“But did she leave a forwarding address? Are they somewhere else in Phoenix?”
“Hey, I was lucky she left the keys with my wife. Place is in good shape, though,” he added gazing around. “Not a scratch, and pretty damn clean, too. I can turn this around tomorrow.”
“What about her mail?” Corpsy demanded.
“I’m not the post office, mister. I guess you weren’t such close friends,” he said with a wry smile.
“No, actually, I’m very close to her sister.”
“Not now, you ain’t,” the superintendent said and laughed.
Corpsy glared at him for a moment and then rushed out. He drove around in a daze for a while, trying to come to terms with the reality before returning to the lab, but the frustration and the disappointment he suffered was so great, he couldn’t work. When he gazed at himself in the mirror, he did see a resemblance to a corpse. I deserve my nickname, he thought. It riled him and he made a major decision. He decided he would pursue his fantasy. Nothing he had was as important. Eventually, he discovered where Faye Sullivan had gone by tracking back her requested letters of reference, and then he packed all that was of any importance to him, even some of the jars of kidney and gallstones, thinking they just might interest Susie.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked when she saw him carrying his things out to the car.
“To see someone.”
“Where?”
“Palm Springs, California. Don’t worry, I told the hospital, and I took my accumulated vacation days.”
“But how long will you be away, Arnold?” she asked, her face troubled. He had never so much as left for a weekend before. Even going out for the evening was a major undertaking.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. Then he smiled. “Until she says yes, I suppose.”
“She? Who?”
“Susie Sullivan,” he replied. “She’s a nurse’s sister and she’s the woman I love.”
His mother was astonished. When had he courted her? Why hadn’t he mentioned her before?
“She’s very shy,” he explained, “but she’s waiting for me … just sitting by a window gazing out and hoping I will come. It’s going to be a surprise,” he concluded.
His mother shook her head and fumbled for words.
“You’re … going to marry … marry this girl?”
“Of course,” Corpsy replied. “And live happily every after,” he added. He kissed his mother on the cheek and hurried out to his car. She stood on the steps and watched him drive away.
He had a game plan. He would find a place to stay first and then he would go to the hospital and park and wait to spot Faye. He would be as inconspicuous about it as he could. He would follow her home and then … then she would be impressed with his determination and finally invite him in to meet Susie. It seemed so logical, so easy.
Now he was approaching Palm Springs, but he didn’t see the wide streets lined with beautiful palm trees and colorful vines of bougainvillea, nor did he see the velvet green golf courses and the sparkling fountains, the new homes and town houses, the comfortable condominiums in their peaceful settings. He saw only an angelic smile on a beautiful young woman as she hobbled along, alone, waiting for him to come into her life.
7
Frankie paused before opening his car door. For a moment he just sat in the vehicle in the police station parking lot and stared at the building that had been his second home for so long. Of course, he had realized it would someday come to this, but he had hoped it would have been on his own terms: when he could admit to himself that he was tired and ready. This wasn’t fair. He felt as if he had been driven here by a malicious chauffeur, shackled and carted like some suspect and dragged into his supervisor’s office to turn over his pistol and badge. Reluctantly, he stepped out of the vehicle and slowly started toward the entrance.
As he walked he realized it was one of those magnificent Palm Springs days, with the temperatures warm but made tolerable by a gentle breeze, the sky a deep blue, peppered with dots of cotton-candy clouds. This shouldn’t be the day a large part of him dies, he thought. It should be cloudy and overcast or at the least, dreary and miserable, as dreary and miserable as he felt on the inside.
Imagining himself as a retired person, even in Palm Springs, which was one of the retired person’s paradises, was a tough pill to swallow. If we’re lucky enough to live a full life, he thought, we really die a few deaths and experience rebirths. The person I’m about to become would be a stranger to the young man who first set foot in this building to apply for the job. For a moment he envisioned his younger self standing in the doorway watching him approach, a faint, almost sardonic smile on his younger face.
“About time,” his younger self said. “About time you made room for new blood. Too bad you had to be brought to the brink of death before considering it, but that’s you, stubborn until the end.”
“What do you know about me?” he fired back at this imaginary second self. “You’re too young to have that much wisdom.”
“I’m not too young to know an old fool when I see one. I’m not surprised at your attitude. Look at how you and your daughter bark at each other. You ever give her a chance, a real chance, to get close to you?”
“Don’t bring my daughter into this. She makes her own problems.”
“Just like you,” his younger self quipped and then popped like a soap bubble, leaving him staring at himself in the glass of the door.
Ironically, aside from that deep depression that had seized him in its unflinching, viselike grip, he didn’t feel that sick. The doctor had explained to him that as long as he didn’t exert himself strenuously, he wouldn’t notice all that much difference, except for the occasional shortness of breath. Of course, his condition would worsen with time, and that was a good reason to go ahead with the pacemaker, but the thing of it was, he didn’t look pale and infirm. He didn’t limp or grow weak. On the surface he didn’t appear even slightly changed. He had to believe the doctor’s word and the analysis the doctor derived from his medical crystal balls: he was a sick dude.
“What about after the pacemaker?” he had asked the doctor when Jennie wasn’t around. The doctor shook his head.
“We’ll see, Mr. Samuels, but at your age, you should think in terms of retirement, especially in light of the physical stress your job demands.”
There wasn’t much room for hope. He couldn’t turn back the years.
Rosina turned from the desk she was at and spotted him as soon as he entered. She handed her paperwork to Derek Simpson, a young detective who had recently joined the force, and hurried across the room to greet Frankie.
“Didn’t know you were coming in today,” she said, hugging him.
“Me neither. Nolan called to ask if I would stop by. I guess he figured I had had a chance to catch my breath. Now is as good a time as any to punch me in the stomach.”
She nodded with a smirk.
“We busted that pump station,” she said. “They were selling drugs out of it. I’m just finishing the paperwork now.”
“You worked with Simpson?” he asked, nodding toward the tall, dark-haired twenty-six-year-old man who in many ways reminded Frankie of his younger self.
“My new partner. His youthful enthusiasm bowls me over,” she added, and Frankie laughed. It was the way he had first characterized her when they began their partnership.
“Be careful, Flores. You’re going to become one of the old-timers here faster than you think.”
“You’re right. Anyway,” she said leaning closer to him, “I just wanted to tell you I did some follow-up of my own on that Murray suicide.”
Frankie raised his eyebrows.
“My urban cynicism is catching?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like loose ends, either.”
“And?”
“I called the coroner like you suggested. He said there was enough Dilantin to put him out, but he couldn’t swear to when he injected himself w
ith the insulin.”
“If he did inject himself,” Frankie corrected.
“He did. Prints were all over the insulin bottle and hypodermic.” She paused, and he sensed her hesitation.
“What?” Frankie asked. “Come on, there’s something bothering you, Flores.”
“However,” she said, closing and then opening her eyes, “I went back to the apartment and checked every cabinet in the kitchen. No Dilantin anywhere, and their doctor here never prescribed any for Sam Murray.”
“Go on,” Frankie said, knowing there was more.
“They were snowbirds, here for the season, so I even called their physician back East.”
“And?”
“Sam Murray had been prescribed a sleeping pill at one time, but it wasn’t Dilantin.”
“I see. Very interesting. You didn’t tell Nolan, did you?” Rosina just stared. “You did?”
“Yeah, I thought I should. He has a way of finding out everything everyone does around here anyway. Company spies or whatever.”
“Ass-kissers. So? What did the general say?”
“First, he was pissed I spent any time on it, personal time or otherwise.”
“But what did he say when you told him about the Dilantin and their doctors?”
“He wasn’t impressed. He said old people are always lending each other medicine. The way he put it,” she said lowering her voice to imitate Nolan, “was ‘instead of knocking on the neighbor’s door to borrow a cup a sugar, they knock to borrow blood pressure pills and sleeping pills.’”
“Possible, but not conclusive until you interview a neighbor who did,” Frankie said.
“To him the Murrays were just another couple of retirees struggling to live on a fixed income. So he sees no motive, no reason to go any further.”
“There are other reasons why people kill people,” Frankie said, “besides attaining something of material value.”
“Herr Nolan doesn’t see it that way. He spoke with the coroner, who is convinced it was suicide.”
“Where did they live?”
“That low-income apartment complex east of the Tram on Vista Chino, the Palm Court.”
“So you didn’t get to speak to any friends, neighbors?”
Rosina shook her head.
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“No, to be exact. I ran up there and ran back. Besides having me finish up the pump station investigation, Nolan’s got me and Derek staking out a car wash off East Palm Canyon. There’s a body shop attached, and people who have had their cars washed there lately have also been ripped off soon afterward. Latest is a guy on Laverne who had the two front seats of his late model Honda Accord swiped.”
“The seats?”
“Cost about four thousand to replace. Hey, this is a busy place, Samuels,” Flores said.
“I seem to remember,” he said and looked toward Nolan’s office. “All right, I’ll go face our Führer.”
“Don’t forget to salute,” Rosina quipped as Frankie started away. “How about lunch one day this week?”
“I don’t know if I can fit it in, but I’ll try,” he said. She laughed, and he turned toward Bill Nolan’s office.
Chief of Detectives William Nolan never tolerated being called Bill, and especially hated Billy. Even in grade school, when one of his teachers tried for some informality and referred to him as Bill or Billy, William Nolan would correct the teacher in no uncertain terms.
“My name isn’t Billy. It’s William,” he would say firmly, with not the hint of compromise in his dark brown eyes. It was something his mother had ingrained in him from the first moment he could understand its significance. His father had deserted her shortly after he was born and she was sensitive about their family image afterward. Her stern attitudes and unbending standards molded him into a coldly impersonal young man, intelligent but arrogant, ambitious but selfish. He was unpopular with his fellow students in school and in college, but being liked by his peers was far lower on his totem pole of values than being respected by his superiors.
Consequently, he was better at individual sports such as wrestling, track and field, and tennis than he was at any team sport. But he excelled athletically as well as intellectually. Everything he did, he did with a fierce determination, no matter how insignificant the activity seemed at the time.
A military career came naturally to him. He felt far more comfortable in an organized setting with a definite code of behavior and a clear pecking order. He was an ideal candidate for officer’s training and chose the military police as the logical next step. He was promoted rapidly and got into hightech surveillance.
He didn’t marry until shortly before he retired from the military. His wife came from an orthodox Catholic family that found a religious significance in the fact that they were related, however distantly, to Cardinal Spellman. Mary Spellman was a mousy little woman who was compliant and obedient, the perfect mate for William, who had simply decided that he had reached the point when he should be married and have children. It almost didn’t matter what Mary looked like. He found her working as a receptionist on the military base, courted her formally and quickly, and proposed marriage by stating it was the most sensible step for them to take. She accepted, but all their attempts to have children failed.
After his military retirement, William made a quick reputation for himself in civilian police work and when the opening in the Palm Springs Police Department was advertised, he applied with an impressive, arm-long list of references and was hired, much to the chagrin of some of the old-timers like Frankie; but the city fathers wouldn’t appoint anyone on the inside. They wanted an outsider because they thought an insider would play favorites. They were right about one thing: Nolan didn’t play favorites; he treated everyone equally, in the same condescending manner.
Frankie knocked on Chief Nolan’s office door, waited for the command to enter, and did so. His superior was seated behind his desk initialing some reports. As always, his pecan brown hair was clipped short. What few gray hairs he had were only at his temples, managing to give him a distinguished look. In his suit and tie, William Nolan appeared immaculate, but then he always did, no matter what the time of day. Somehow, the nitty-gritty part of police work left him unscathed. In a suit, Nolan could easily be mistaken for a businessman, not someone on the hunt—for drug dealers, prostitutes, burglars, and other street riffraff.
He gazed up. Seeing Frankie, he indicated the empty chair across from him with his pen. “Take a seat.”
Frankie sat down. Nolan continued to initial the documents in front of him before looking up again. When he did, he pushed back on his chair and straightened his shoulders.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Good,” Frankie said quickly. And then added, “As good as I can under the circumstances.”
Nolan nodded.
“I had a long talk with your doctor and he’s making a strong recommendation that you retire. You’ve got the years in, so you can claim full benefits.”
“Why don’t we wait to see how I am after the implant?” Frankie suggested. “The doctor wasn’t a hundred percent sure when I asked him.”
“Why, what do you think you’ll become when you get your pacemaker implanted, the Six Million Dollar Man, a cyborg cop?” Nolan quipped. His smile lifted only the right corner of his mouth and was really indistinguishable from a sneer.
“No, but with the pacemaker in, I might be able to resume normal activities.”
“Normal layman activities. You’re not going to be able to give me a hundred percent, not that you were doing so in all departments anyway. I’ve been warning you about your health, but I’m not here to say I told you so.”
“Let’s be grateful for little things,” Frankie retorted. Nolan showed little emotion. There was just an icy twinkling in his cold eyes. Otherwise, his face remained its granite-solid self.
“You’re the oldest detective in the department, for chrissakes,�
�� Nolan said. “It’s time you hung it up anyway, but if you force me to, I’ll have a second doctor confirm everything the first says and enforce your retirement. Your choice.”
“Everything isn’t always black and white, Nolan.”
“Most is.”
“Not even most.”
“Some day after you’ve recuperated, we’ll have lunch and philosophize, but right now …”
“I’m not having the procedure for a week, maybe eight, nine days,” Frankie said quickly.
“So?”
“I’d like to wrap up some things, remain on full-time duty.”
“You just came out of the hospital, for crissakes, and you fell on your face pursuing a suspect. You could have endangered the life of another police officer and you want me to let you hang around? You just use your sick leave and do what your doctor tells you to do.
“I had Maggie prepare all the papers for you to sign,” Nolan added. “I only want to make things easier for everyone.”
“I bet. Look. Let me take a few days to clean up my things, tie up some loose ends.”
“What loose ends?”
“I don’t know. Loose ends. What’s the difference? You won’t give me any assignments that will endanger another officer,” Frankie snapped. His face felt hot, as if he had walked into a steam room. Nolan stared at him.
“You got to know when it’s time to let go, Samuels.”
“I’ll know.”
“I want your badge and gun on this desk by the end of the week,” Nolan concluded and started to peruse the documents on his desk again. Frankie didn’t move. Nolan looked up, surprised. “What?”
“This suicide Rosina investigated, Mr. Murray …”
“So?”
“Sounds screwy, Dilantin, insulin, but no trail on the Dilantin.”
“This one of those loose ends you mentioned?” Nolan looked like he was ready to burst into laughter, but Frankie held his ground.
Angel of Mercy Page 7
