Over the years, nothing much has changed. The streets still smell of men and ham and cheese left to age; of truck exhaust and rotting vegetables; of animal fat and flatcar timber and smoke from thick black cigars.
To this day, there’s a triangle of memory in my mind: my mother’s death, the yards, and, just beyond Penn, the PAL gym that was old when my dad first took me there thirty years ago.
It was a black-bricked hulk in a forgotten alley of a forgotten street. Fight posters of heavy-jawed Italians and Poles posing menacingly for the camera hung like dry, cracked adhesive tape, shredded and stained by age.
Inside, likewise, nothing much had changed. I stood there now in training sweats they keep here for me, blinking salt water out of my eyes as I worked the ceiling bag. Needing to hit something. Anything. To hear the percussive slap of fist against leather, echoing.
After what happened with Casey, I couldn’t go home to an empty house. I felt jangly, upended.
I mean, what the hell had happened? And what was I doing about it? What didn’t I know about her, and why didn’t it bother me more? There were a hundred questions I should be asking myself and I wasn’t asking them.
Maybe because I didn’t want to know the answers.
Whatever message she was sending, I refused to decode it. To assess or interpret. All the usual therapist’s defenses against merely reacting.
I touched the side of my face, still slick from her. Mixed now with my own sweat. Insane, this wanting of her. Against my every instinct. Despite—
To hell with understanding her, I thought; I didn’t understand me.
***
Outside, the rain must’ve been coming in gusts. I was vaguely conscious of its staccato drumming on the roof, like thrown handfuls of pebbles.
The gym was nearly deserted, except for an old-timer playing Solitaire by the door and the bored young cop that Biegler had assigned to me. With the case growing cold, and the pressure from the top mounting, the police figured Polk had better things to do than baby-sit me.
My bodyguard, a guy named Schotz, lounged against the wall. He was young, with steroid-pumped arms that stretched the dark fabric of his uniform. He was typical Pittsburgh: stolid, unambivalent, third generation at the job.
He pretended boredom as he watched me pepper the bag repeatedly with angry right-hand jabs.
“Not bad.” A grudging comment. “How’s your left?”
“Reliable.” Macho bullshit for the benefit of the kid.
He grunted. After leaving the station, it hadn’t been hard to talk Schotz into detouring here for a couple hours. Until he saw the place. No state-of-the-art equipment. No music. No babes.
I finished my work-out and nodded toward the locker room.
“Shower, okay?” I said. “Ten minutes.”
Schotz shrugged. “Just don’t get killed.”
A phone rang, and I glanced over at the front desk. But it was Schotz’ cell. He answered it, then took a few steps away and held it furtively to his ear.
***
I came out of the locker room wearing the same clothes I’d had on all day, now damp from my shower.
Officer Schotz had moved again, this time lounging against the front door. As I neared, he pushed off, sullen.
“Hey.” His voice was all cop.
He put a hand on my arm, stopping me. Just then, Harry Polk pushed the door open behind him, his face dark as grain leather. Before I could say a word, his thick hands were on my shoulders, turning me.
“Jesus, Harry!—”
I felt the sharp snap of handcuffs on my wrists.
I craned my neck around. “What the hell—?”
“Daniel Rinaldi, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dr. Brooks Riley. You have the right—”
“What? Brooks?..”
Polk pulled me toward him, eyes like marble chips. “They found him in his office at the clinic a couple hours ago. With two nasty slugs in his heart.”
Chapter Twenty-six
For the next couple hours, I was the prime suspect in the murder of Brooks Riley.
The facts were these: Earlier that day, after the patients were secured following the incident in the yard, Bert Garman called an emergency meeting of all clinic personnel. Riley never showed up, nor did he answer at his extension.
That’s when Nancy Mendors offered to see if he was still in his office. She found the door closed, but unlocked. She knocked twice, got no answer, and went in.
Brooks Riley was sitting in his chair, wearing a look of surprise, or maybe just a final annoyance. Thick blood was congealing on his chest like red sealing wax, darkening at the edges.
Nancy’s screams brought a nearby orderly on the run, followed by Garman and the rest of the staff. Investigators reported later that nothing in the office seemed to have been disturbed. The metal cabinet holding patient files, though flecked with blood, was securely locked.
By five o’clock, after a quick review of witness statements from the scene, Lt. Biegler had ordered Harry Polk to arrest me.
I got all of this from Polk himself as we rode back to the Old County Building. We parked under the station. Then he brought me upstairs and into the same interrogation room that had hosted Arnie Flodine only a few hours before. Biegler was waiting for me, arms folded, glowering.
Polk unlocked my handcuffs and pulled out a chair. We sat across from each other like chess opponents, shoulders hunched, wary and hostile. There was no window, but I could sense that beyond these walls another night had fallen.
“Sure you don’t wanna call your lawyer?” Polk said.
“Not yet,” I said. “Though he could probably use a laugh.”
“You think this is funny?” Biegler’s brow narrowed.
“No, I think it’s bullshit. I didn’t kill Brooks Riley. For one thing, I couldn’t have.”
“Like hell,” Polk said. “The ME figures Riley got clipped sometime between noon and four this afternoon. I know for a fact that you were on the premises at Ten Oaks, ’cause I was there with you.”
“That’s right, Harry. You’re my alibi. Then, after the riot in the yard, I was with Nancy Mendors, until you showed up again to tell me they’d arrested the killer. So when the hell did I shoot Riley?”
“During the riot,” Biegler said. “Sgt. Polk tells me you and he got separated in all the confusion.”
Polk’s head bobbed. “I lost sight of you for at least ten minutes. Plenty of time for you to slip out of the crowd, shoot Riley in his office, and come back out to the yard.”
I stared at him. “By that same logic, you could be the killer. I lost sight of you during those same ten minutes.”
“Problem with that,” Biegler said, “is that you got a motive. Dr. Riley threatened to sue you in front of witnesses. Dr. Bert Garman and his wife Elaine. Riley swore he’d destroy you. Ruin your life.”
“Plus we got Garman admitting that you punched the guy out the night before,” Polk said. “I saw what you did to Riley’s jaw, remember? At the clinic.”
“So he threatened to sue me. That doesn’t mean I killed him.” I leaned back. “C’mon, guys, make up your minds. First, you say I’m the intended victim of a murder. Now you say I’m a murderer. Which is it?”
Biegler leaned in, bristling. “Don’t fuck with me, okay? I still like you for the Kevin Wingfield killing.”
I pushed down my own anger, focused on Polk. “Come on, Harry, you know this is crap.”
“Maybe. But look what we got: you and Brooks Riley hated each other, personally and professionally. Then today, another angry exchange between you two. So when the patients go ballistic, you see your chance to sneak away and do Riley. Problem solved.”
“Nice story,” I said. “But where did I get the gun to shoot him? And where is it now?”
Biegler was smug. “CSU’s scouring the clinic and grounds as we speak. We’ll find the damn gun, guaranteed.”
I took a breath. “Look, anybody at Ten Oaks could’ve used the
riot for cover and killed Riley.”
“But only you had a motive.”
“That you know of,” I insisted. “Believe me, Riley was not a well-liked guy.”
Polk snorted. “Well, he got one hell of an attitude adjustment this afternoon.”
“Besides, about this so-called riot. Like I told Polk, that kind of thing is just not typical patient behavior. Isn’t it strange that such a golden opportunity would suddenly present itself? Unless the fight between the two female patients was staged—”
“No shit?” Polk laughed. “Believe it or not, us dumb cops managed to come up with that same theory ourselves. My partner’s over there now, questioning the two broads.”
“That’s my point. If somebody did arrange for those girls to cause a diversion, it would have to be someone on the inside. At Ten Oaks, I mean.”
Biegler shrugged. “You go there once a week for professional consults, don’t you? You’ve still got visiting privileges. That’s inside enough for me.”
Suddenly, the door swung open and Casey Walters strode in, face flushed with anger. In her hand was a cell phone.
“Counselor.” Biegler gave her a curt nod. “Just in time to file the papers.”
She just glared, pointing the phone at him like a gun. “It’s for you.”
Biegler blinked in confusion and instinctively back-stepped. Casey moved closer, voice hard as flint.
“As soon as I heard about this shit,” she said, “I got a hold of Sinclair.”
“Hey, you can’t—” But he bit off his words, staring nervously now at the phone as if it were actually loaded.
“Go ahead,” she pressed him, “the DA’s waiting to hear why you’ve arrested a guy we’ve had in protective custody for the past two days. Who, by the way, consults for the department and has a fucking cop for an alibi.”
Biegler swallowed hard and took the phone from her hand. “Lt. Biegler here.” He moved stiffly to a far corner of the room.
Casey swung around and looked at me for the first time. “Hi ya, Danny. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”
I got to my feet. “Works for me.”
“Hey—!” Polk protested, rising out of his chair.
“Look, Harry,” I said angrily, “either book me now, in which case I’m calling a lawyer, or I’m walking.”
Polk looked helplessly at Biegler, who stood with the cell phone glued to his ear. The lieutenant just waved impatiently in our general direction.
Casey touched my elbow. “Let’s go.”
But I wasn’t finished. I moved around the table to face Polk.
“One more thing,” I said. “When he gets off the phone, tell your boss I’m refusing police protection, as of now. Truth is, getting busted for Riley’s murder has kinda taken all the fun out of it. Besides, if Schotz is the best you can do, I’ll take my chances going solo.”
Polk growled. “Hell, you can’t just—”
“Actually, I can.” I turned to Casey. “Now we can go.”
“You sure about this? I mean, Sinclair’s not gonna like—”
“It’s my life, Casey. It’s time I took it back.”
Our eyes locked. After a long moment, she nodded.
Biegler was still on the phone as I followed her out of the Box, feeling the heat of Polk’s stare on my back.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The night was dark and the skies were finally exhausted of rain. The city stood drenched, dripping from every rooftop and cornice, brooding in the gloom.
“Rain stopped,” Casey had said when we first stepped outside. “Maybe it’s a good omen.”
We were walking toward her car in the lot. The rain-slicked street was deserted, and our footsteps echoed hollowly from the pavement.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
Casey frowned. “Biegler’s such a shit. He waited till Sinclair had left the building before ordering your arrest. Luckily I caught Lee between meetings at his office. He’s probably still tearing Biegler a new one.”
“I didn’t know Sinclair was such a fan of mine.”
“He isn’t. He’s just not stupid. Biegler’s so anxious to make this all go away, he jumped the gun.”
“Well, in his defense, Riley’s murder is pretty damn strange. I mean, there’s no reason to assume his death and Kevin’s are connected, but if not, it’s a helluva coincidence.”
She didn’t answer. I looked over to see her head tilted down, eyes scanning the pavement.
I waited.
“Look,” she said at last, “I’m not going to apologize for my behavior earlier. I’m not proud of it, but I won’t apologize, so if that’s what you need from me—”
“Let it go, okay?”
She glanced up finally, the doubt in her eyes as stinging as a reproach.
“You shrinks call it ‘acting out,’ don’t you? Or just ‘inappropriate.’ There’s one of my favorite bullshit words.”
We’d reached the precinct parking lot, ablaze with light from the overhead lamps. Casey showed her ID to the middle-aged cop half-dozing in the entrance kiosk, who waved us in.
We walked in silence to her parked car.
“Do me a favor, will ya?” she said. “Get in.”
She slid behind the wheel, then waited as I came around and got in on the passenger side.
Her face was beautiful in the pale light, but somber and still, like a cameo. Her look at me was intense, yet guarded.
I took a guess. “You’re wondering if you can tell me something. Whether you can trust me.”
“Yes.” Her voice was flat.
“Look, I understand. You don’t really know me.”
“I know enough. We have a lot in common. Loners, I think. Survivors.”
She tilted up her chin so that her gaze seemed to soften. A cotton-thick warmth grew inside the car.
“I guess I hope…” Her voice trailed off.
I leaned across the car seat. My hand found hers.
“What?” I said quietly. “You hope…?”
She gently pulled her hand out from under mine. A brief, sad smile lit her face, and then was gone.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long day. Longer than most. The garbage I see, the way people live their lives. Like Paula Stark. Remember that case I was arguing with Polk about? We had to cut her loose. Not enough evidence. But, Christ…she’s got no job, an alcohol problem, a four-year-old whose father could be anywhere. She’s probably in some shit-hole right now, blowing some stranger for rent money, while her kid waits in the next room. I mean it, sometimes I hate this goddam job.”
She looked out through her smudged side window. “And I am sorry about this afternoon. I felt judged by you and it pissed me off. I guess I wanted to shock you, or—hell, I don’t know. Just…don’t think anything about it, okay?”
Sure, no problem. I hesitated. Wanting to challenge her, to probe.
Instead, I merely said, “Okay.”
We said good-bye with a brief, collegial hug that brought her face near mine. I breathed in the scent that rose from the hollow of her throat where the skin disappeared beneath the sharp V of her blouse. Then I got out of the car and watched her drive off.
She’d said she would offer me a ride home except for the mountain of paperwork that still lay ahead tonight. Plus a promised follow-up call with Sinclair.
I turned and headed back across the lot under a sky black and thick as wet ink.
I earned every break I got, she’d told me that first night. Driven, self-assured. Yet there was something else beneath the surface. Not just the vulnerability routinely disavowed by high-achievers. More shaded, elusive.
I walked back out to the street. The night air was sharp with cold and the damp from recent rains.
The brisk honk of a car horn made me look up. Though the street was empty, I saw what looked like a cab parked at the far intersection. I hailed it.
No more detours tonight, I thought. Go home.
Get some sleep. Besides, something odd had struck me about Kevin’s murder, and in the morning I—
Belching exhaust, the cab had started up and was heading in my direction. As it approached, wheels sluicing water, I saw the cabbie’s shadowed face, slowly taking form through the smudged windshield. His stare was strangely intense, yet familiar, as though he recognized me.
No, that wasn’t it. Then I felt the truth hum along my spine like an electric shock.
He’d been waiting for me.
The cab rolled to a stop in front of me, the back door swinging open. I backed up a step on the pavement.
Suddenly, I felt a strong pressure on my shoulder, a thick hand pushing me inside, across the seat. I turned, wrenching free of its grip.
He slid in beside me.
I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. A big man. Wide-shouldered, thick-limbed. Military-style buzz-cut. Face smooth and implacable as marble.
“Mind if I share the cab? Since we’re headin’ in the same direction.”
I recognized the gun in his hand. A 9 mm Glock. I’d seen one before.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I had to admit, the guy was good.
As we walked across the crowded lobby of the Burgoyne Plaza, his arm around my shoulder, voice slurred as though laced with booze, nobody could have guessed there was a gun in his other hand, pressed hard against my ribs.
I knew where we were going. The Burgoyne was Pittsburgh’s newest and most prestigious hotel, the final jewel in the crown of the city’s thirty-year Renaissance. Modeled after a French chateau, its classic lines and sparkling cut-glass windows contrasted with the smooth modernity of the “new” Steel City. Inside, salmon-colored marble floors and heavy crystal chandeliers assured its high-profile guests that no expense had been spared.
The Burgoyne was where the President stayed on his last visit, and the Secretary of State. Even Oprah. So it was no surprise that Miles Wingfield would do the same.
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