lydia was supposed to call me. I waited until afternoon. When I hadn’t heard from her, I called the state troopers. Was it they who found you?”
“Sort of,” I said. That must have been why MacGregor had reached the quarry so fast after Jimmy’s call came over the CB. He’d been on his way to Franklinton, to the green house. He’d known right where to head for when Eve told him Lydia and I had gone off radar.
“How’s Tony?” I asked Eve.
“Improving. He was awake for a while. He asked for you. He’s anxious to talk to you. But he doesn’t know who shot him.”
“Arnold Shea,” I said. “He’s dead.”
“Bill, what’s going on? What happened to Lydia? The sheriff’s men won’t tell me anything.”
“Lydia’ll be okay. A concussion, not serious. And it’s all over, Eve.”
“What do you mean, over? What happened? What’s happening?”
“You’re safe. You always were; you weren’t the target. I’ll tell you about it. And I think I know where your paintings are.”
She was speechless for a moment, her clear eyes widening. “Do you?” she asked. “Do you?”
“I think so. If I’m right, I’ll get them in the morning.”
“Where? Who has them?”
“I don’t want to tell you, in case I’m wrong.” I wasn’t wrong, but the whole story was something I hoped she would never know. “But Eve, I need a favor.”
“What do you need?”
“A ride. The doctor wants me to stay here. I want to leave. But he says I can’t drive yet and I know that’s right.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Yes.”
Another hesitation, then an ironic smile. “All right. But what am I supposed to use for a car?”
“Oh,” I said. “A car.” I thought. “Mine’s at the Appleseed plant. Lydia’s is at Grice’s condo.”
“Yours is closer. I’ll call a cab.”
“Is the cab company still open?”
“They’re open until eight. It’s only four-thirty.”
“Four-thirty? Jesus.”
I’d thought midnight, at least.
When Eve was gone I got gingerly out of bed. I dressed, moving very carefully. At first I was light-headed, clutching the door frame for support until a wave of dizziness passed, but I was feeling more solid by the time I got to the admissions desk to check out. After I did that I asked for Lydia’s room number, bought myself a cup of coffee, and rode the elevator to the second floor.
In Lydia’s room the lights were out, leaving the room to settle softly into the purple dusk. I stood silently by the bed, sipped my coffee, watched the bedclothes rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of Lydia’s breathing. The white bandage around her head made her features look delicate, her face small and vulnerable. She’d hate to know I was even thinking that.
When my coffee was almost gone Lydia’s eyelids fluttered, opened, closed again.
“Bill?” Her voice was faint.
“I’m here.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Now go to hell.”
“Lydia—”
“Passwords, for God’s sake.” I leaned to hear her better. “‘It’s only a game.’ I almost broke my neck climbing down that cliff. You smell like a brewery.”
“Distillery.”
“Go to hell,” she whispered again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, you’re not. You’re standing there thinking how very clever you are, how you managed to save everybody after all.”
Not everybody, I thought. In the twilight I saw MacGregor’s ashen face.
I stood silent, not knowing what to say. She was silent too, and for a while I thought she was asleep. Then, her eyes still closed, she slipped her hand from beneath the blanket, found mine. I closed my tingling fingers around her small, soft ones.
“Bill?”
“It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
The sky outside the window faded slowly to black. I stood holding Lydia’s hand until the soft rhythm of her breathing told me she was asleep again, and for a long time after that.
When I left Lydia I took the elevator again, this time to the third floor, to Tony’s room. In here the lights were on, but Tony was asleep, his face pale and, even in sleep, reflecting pain.
Suddenly deeply weary, I pulled a chair next to the bed, leaned forward in it. I spoke Tony’s name once, twice. His lips moved, without sound; then his eyelids rose slowly. He looked blankly around. “Tony,” I said again. With an effort, his eyes found mine.
“Smith.” His whisper was almost inaudible.
“Don’t talk,” I said. “Just listen. I came to tell you it’s over. Jimmy didn’t kill anyone, Tony. Ginny Sanderson— the little blond girl—Ginny Sanderson killed Wally Gould and Frank Grice killed Ginny Sanderson. Tony, do you understand what I’m saying?”
He moved his head minutely, a nod. “Blood,” he whispered. Pain shadowed his face. “All over everything.”
“Uh-huh. But Jimmy wasn’t involved in any of it. Any of it, Tony. He ran because he was scared. He didn’t have the keys and he didn’t have the truck. Do you understand?”
“The truck,” he whispered. “I was followin’ the truck.”
“I know, Tony. Don’t talk, don’t tell me. All right? What Frank told you about Jimmy—he told you about Eve’s burglary, right? That night at the bar? He said Jimmy did that, that he could prove it, he could get Jimmy sent away for a long time? It wasn’t true.
“Jimmy told you he was going straight. That was true. He’s clean, Tony. He had nothing to do with the burglary, he had nothing to do with the murders. Tony, don’t talk,” I said again, as he tried to speak. His mouth closed; he watched me.
“Grice is dead. Jimmy messed things up a little trying to protect Ginny Sanderson, but it probably would’ve come out the same anyway. He saved my life, Tony, just like you did.
“Those bullets you took, they were meant for me. From one of Grice’s boys.” I stood. “That’s what I came to say, Tony.”
“Smith—”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it. Rest. You need to rest, Tony. You’ll be all right, but it’ll take time.” We looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Then I said, “I’ll see you, Tony,” and I left.
Eve Colgate was waiting in the lobby when I got downstairs, but so was Brinkman.
“I got to talk to you, city boy.”
“Jesus, Brinkman, can it wait until tomorrow? I’m a wreck.”
“No. Now.”
Eve put her hand on my arm. “I’ll wait outside. I’m tired of this place.” She turned to Brinkman. “I’d appreciate it if you kept it short, Sheriff.” She walked out the smoky glass doors.
Brinkman watched her go. “‘I’d appreciate it . . .’ Shit.”
“What the hell do you want, Brinkman?” I sat, exhausted.
“I’ve been talking to Otis Huttner. He’s going to live. He’s not even hurt bad.”
“Great. Can I go now?”
“He says everything you said is true, except he claims he didn’t know a goddamn thing about Lena until after it was over.”
“Uh-huh, sure. And?”
“And he says the cop Sanderson bought Grice was Ron MacGregor.”
I rubbed my eyes. Flashes of red and yellow played behind my lids.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that, Smith?”
I thought of saying I didn’t know, but I had nothing left for that kind of show. And there was something more important, so I said that instead. “Brinkman, does it have to come out?”
“What
the hell are you talking about? I’d’ve had Grice years ago, except for that bastard! I don’t—”
“Brinkman, look. Grice is dead. MacGregor’s dead. Any organization Grice built you’ll be able to take apart pretty easily now, and it probably doesn’t amount to much anyhow.
“But I don’t think you’re going to get much else out of this. You might get Sanderson for the murder of his wife, but you’ll have to drain the quarry pit to find her, and I don’t think you’ll have enough to go to court on, even if you do that.
“So pretty much it’s over. You’ll give press interviews and get reelected. The DA and NYSEG and the Feds, and whoever else wants to, will start investigations into Appleseed Holdings. Sanderson’s pet politicians will suddenly lose his phone number. He’ll be nobody in this county anymore, but he won’t go to jail.
“And Ron MacGregor will get buried, but as a hero, Brinkman. That’s what his family thinks. That’s what everybody thinks. What the hell good is it going to do anybody, if the truth comes out?”
Brinkman’s small eyes fixed on me for a long time. “You’re just so goddamn smart, aren’t you, city boy? You can just tell what’s good for everybody, and how everything oughta work.”
“No,” I said, standing. “If I were smart, I could make things come out the way they should, instead of being left behind to clean up the mess.”
I turned away from him, followed Eve Colgate out the gray glass doors.
In the car I told Eve the story from the beginning. I told her more than I’d told Brinkman, because the paintings were hers; but the part I’d kept from him I kept from her also.
I found myself telling her about MacGregor, though, which was something else I had decided not to talk about. But I needed to talk about it.
“I didn’t catch on.” I said. “At first he just told me to keep out of his way. He was a cop; that’s standard. And he started asking me why I thought Brinkman, with such a grudge on, hadn’t been able to get at Grice. I wondered why he was asking me. But he was fishing, looking to see if I’d figured out Grice had protection. And I had, but I wasn’t smart enough to see where it was coming from.
