by Bill Cameron
“Just because your father thinks he—”
Stuart reached up and grabbed Quentin by each ear, yanked him straight down. “My father ain’t here, is he? It’s you and me.” Quentin started hollering, at least for as long as it took for him to hit the ground. Ellie moved away from the writhing figures as Stuart jammed Quentin’s face into the damp turf, then dropped one knee into the center of his back below the juncture of his neck and shoulders. Stuart lifted his head, stared down Quentin’s boy. Nate faced him for only a moment, then fled, stumbling and nearly tripping over himself before vanishing into the bushes at the edge of the lawn.
Quentin sputtered, unable to lift his face out of the mud and grass. “You motherfucker!”
“There’s no need for that kind of language.” Stuart had a grin on his face now. Ellie had heard him use that kind of language in the hallways at school.
Quentin managed to get his hand beneath him, but was unable to gain any leverage. Stuart was anything but a large specimen, but he used his weight to advantage. Quentin rocked and kicked his legs without effect.
“Do you know what she did to my brother?”
“He got off easy, you ask me.” Stuart pressed down with his knee. “Now, you gonna apologize and play nice? Because if you don’t, this is the best thing gonna happen to you between now and when you wake up in a body cast.”
“Get the hell off of me!”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Quentin struggled, but succeeded only in grinding his face more deeply into the turf. At last he gave up. For a long moment, he didn’t move. His breath bubbled through the wet grass. Then he went slack. “Whatever. You’re welcome to the crazy bitch.”
Stuart drove his fist into Quentin’s cheek with a sound like a hammer hitting raw meat. “I’m welcome to what, dickweed?”
“Fine, fine! I’m sorry!”
Stuart stood up. Quentin scrambled to his feet, jeans and letter jacket caked with mud. A smear of gluey puke glazed his chin. He looked around blankly, seemed surprised Nate was gone. “Christ.” He staggered off into the darkness.
Stuart turned to her. “You okay?”
Ellie could feel her heartbeat in her throat. “Why did you do that?” Her image of Stuart had never included chivalry.
“I didn’t think he ought to be treating you that way.”
“Maybe he should have written me a note first.”
Stuart didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “I know I seem like a retard to you most of the time.” He turned his head and his eyes gleamed in the light from the bleachers. “I shouldn’t have given you that note.” His expression was contrite, but she caught the hint of a wayward smile. “I like you is all.”
She didn’t know what to say. She wrapped her arms across her chest, listened as faint voices filtered down from the beer tent and beyond. An instant later the sound of a tractor dragging its skid downfield drowned them out. She felt cold, confused. Ellie didn’t like Stuart. But she didn’t like anyone. Luellen was her friend, but aside from her, who else was there? Myra was a weight around her neck, and her brothers were both jerks. Her mother was a tyrant, her father kind in his way but too busy most of the time to notice what went on around him. Everyone else she kept at arm’s length or further, a distance she preferred. But as she stood there, staring back at Stuart Spaneker, thinking about his defense of her, somewhere inside she realized it felt good to have someone on her side for a change.
She took his hand and let him lead her away from the church grounds. Soon, they left behind the lights and noise of the tractor pull. They walked along the dark road back to her house, Stuart gabbing about nothing the whole way. Miles, they walked. She was quiet, letting him natter on, but she felt comfortable and strangely safe. At the house, on her porch, Stuart squeezed her hand and hesitated, and with only the slightest roll of her eyes she presented him her cheek and let him kiss it.
Soon after, her family arrived home. At first her mother was angry. “We had no idea where you were. Your sister was frantic.” Myra looked at her, bored. Ellie smelled Tic Tacs and Marlboro Lights.
“Stuart walked me home. I should have told you.” She didn’t mention Quentin Quinn.
“Stuart Spaneker?” Her mother’s voice hiked up with a note of surprised, yet obvious pleasure.
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
Inevitability bound up in a single syllable, if only she could have recognized it. But it was years before she came to understand that was the night she became someone new, not only in her own eyes, but in the eyes of everyone else. She’d made a deal, bought security and an ephemeral sense of belonging in exchange for a piece of who she was. Stuart’s Ellie.
November 19 — 1:05 pm
Just an Afterthought
It’s not the first time I’ve been up to OHSU to talk to a suspect, but it’s the first time I’ve done so as a civilian. These kinds of opportunities don’t come up often. Or ever. I sit quietly beside Susan as she steers the car west down Division, then cuts over to Powell on 39th. Traffic isn’t too bad, midday dense. She navigates like the old pro she is, changing lanes by instinct, no signal, easing off enough to catch fresh green lights on the roll, tapping the gas in time to squirt through yellow. Once we’re across the river and weaving through the arterial tangle up to Pill Hill, she’s ready to explain the meaning of life to me. I’m not sure I want to hear it.
“Skin, here’s the deal—”
“I’m sure I have the basic idea.”
She licks her lips. “The situation is unorthodox.”
Tell me about it. “So will he have a lawyer there, or what?”
“Mitch says he doesn’t want one, but the DA is worried.”
I’m not surprised. Mitch has gotta be swimming in morphine. Even if he’s waived for now, at some point he’ll have a defense attorney who will no doubt move to get whatever he says to me tossed. Given the circumstances, the motion will probably fly. “Who’s the DA?”
“Jessup is the lead, but Schrunk himself is keeping a close eye on this one.”
“Jessup is the woman with the nose ring, right?”
More lip licking, and out of the corner of my eye I can see her hands flex against the steering wheel. “Skin, not everyone can be defined by a single distinguishing characteristic.”
“I bet Aesop wrote a fable about that one.”
“Can we talk about the interview?” Better than talking about what she observed between Ruby Jane and me. I watch the landscape roll by, thinking of the last thing Ruby Jane said. “You can call me tonight.” I don’t like having to wait that long. The stretch of Terwilliger up to OHSU winds through trees, too narrow for the congestion the medical complex above inevitably creates. When the aerial tram from South Waterfront up to Marquam Hill opened the year before, it was supposed to ease the traffic pressure, but based on our slow crawl I have to wonder.
“No one is thrilled about this, Skin. But if he tells us something to clear up the mess in his kitchen, maybe points us to whatever’s going on with the little boy, then it’ll be worth the risks.”
“What am I not allowed to ask about?”
“Stay off of the front porch.” No hesitation.
I nod. There’s little chance Mitch will get clear of any charges stemming from the shooting, but Jessup and the others won’t want anything he says to me today to muddy the waters. Still, as much as I want to know about the kitchen and about Danny, about what spilled Luellen and Jase out doors and windows in fear for their lives, I’m more interested in Eager. And Eager is all about the front porch.
“Who’s going to be there?”
“Fran Stein and Moose. An ICU nurse and Bronstein’s doctor will be right outside the door. Jessup will wait outside too.” Jessup wouldn’t want to be in the room. No DA wants to risk finding themselves a witness in their own case. But she’ll stick close in case I get out of hand. Moose and Frannie Stein are Homicide, which makes their presence more surpr
ising.
“So you think you might be investigating a murder then.”
“We’re not sure what we’re investigating yet, Skin. Assault with a deadly weapon almost certainly. Attempted murder, maybe—a lot of blood got spilled in that kitchen. Kidnapping? Who knows until we hear what he has to say?”
“FBI?”
“Not yet.”
Hopefully not at all. “What else?”
“Find out who has Danny. Name, location, anything Mitch can tell us. We need to know that he’s safe.”
“Definitely not with Grandpa then.”
“Not that we can confirm. There’s a lot we don’t know.”
And she’s hoping Mitch can fill in the blanks. “Who’s coming in with me? Moose and Frannie, or just one of them?”
She doesn’t answer right away. I feel warm. Susan and I partnered for almost seven years, but when things fell apart, the partnership crumbled like dry leaves under a boot. I know cops who are more comfortable around their ex-wives than I am with Susan.
“The doctor has made it clear if Mitch shows even the slightest indication of distress the interview is over.”
The interview. I want to say I don’t do interviews anymore. I drink coffee and pull shots and blunder through my relationships like a hormone-addled middle schooler. But I just nod some more and listen as she runs down the rules. Keep it brief, but get him on the record. Don’t press. The DA doesn’t want there to be any reason to think we’re bringing undue pressure to bear a mere five hours after a man ate five bullets. This is all Mitch’s idea, that’s the play.
“Should rank just ahead of crotch rot on the fun-o-meter.”
It’s another five long minutes before she turns in to the main parking garage and an Official Vehicles Only parking space. I follow her across Sam Jackson Road to the main building, through the lobby into an overlit corridor. Her pace is quick enough I have to hot-step to keep pace. I feel half-naked trotting along behind her. She’s half a head taller, crisp in her uniform. Gun and radio on her hip, badge on her chest, silver bar on her collar. I’m just a guy in worn jeans, sweatshirt, and battered Rockports.
We don’t speak on the elevator, or as we move down the hallway to the nurse’s station at ICU. The bustling energy of the unit sets my nerves on edge. I see Moose Davisson well before anyone else. The man came by his name honestly. Frannie Stein, his partner, is with him. Standing next to her I recognize the DA, Jessup. The last time we met, she was trying to decide whether to hang me with a murder charge.
I don’t remember her first name, and she doesn’t enlighten me. Her brunette hair hangs in a straight bob; her makeup is artful and understated, accentuating her penetrating brown eyes. She stands only as high as my chin, but radiates a composure that fills the corridor. Riggins told me she performs in an 80s cover band on weekends, said it’s pretty good. I presume that’s when she wears her nose ring; the tiny hole in her nostril is unadorned now.
Jessup ignores me as Susan checks in. Then she introduces us to the doctor, fellow named Seres. Weariness tugs at his chin. He doesn’t approve of the interview. I know because he says so over and over.
“I don’t approve of the interview. It’s far too soon.”
Jessup tries to mollify him. “If we didn’t think time was of the essence, I assure you we wouldn’t be here.”
“Mister Bronstein’s condition is very serious. He’s only just out of recovery.”
I figure it’s time to chime in. “Is he lucid?”
Seres turns his tired gaze on me. “And you are?”
Susan all but steps in front of me. “This is Mister Kadash, the man Bronstein has asked to talk to.”
He scans me from my Rockports to my flyaway hair. “You’re the neighbor?” He’s no more impressed with my appearance than I would be.
“I watch little Danny every now and then.”
Susan stares at me, surprised. I avoid her gaze, focus on Seres. Mention of Danny softens the doctor’s stern countenance. “Well, Mister Bronstein is awake, but you need to understand he’s only been out of surgery for two hours.”
Jessup puts a hand on his arm. “We understand, Doctor. Mister Kadash will be as quick as possible, and we’ve already made it clear to him we want the interview to be very low key. We have nothing to gain by upsetting Bronstein or aggravating his condition.”
I see a twitch in Seres’ cheek, but he leads us to the doorway of Mitch’s room. “I’ll be right here.”
The lights in the room are set low. Sheer curtains obscure the view out the two narrow windows across the roof of another building. The cream-colored walls are mostly hidden by monitors. Mitch seems small in the middle of the bed, his ordinarily substantial form shrunken. Both arms rest at his side above the blanket. An IV runs from the back of one hand, clear saline from the looks of it. His other arm is wrapped from shoulder to wrist in gauze. What little exposed skin I can see is blotched with Betadine, its antiseptic tang sharp in the air. An oxygen tube loops under Mitch’s nose. Wires snake from sensors on his neck, his right middle finger, from under his hospital gown.
I move to the side of the bed. I feel Susan behind me, a hovering vulture. Mitch’s red-rimmed eyes gaze out at me from dark orbital pits.
“How you doing, Mitch?”
“Jesus, Kadash, how the hell do you think I’m doing?” His voice is a hair past a whisper.
I smile, closed-lipped. “Yeah, not too good, I guess.” I see the bounce of a monitor on the far side of the bed, a steady rhythm. 93 ... 94 ... 92. His heart rate. There’s a plastic, straight-backed chair against the wall and I slide it over and sit down.
“Glad you came, Kadash.”
“No problem.” I pause. All I can do is to forge ahead. “But first I need to get some things out of the way. Then we can talk.”
He manages the faintest of smiles and a single quarter-inch nod. The pillow under his head crackles like paper.
“Lieutenant Mulvaney here is recording our conversation, okay? She tells me you’ve waived your right to counsel and are willing to talk to me on the record. If that’s true, I need you to say so.”
“I’ll talk to you. Now. Without a lawyer. But no promises once you’re gone.”
I look up at Susan. She nods, so I turn back to Mitch.
“Okay. So can you state your name for the record?”
“All formal, eh, Kadash? You sound like a cop.” He offers another half smile. “Thought you were retired.”
“Old habits, I guess.” His eyes close. “Mitch, you okay?”
His eyelids roll back, slowly, and for a moment his gaze is unfocused. I wonder if we’re going to have to end the interview before it even begins. But then he finds me and swallows. “Name’s Mitchell Bronstein. I’m father of Jason, stepfather to Danny ...” Blink. “... and helpless thrall to Luellen Granger Bronstein.”
He emits a raspy little chuckle. I sit back, feel my jaw start working. Susan shuffles her feet behind me. The heart monitor speeds up for a moment, 106 ... 108 ..., then settles back again to the mid-90s. I swallow and lean forward. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean. What do I mean. What do you think I mean, Kadash?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”
He licks his lips, a gesture that for a moment makes him look like Susan. “I do whatever she tells me.”
“Do you know where she is?”
His eyes roll sideways, the shrug of a man fulla bullet holes. “Kadash, listen. When the cops start digging, they’re going to find something out.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m sleeping with an account executive at work, a woman named Lynn.”
Surprise, surprise. Mitch Bronstein is a dirtbag.
“Cops’ll think that explains something, but they’ll be wrong. They have no idea.”
“No idea about what?”
“Lu’s a good person, Kadash. She’s better than anyone I know, and I mean that.”
“And you show
this by screwing some woman at work?” I’m trying to keep my tone neutral, but anger bleeds into my voice.
“You don’t understand. Lu and I, we’re married, but it’s—”
“Open? You have an arrangement?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I guess not.” My stomach shoves my thoughts around like a playground bully. The heart monitor picks up the pace and I feel the tension radiating off of Susan behind me. We haven’t learned anything of use yet.
“I’d do anything for Lu. I love her. That’s why today happened. Lynn is just ... she’s what I do to help me forget.”
“How about we talk about something other than you trying to make excuses—”
“Skin.” Susan puts a hand on my shoulder. She wants me to calm down. I’m not the right man for this and she knows it, but Mitch wasn’t thinking about my credentials or interview skills when he asked to speak to me. He thought I was his friend, a fantasy he carefully constructed over the last two and a half years.
“Okay. Okay.” I sit back and draw a breath. “Mitch, here’s the thing. We need your help. We’re trying to find Lu, and we’re trying to figure out what’s going on with Danny.”
“You’ve been in the kitchen.”
I nod.
“I tried to tell her.”
I wait, but he doesn’t add anything. “What did you try to tell her?”
“We should’ve called a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“It was bigger than us. Couldn’t control it.”
“What’s bigger than you?”
“I know a guy, a lawyer who works with our firm. I said we should call him.” He tries to raise his hand, but a loop of IV tube tangled in the side rail restrains him. “I wanted to call him, but she wouldn’t ... she wouldn’t let me.”
He drifts off again, and this time I suspect it’s for good. His chest is still, his eyes closed. I know he’s still alive only by the silent hop on the heart monitor screen, a shallow rhythm in white phosphor. He seems to have gone to sleep, gone away, whatever. I’m sure Susan is disappointed, but maybe it’s just as well. He didn’t say anything of consequence, nothing that’s likely to fuck over the DA’s case. I turn to Susan, about to tell her we should go when I hear his voice again.
