Burning Man
Page 31
A glimmer of a smile appeared on her face.
“Do I need to go with you?” she asked. “Will I have to talk to other people?”
I shook my head. “But I do need you to promise me something. You can never talk about this with anyone else.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”
“Even though Rose died of natural causes, you abandoned her, and that’s against the law. I don’t want to have to arrest you, and the DA doesn’t want to have to prosecute you, because it’s a case we can’t win. It would be easier for us if you just said nothing. Do you think you can do that?”
Inez nodded.
The waitress came to the table with the check and asked if we needed anything else. I told her we didn’t, then handed her a Jackson and said no change was needed.
“So, what do I do now?” Inez asked.
When Father Pat had baptized me for the first time and hadn’t known if I would live, he’d offered to my ears only his Whispered Verse of Assurance. Not all priests include such a verse in their ceremonies. When the baptized child is old enough, the verse is revealed. It’s supposed to be a biblical verse that’s easy to memorize, and one that reassures. Father Pat hadn’t known I would live. Maybe that’s why he’d chosen Proverbs 23:18 for me. I passed on his words to this girl that was so in need of them.
I reached for a package of sweetener, emptied it on my plate and in small lettering wrote down the following on the paper: “Proverbs 23:18.”
“That’s your psalm now,” I said. “It was given to me once, and now I am giving it to you. Remember these words always: ‘Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.’”
I said the same words to her that Father Pat had whispered in my ears when I was a newborn. Then I handed her the paper where I’d noted the psalm number and walked away.
CHAPTER 24:
JUST ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL
It was a warm, sunny day when the three of us took a drive to the Garden of Angels. For most of the drive, Sirius kept his head out the window. Lisbet thought it was funny the way the wind sometimes blew his lips back, and Sirius seemed to be happy to accommodate her laughter.
Right after I met with Inez Vargas, I told Lisbet everything that had happened. Everyone needs a confessor. And in her arms she absolved me of my cop sins of omission. We talked about Rose and justice, and I told Lisbet I wanted to get a memorial brick for her.
“What do you want your brick to say?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I told her. “I’ve been trying to think of some poetic line involving a Rose, but nothing seems right.”
“It will come to you,” she promised.
For a few days we went back and forth before I settled on a quote from The Little Prince. Because of his Rose, the Little Prince had gone on a great journey. The Little Prince said his Rose had “cast her fragrance and radiance over me.” My Rose had done the same, and I was better off for her. Rose had brought many unexpected blessings into my life. That doesn’t happen with most homicides.
Lisbet and I made our way to the brick memorial. Sirius stayed in the car. He needed a nap from all his wind wrestling.
In my hands was another brick for the collection. Maybe the band Pink Floyd was wrong. Maybe this wouldn’t be just another brick in the wall. Maybe one day soon there wouldn’t be any need for more bricks in this garden.
Lisbet prepared the spot for me; I played the mason, working the brick into its place in the ground. There was no attribution on the brick, just Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s words: “The Stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen.”
We stood there silently for a minute until I said, “Ready to go?”
“Are you?” Lisbet asked.
I nodded, and she offered her hand, and together we found our way out.
EPILOGUE:
“867-5309/JENNY”
Finally, I called the number. For days I had been holding on to it, deliberating the pros and cons of making contact. It was late when I called, well after midnight, but he was expecting my call.
“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”
“If the DOC catches you with a phone, they’ll throw you in the hole.”
“After our conversation, this phone will be in a thousand pieces.”
“Too bad you couldn’t be in a thousand pieces.”
“Is that any way to thank me for your gifts?”
During my stay in the hospital, Sirius and I had received a number of presents. The chief had sent me a fruit basket and Sirius a bone. Central Community Police Station sent us a dozen doughnuts. No one ever said cop humor was a good thing. There were plants and flowers and lots of get-well cards.
I also received an overnight mailer with two CDs inside. The package had been addressed to me care of the hospital, with no return address. The only identification had been an LA postmark.
The first CD featured the music of Robert Goulet. If Haines had wanted to insult my taste in music, I suppose he could have sent me the Disney rendition from the movie Pocahontas. According to the song’s credits, the lyrics were by Alan J. Lerner, and the music by Frederick Loewe. They had written it for the musical Paint Your Wagon.
Sending me the song was Haines’s idea of a little joke: “They Call the Wind Mariah.”
The second CD had struck even closer to home. I didn’t want Haines to know that, though, for fear he might decide to belt it out on his next late night call. He had sent me a rerelease from 2003 that featured Tommy Tutone performing “867-5309/Jenny.”
“I tossed your gifts in the trash,” I said. “I should have tossed your number as well.”
He laughed, knowing I was lying. It bothered me that Haines had reached out and dirtied that which should have remained unsullied. “Jenny” might not have been our song, but it was a special song—special because it was my wife’s name—and he had tarnished that magic. I had frequently gone around whistling the tune just to make Jenny smile. It’s a catchy song—and number—that people remember. When Tommy Tutone released “867-5309/ Jenny” in 1982, it drove the phone company crazy from all the complaints caused by young men calling the number and asking for Jenny.
Haines sensed my resentment, or he read my thoughts. “I used your sentiment to get your attention,” he said. “You wouldn’t have noticed the number if it hadn’t been written in behind your deceased wife’s name. It was for your eyes only and a precaution in the event your mail was being monitored.”
When I’d looked at Jenny’s name on the CD packaging, I had noticed some discoloration. After pulling out the CD sleeve I’d found the number written on the opposite side of “867-5309/ Jenny” and had known it was the handiwork of Haines. I had debated whether to call him or turn him in.
“Am I supposed to tell you how clever you are?”
“The true realization would be how predictable you are.”
“You’re clever and I’m predictable. Anything else?”
“I am glad you are well. How is Sirius?”
“Why do you ask?”
“There is a connection between us.”
“You drink out of the toilet too?”
“That night forever changed all of us. It forged a kinship.”
“That’s all in the past.”
“Is it? I understand you dream as I do, and have the dream that isn’t a dream. Both of us continue along in our fire walk. But where are we going?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The only difference between us is that I embrace the fire, whereas you resist it.”
“If you like fire so much, you’ve got hell to look forward to.”
“Do you get the same wonderful insights that I do from our fiery walks? I call them the gift of the phoenix.”
“What I want now is the gift of silence.”
“I hope that one day you will be able to be honest with me. I know you are afraid, but you shouldn’t be.”
“You’re the one who
has a date with the needle, not me.”
“Give Sirius a hug from me.”
“I’d be afraid he might get rabies.”
“I am glad you have found love again. It provides you with a vigor you were missing.”
I didn’t say anything. I would never whisper Lisbet’s name to Haines. She was off the table.
“Don’t call me in the middle of the night again,” I told him. “If you feel the urge to sing, wake up one of your neighbors.”
“I will respect your wishes. Good night, Michael Gideon.”
“Do let the bed bugs bite,” I said.
I listened to the dial tone for a dozen seconds or more but couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still on the line.
ALSO BY ALAN RUSSELL
Other novels by Alan Russell:
NO SIGN OF MURDER
THE FOREST PRIME EVIL
THE HOTEL DETECTIVE
THE FAT INNKEEPER
MULTIPLE WOUNDS
SHAME
EXPOSURE
POLITICAL SUICIDE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo by Stathis Orphanos, copyright 2012.
Critical acclaim has greeted Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast. Publishers Weekly calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The New York Times says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the Los Angeles Times calls him “a crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s ten novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense, and his works have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. His novels have garnered him a Critics’ Choice Award, the Lefty (awarded to the best humorous mystery of the year), and two San Diego Book Awards. A native and longtime resident of California, Alan Russell is a former college basketball player who these days barely can touch the rim. A proud father of three children, Russell is an avid gardener and cook, and fortunately is blessed with a spouse who doesn’t mind weeding or washing dishes.