"Nothing much," Eli said. He sat down on the edge of his bed. "I went to some stupid store opening with Mom today. She had to give a speech. How are you, Dad? What have you been doing?"
"Oh, work, tinkering around in the garage, trying to keep busy--same old, same old." There was a pause. "How are you doing, Eli? You don't sound so good."
"I'm not," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I miss you, Dad."
"Oh, hang in there, buddy. It'll get easier."
"No, it won't," he argued. "I want to move back and stay with you. I hate it here. Mom's so tense all the time, and we fight--like every day."
"That's because you two are so much alike. You guys are just adjusting--"
"I want to move back with you. Please, Dad? Mom said I could. She said she'd even help me pack."
He heard his father let out a little chuckle on the other end of the line. "It sounds like she was mad at you about something. Are you guys in the middle of a fight?"
"Kinda," Eli replied. "Dad, please, I can't stand living with her. And she's sick of me, too. She just said so."
"You know she doesn't mean that," he said. "You two are just mad at each other right now. Be patient with her, okay? She's really trying. I know she must have felt bad that Timmy McKenna and Brad Reece couldn't come out and visit. But you'll be making friends there--"
"Wait," Eli interrupted. "What are you talking about? Timmy and Brad were going to come out here?"
"She didn't tell you? I figured you knew. She was trying to do it for you. The McKennas mentioned it to me. Your mom phoned them, offering to pay Tim's way to Seattle so he could stay with you guys a few days. I guess she tried the same thing with the Reeces, trying to get Brad to visit. But--you know, the guys got baseball and they just couldn't get away."
"Mom was trying to do that--for me?" Eli whispered. He suddenly felt so awful for screaming at her.
"She's doing the best she can, Eli. You just have to hang in there. It wouldn't work out if you moved back with me right now. They have me jumping through hoops at work, and I'm awfully busy. You'd be alone in the house most of the time. You're much better off with your mom in Seattle. Give it another few weeks."
Eli said nothing.
"It was ninety-nine degrees here today," his father said. "Believe me, you're better off where you are. Listen, I should scram. You go make up with your mother now, okay?"
"Why can't you make up with her?" Eli asked quietly.
"It isn't as easy for adults," his father muttered. "And you and I have been over this before, sport. Now, I better go. I love you, Eli."
"I love you, too, Dad."
"G'night," his father said. Then he hung up.
Eli clicked off the cell phone. Wiping his eyes, he wandered to his door. He opened it--just wide enough to put the cell phone down on the floor.
He closed the door again, then lay facedown on his bed. Eli buried his face in the pillow so she wouldn't hear him crying.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sipping pinot grigio from a Speed Racer jelly glass, Sydney sat in a patio chair by the kitchen door, which she'd propped open. There was a railing in front of her, and just beyond it, Lake Washington. She always felt as if she were on a ship's deck back here on this little stretch of concrete behind the town house. The lake was still. Moonlight revealed only a few silver ripples. She listened to the night swimmers on the beach next door, laughing and splashing. It made her feel so lonely, she wanted to cry. In the distance, she could see the headlights of cars on the 520 floating bridge.
She'd wrapped the dead robin in some paper towels, then put it in the garbage can on the other side of the kitchen door, just behind her. She'd found a can of Raid in the broom closet and sprayed in her bedroom, all the while thinking about ozone depletion. After vacuuming up the dead flies, she'd stripped off the pillow shams and quilt, then stuffed them in a big plastic bag. The bag would take up most of her closet floor--covering her sneakers, sandals, and slippers--until she hauled it to the dry cleaner on Monday.
Maybe by then, Eli would have decided to come out of his room and speak to her. She'd ordered a small cheese pizza for him around eight o'clock and left it outside his room, along with some napkins and a cold can of Mountain Dew. Then she'd knocked on the door. "There's pizza here by your door, honey. Don't let it get cold. And don't starve yourself just because you're mad at me."
She heard his portable TV going when she checked an hour later. The Jet City Pizza box was where she'd left it, but when she opened the box, only one piece remained. The Mountain Dew can was empty. At least he was eating.
She was the one self-starving. She'd thrown together a salad, but only had a few bites of it before reaching for a jelly glass and the bottle of pinot grigio, then heading outside.
This was her second glass.
Sydney wondered how that robin had gotten in her bedroom. She hadn't noticed any loose feathers while vacuuming up the flies, so it was highly unlikely the poor thing had flown in through the small opening in the window and then died on her bed somehow. And to land right in the center of her pillow like that? This hadn't been any freak accident.
If Eli hadn't put it there, who had? Was it her stalker? She'd already answered that question earlier while talking with Eli about his Monopoly token. If Mr. 59 had indeed followed them to Auburn this afternoon, when would he have had time to break in and plant that little avian surprise?
Sydney wondered if it was their ghost--or whatever it was haunting this apartment. Freakish, unexplainable things had been happening in there. Why not this bird death?
It was a silly notion, one Eli might fancy. He was too angry to talk with her right now. But once on speaking terms with her again, he'd probably come up with some pretty fantastic notions about ghosts and birds and Monopoly tokens. Then again, maybe he wouldn't say a thing to her. He could be very secretive at times.
It was a trait he'd inherited from her and his dad--but mostly her.
She remembered back in May, waiting until Kyle had left for Seattle before she'd checked the story on the Internet. She needed to confirm what Polly's friend, Aurora, had told her about that drug bust at Fort Jackson Point Pier. She remembered it must have been during the first part of March, because she'd been in Boston, covering a Movers & Shakers story. Otherwise, she would have found out about it--if not from Joe, then from the Chicago papers.
Sydney used her computer in her basement office. The keywords Fort Jackson Pier Drugs Police Raid, yielded several Google results. She clicked on the first one, and an article came up from The Chicago Tribune, dated March 6th:
2 SUSPECTS DIE IN CAR FIRE DURING POLICE RAID
Officers Seize $12,800 in Narcotics at Fort Jackson Pier
CHICAGO : A police raid Tuesday on a narcotics operation near Fort Jackson Pier turned deadly as fleeing suspects opened fire on the arresting officers. The suspects, Ahmed Turner, 28, and Derrick Laskey, 23, both perished in a fiery explosion as their minivan, carrying an estimated $43,000 worth of cocaine, spun out of control and crashed into several drums containing highly flammable creosote residue.
Turner, who had been driving the vehicle, was shot in the neck by police returning fire. Laskey, in the passenger seat, reportedly died in the ensuing fire...
The article confirmed everything Aurora had told her. Sydney stopped in the middle of the fifth paragraph. She felt an awful tightness in her chest as she saw something she'd hoped not to find. It was Joe's name, listed with the three other cops who had participated in the raid gone awry.
His name came up again a few paragraphs later:
"We had no choice but to return fire on the perpetrators," said Detective McCloud, a 16-year Chicago Police veteran. "My fellow officers acted responsibly and very professionally."
According to the article, the $12,800 worth of cocaine recovered had been left behind in a backpack by one of the fleeing suspects. Both Ahmed Turner and Derrick Laskey had a long list of prior arrests.
Sydney googled both their
names for any articles about a follow-up investigation into what had happened that night. But there were none.
She had to talk to Joe--even if he got testy. She had every right to ask her husband about something he did that was reported in the newspapers, for God's sake. The rest of the day went by without her finding the right time and opportunity to broach the subject.
She couldn't sleep worth a damn that evening. After an hour under the covers with Joe, she thought about getting up and reading in the family room for a while. Then she felt him nudge her, and his arm went over her. "What's with you tonight, babe?" he mumbled, his face against the back of her neck as he spooned her. "You've got the fidgets something fierce. I feel like I'm in bed with a whirling dervish."
"I ran into Adele Curtis in the vegetable aisle at Dominick's today," she lied. It was the "casual" lead-in she'd been planning all day to use. "She--um, asked how you were and said she read about you in some drug bust at Fort Jackson Point Pier a few weeks back. Adele said a couple of guys were killed. I felt stupid not knowing anything about it."
Joe's arm slipped away as he turned on his other side. "It happened while you were in Boston, covering that cancer survivor story," he muttered. "By the time you got back, it was old news. I didn't think it was worth going into."
"Not worth going into?" she repeated. "Honey, in the last thirteen years you've only fired your weapon--what, four times? Two guys were killed, and you didn't talk to me about it..."
"You were editing and scoring your cancer story," he said. "I knew you had to stay focused on that. I didn't want to distract you with my problems."
Sydney said nothing for a moment. Considering how often she went on the road to cover a story, leaving Joe to play bachelor-dad with Eli, he was usually pretty good about it. Only once in a while did he make her feel guilty, and this was one of those times. She rolled over toward him--only to stare at the back of his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," she whispered. "Do you want to talk about it now?"
"Talk about what, the drug raid? It was a routine raid on a small-time operation. It got screwed up and two career criminals fried in their getaway car. It happened nearly a month ago, and no thanks, I don't want to talk about it."
"And you wouldn't have wanted to talk about it when it happened either," she pointed out. "So--don't try to make me feel bad because I was away when it happened."
"Fair enough," he grumbled.
She studied the back of his head. "Is there any connection between this drug bust and that Arthur 'Polly' Pollard person who was shot?"
He sighed, but didn't flinch at all. "Not that I know of," he muttered.
"Did they ever find out who shot him?" she pressed.
"I think it was a mob hit. But they haven't nailed down any suspects yet. They probably won't. Polly had more enemies than friends." Joe yawned. "Listen, why don't you take a pill if you can't sleep?"
Sydney didn't take a pill, and she didn't sleep much that night. Three days later, she went to Madison, Wisconsin, to cover a Spam-carving contest. Despite the "wacky" festivities, she was in a somber mood during the two-day trip. She had to fake her frivolity for the contestants and the cameras. All the while she was in Madison, Sydney thought about Polly and this drug raid. She wondered if she could just drop it and choose not to know any more. In order to survive, some husbands and wives turned a blind eye to their spouses' extramarital affairs or crooked--even nefarious--business deals. That was how they stayed married. The trouble was Sydney didn't know if she could be one of those wives.
When Sydney returned home, there was a surprise waiting for her in the family room. Joe put his hands over her eyes, and Eli led her by the hand. And when Joe took his hands away from her eyes, Sydney was watching a scene from Superman Returns on their new big-screen, high-definition TV. "We're going to see Movers & Shakers in HD, sweetheart!" Joe declared. Eli couldn't wait to see Lord of the Rings in HD. But Sydney just stared at the beautiful, sharp picture on that huge, state-of-the-art TV screen and felt sick to her stomach. She knew where the money for it had come from. "Can we afford it?" she murmured.
"No, but I figure it's a tax write-off for you," Joe said. "We'll work it out."
The next day, she neglected the editing and scoring of her Spam-carving piece so she could rifle through Joe's desk and check the e-mail in his computer again. There was nothing. She called Visa; the charge for the TV had gone on their joint card. They had barely enough in their checking account to cover it. Joe wasn't the type to spend money he didn't have. So where was the extra money? Where had he hidden his cut from this drug bust--or correction, this heist that had cost three people their lives? Did he have a secret bank account somewhere?
In her earlier searches she would have noticed a bank passbook or checkbook among Joe's things. So she went through his closet and the pockets of his clothes. Sydney checked under the rug and behind the framed photos in his study. Then it dawned on her: they had the cleanest garage on North Spaulding Avenue. He was always working in there. If Joe needed to hide something from her, the garage was where he'd stash it.
Sydney stormed the place, rifling through his built-in work desk and cabinets. She accidentally yanked one drawer out all the way, spilling a bunch of bolts and screws on the garage floor. But she didn't care. She ransacked the contents of two different toolboxes. In his cabinets, she shoved aside old paint cans to make sure they weren't hiding a bankbook or some incriminating document. "Where is it, Joe?" she kept whispering. "What are you hiding from me?" From the shelves he'd installed, Sydney tossed work gloves, coveralls, and paintbrushes aside so she could get a better look at what might be concealed behind them or beneath them. She scoured through boxes of Christmas decorations, finding nothing.
Dirty and sweating, she paused for a moment and gazed up at the top shelf, where he stored a rolled-up paint tarp. Sydney dragged a ladder over to the shelf and climbed up to reach the tarp. It started to unravel. Frustrated, she finally pushed it off the shelf. The big heavy cloth landed in a heap on the garage floor--around the bottom of the ladder. The shelf was empty now--except for a third toolbox. It looked new. "Oh, no," Sydney murmured, feeling her stomach turn.
Trembling, she took another step up the ladder and grabbed the handle of the tan metal box. It wasn't as heavy as the other two toolboxes she'd examined. She could tell he didn't have any tools in there. Sydney almost tripped on the tarp as she climbed down from the ladder, hauling the metal box with her. Setting the box on the hood of her car, she unfastened the latches. Her hands were shaking as she opened the lid.
Receipts.
He'd stashed old receipts for paint, power tools, and yard equipment in there. Sydney let out a grateful little laugh. It looked like a whole boxful of receipts--until she picked up a few to examine them even closer. That was when she saw part of a twenty-dollar bill under the pile of loose papers. She dug past those old receipts and saw more twenties. There were stacks of them, banded together. "Damn it, Joe," she cried. "Damn it, damn it to hell..."
She didn't count the money. But Sydney estimated there was at least twenty thousand dollars in that metal box.
As she stacked the money back into the metal receptacle, Sydney couldn't stop crying. She covered the stacks of bills with the old receipts. If Joe had the receipts in any kind of special order to detect if someone had gotten into the box, she didn't care. She would tell him tonight that she knew and that their marriage was over.
She couldn't live with this secret. She couldn't look at Joe the same way ever again. He'd once been her hero, and now he was a lying, corrupt cop who let three people die for a little bit of money. And he'd forever ruined three more peoples' lives: his son's, hers, and his own.
Sydney rolled up the heavy tarp and hoisted it back onto the top shelf, once again concealing the metal box. She moved the ladder back to its original spot. Still sobbing, she swept up the bolts and screws she'd spilt from his work desk drawer. Her face was filthy because she kept wiping away tears and snot
with her dirty hands.
She wouldn't blow the whistle on her husband. For now, his secret was her awful secret, too. But she wasn't going to stay with him, either. She couldn't be associated in any way with his crime--and neither could Eli. They needed to put as much distance as they could between themselves and him. These thoughts weren't new to Sydney. For the last few weeks, ever since she'd learned of Arthur Pollard's death, she'd tried to prepare herself for this.
But it still devastated her.
Sydney's head was throbbing by the time she wandered out of the garage. In the kitchen, she took three Tylenol, and then glanced at her wristwatch: 4:25. She had to pick up Eli from basketball practice at school in a half hour.
It was strange, walking into their bedroom and undressing to take a shower. Suddenly, the room seemed different somehow, like it wasn't hers anymore.
Even under the warm, pulsating shower, Sydney still didn't feel clean. She turned off the water and began to dry herself. Wrapping the towel around her, she opened the bathroom door, and a shadow swept in front of her. She gasped. Someone was in the bedroom.
Then she saw it was Joe. "My, God, you scared me!" she said, a hand over her heart. "What are you doing here?"
He stood near the foot of their bed in his "plainclothes": blue blazer, tie, and khaki slacks. "We need to talk," he said soberly.
Sydney nodded. "I know. But I have to get dressed, and pick up Eli at school."
"Sharon McKenna's picking up Eli, and taking him back to their place for dinner."
"That's nice," Sydney murmured. She ducked behind the bathroom door, took her pale blue jacquard silk robe off the hook, and put it on. Then she tossed her towel over the shower curtain rod. "It's nice that you're talking to Andy again, too," she said, emerging from the bathroom again. She tied the waist sash of her robe.
"I heard you were asking Sharon at the wedding if she knew about Polly," he said. "That was really careless, Syd."
"I asked you first--several times. I needed an answer."
Final Breath Page 18
