Looker

by Michael Kilian

  “Are you all right, Dad?”

  “I’m—I’m fine. I was a witness to a murder a few days ago. A woman was shot right in front of me.”

  “I know. We saw it on television.”

  “I guess it’s getting on my nerves.”

  Davey was looking at him with doubt, if not mistrust.

  “I’m all right, Davey. I really am.”

  “Are you going to come back to live with us?”

  “Yes, of course.” He hesitated. His son was not believing him. “Well, I guess that’s up to your mother. We’re—we’re having a fight.”

  “You never had a fight this long before.”

  “No. I guess we haven’t.”

  A.C. drank some of the warm gin. He almost never allowed himself spirits when they were in the boat and under way. It was a rule. Only at anchor.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come live with you?”

  He and Davey, alone in the middle of the Upper East Side. He and Davey and Bailey, wherever she was. Kitty would kill him first.

  “That would be nice, Davey.”

  “Can I go back with you?”

  “Maybe not this time.”

  “Please?”

  “Davey, I’m not really supposed to be up here. Your mother and I, well, this has become quite a fight.”

  A.C. saw the small powerboat at nearly the last moment, coming upon them in a great noisy rush from the port quarter of the bow. He grabbed the tiller away from his son.

  “I’ve got the helm!” he shouted.

  Their boat swerved and lunged to the left. The mainsail flattened and fluttered, then caught the wind on the leeward side, throwing the craft into a violent jibe, the boom swinging wildly to the right, nearly hitting Davey in the head. The boat heeled over dangerously, water slapping up at the rail.

  A.C. snapped the mainsheet out of its cleat and let it run out, the boom continuing on far out over the starboard side. The craft righted itself, heading downstream on a run.

  Both their cups had fallen and were rolling around the cockpit decking, which was now sticky with their contents.

  “Goddamn it!” said A.C.

  “I’m sorry, Dad! I’m sorry!”

  The powerboat, trailing tails of foam, was racing away from them, a teenage boy at the wheel shouting at them and making an obscene gesture.

  “The little bastard.”

  “It’s my fault, Dad. I wasn’t looking.”

  “It’s his fault. We had the right of way.”

  Davey looked very unhappy. He took a seat at the forward end of the cockpit, looking down at his worn boating shoes.

  “Take the helm, Davey.”

  “No, that’s all right, Dad.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. We’ll get back on a heading for Haverstraw.”

  “That’s all right. We can go back now.”

  “You don’t mean home?”

  “Yes. We don’t need to keep sailing.”

  “Davey, it was just a near miss. We did fine. It’s all part of sailing.”

  The boy sighed. “I know.”

  They were heading downstream. A.C. pointed the bow around to as northeasterly a course as he could manage without slipping into irons. It meant sailing close-hauled and heeling sharply, but he didn’t want to have to keep tacking. He wanted to talk.

  He began hauling the mainsheet tight, the heel increasing with his pull.

  “I could use some weight over here.”

  The boy clambered over to his side. A.C. put his arm around him. The water was rushing white along the rail.

  “Davey, you’ll be able to be with me. Either here or there, or somewhere. I’ll work it out.”

  The boy said nothing. On his own, he began to trim the jib to match the angle of the mainsail.

  “I love you,” A.C. said.

  “I know that.”

  “And Kathleen.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother.”

  His son said nothing.

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “Dad? How long can you stay?”

  “I want to talk to your mother. I’ll stay at least until she comes back.”

  He didn’t have to wait. As they entered the harbor on the small outboard engine, puttering through the moorings and traffic with sails lowered, he saw Kitty on the dock, standing with arms folded. He turned into their slip, reversing the little motor to slow their forward movement and steering a little sideways to swing the beam of the boat up against the rubber tire bumpers. As they touched, creaking, Davey leapt onto the dock, grabbing the bow line and securing it with a figure eight on a dockside cleat.

  Kitty came forward. She was as picture perfect as the photo on his desk, wearing a pink cardigan sweater, white blouse, loose-fitting khaki Bermudas, and brown loafers. Her gray hair, slightly windblown, was held back by a pink hair ribbon.

  “Do you have the keys to the Jeep?” she asked. Her voice was flat, emotionless, the Westchester accent perfect, but somewhat clipped.

  “Yes,” A.C. said.

  “When you finish with the boat, I want you to drive it back to the house.”

  “All right.”

  “Davey, go get in the car. My car.”

  He could see her gray Mercedes in the parking lot.

  “Kitty, I—”

  “I don’t want to talk to you now. Just put the boat back the way you found it.”

  Davey was walking up the dock, head lowered.

  “Kitty. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  She stared at him for a very long moment. There was something in her gaze that reminded him of nature films of lions silently watching a herd of prey, pondering their choice of victims.

  Without a word, she then turned and followed her son to the shore.

  A.C. tied the other lines to the dock, coiled the lines and sheets aboard the boat, stuffed the sails into waterproof bags, and stowed them below. After cleaning up the spilled drinks on the cockpit deck, he locked the hatch cover and left the key with the harbormaster, signing the book. Reaching the Jeep, he paused only to put on his blazer, then roared up the roadway to the street above, his wheels spinning slightly as he slid around the curve at the top.

  To reach their house, he had to drive to the top of a hill just off Highway 9 north of the village, and then follow their long driveway for two curves down the other side. The view of the Hudson and its valley was as magnificent as he could remember, but his eyes were fixed on the figures standing by the three-car garage.

  Kitty had left her Mercedes in the turnaround, but had opened two of the three garage doors. He drove inside, turning off the engine. As he shut the door, he heard her telling Davey to go into the house.

  He stepped out into the sunlight. “Now what?”

  “Get into the Mercedes, A.C.”

  He did so obediently. As she got in behind the wheel, he realized this was the first time he had been this close to her in two weeks. She almost brushed his arm. He wished she had.

  “Do you want to go for a drive?” he asked, as she turned back onto the road. “Do you want to talk?” She had quite lovely legs and they were very tan. So were her hands and arms. He saw she still wore her wedding ring.

  “No. I’m taking you back to the station.”

  “Kitty. For God’s sake. There won’t be a train for almost two hours.”

  “Then go find a bar.” She gunned the engine, skidding around a curve.

  “Kitty!”

  “I told you not to come up.”

  “You didn’t even let me say goodbye to Davey.”

  “I’ll provide you a better occasion. A more memorable one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look. Do you want me to explode? Do you want me to start calling you all sorts of vile names? Do you want to have another big fight?”

  “No.”

  “Then shut up.”

  She slip
ped off the road a moment, the wheels chewing up gravel and then bouncing back onto concrete again. He remained silent all the way to the station, staring at her, wondering what might lie within his power to change all this, until they pulled up at the sidewalk fronting the little railroad depot.

  “When will I see you again?” he asked softly.

  “Get out, A.C.”

  He sighed, and snapped open the door. Closing it, he sought her eyes, but she was staring straight ahead. When he stepped back, she ground the gears into reverse, screeched into a backward turn, then roared off into the street. Then all was silent. The station was deserted.

  There were iron steps leading to the elevated walkway that crossed the tracks to the inbound platform. He climbed them wearily. The station was in a defile, cut off from the wind, and the sunlight was very hot.

  On the other side of the tracks, he slumped wearily onto a bench and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The silent emptiness in both directions underscored the totality of his abandonment. He had asked for this. He’d been doomed to it the moment he’d left his apartment.

  Camilla, wherever she was, seemed very far away. She had a home in France. Perhaps she had by now returned to it, and was beyond reach of this horrible mess. When he got back to the city, he could go directly to the police and tell them everything he knew—tell them, and the editors at his paper. He couldn’t believe his wife was through with him. Much as he had wanted to, he hadn’t taken Camilla to bed. There’d only been a few kisses—as in all of his flirtations. In time, he would forget all about it.

  No, he wouldn’t. He was lying to himself as much as he’d been lying to his wife. Camilla was now in his system, like some virus. She was in his thoughts as much as his wife and children, sometimes more so. He kept remembering her leaning over him, attending to his wounds; kept remembering her kiss—kept imagining her body without clothes. She had French poetry on her bookshelves and modernist paintings on her walls. He’d seen a CD by her stereo—Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony. She was a Southern lady who had taken a beautiful photograph of an old gnarled black woman, for whom she had felt very sad.

  A.C. had never known a woman like Camilla Santee. He wouldn’t forget her for a very long time, even if he never saw her again.

  He could do nothing that might possibly hurt her. He would talk to no one. Not yet.

  He put his head in his hands. Aside from everything else, there was Bailey.

  An automobile horn sounded, but he ignored it. Then it sounded again, insistently. He looked up. There was a gray car in the parking lot opposite—Kitty’s Mercedes. He saw something move behind the windshield. Then she hit the horn once more.

  With some slowness now, he reclimbed the steps to the walkway and crossed over. Descending, he went to the driver’s side, but did not come near the window.

  “What do you want, Kitty?”

  “Get in.” Her voice was as restrained as before, but her expression had changed. He saw that she had been crying. “Get in. I’m going to drive you into town.”

  Policemen made lousy soldiers. They didn’t think like soldiers, didn’t act like soldiers. They couldn’t be made to look like soldiers. When they tried, they appeared evil and menacing or very foolish. The SS in Nazi Germany pretended to be soldiers, but were really policemen—maybe the ultimate policemen—and it showed. This was true also of soldiers in Latin American countries. They looked like cops—very bad and very corrupt cops, but cops.

  The cops at Pat Cassidy’s mass looked very foolish. Drawn up in military formation as an honor guard with batons raised as the casket was carried by, they stared straight ahead, lips pursed, shoulders stiff, playacting the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. But they were laughable—there was too much belly in view, too many sideburns and woolly mustaches, too much age. Soldiers on parade are trained to rid their faces of all expression. Cops always have expressions. Soldiers are young. Cops are old. Police units had come to Cassidy’s funeral from all over the metropolitan area. A few were from out of state—highway troopers in outlandish uniforms, small-town cops from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Virginia. The latter contingent roiled the acid in Lanham’s unhappy stomach. Bad Biker Bobby was black. Pat Cassidy was dead.

  Lanham was a pallbearer. So were Cassidy’s two brothers and brother-in-law. Taranto, Caputo, Tony Gabriel, and Petrowicz made up the rest. Cassidy’s widow had requested that, even though the fatal shot had been fired by Gabriel.

  The mayor made a stock speech full of nonsense, all about war and battles and likening brave men like Patrick Francis Cassidy to the Trojans who stood at Thermopylae. No one had bothered or dared to tell his speechwriter that the heroic stand had been made by Spartans. Mention the name Leonidas to the mayor and he’d think you were talking about someone who owned a restaurant in Astoria.

  The commissioner gave a speech only slightly less inane. The chief of detectives got very Irish, and went on about ancient chieftains. Only Taranto delivered a true eulogy—about the days when Cassidy had been a very good cop. No one even hinted that Pat had died because he’d been drunk and afraid.

  Mrs. Cassidy sat through it all very stoically. There had been tears that first night. The priest had told Lanham that. They’d come again after the funeral, when she had more to drink; when she was alone again.

  Tony had tried to catch Lanham’s eye when they had brought the casket to the altar. With the mass said and done, as they came forward to resume their task, he leaned close to Lanham and whispered. “Ray. I gotta talk to you.”

  “Not now.”

  “Outside.”

  “In the car.”

  “Not in the car. Alone.”

  Because they were the tallest, Lanham and Petrowicz carried the forward end of the casket. This helped as they descended the steps outside the church, but once on the even pavement, they had to slouch and hunch to keep their burden level. Lanham’s shoulder was hurting by the time they reached the black Cadillac hearse and slid the casket forward into the waiting, practiced hands of the undertaker’s assistant.

  Lanham straightened himself slowly, arching his back. The ceremony was over, but not concluded. The assembled policemen, clubs to the fore, were still at attention, waiting.

  “Now, Ray,” said Gabriel.

  “We’ve got to go to the cemetery.”

  “Not yet.” He jerked his head toward the mayor, who was talking to a small mob of newsmen.

  “All right.”

  They went down the sidewalk past their car. Petrowicz made as if to follow, but Lanham shook his head. Gabriel stopped by an overgrowth of bushes that badly needed trimming, and lit a cigarette. He looked a little nervous. His eyes were like Taranto’s.

  “You’re after some pictures,” he said.

  “I guess I made that pretty obvious.”

  “I got a problem.”

  “You’ve got a lot of problems, Tony.”

  “This girl, Belinda. You know I got something special with her.”

  “You’ve got a special kind of trouble with her.”

  “Give me a break, Raymond. I’ll take care of that shit. This is something else.”

  He took a deep drag from his cigarette, then looked at Lanham hard.

  “I gotta ask you a favor,” Gabriel said. “I’m going to give you something you can’t use.”

  “You give me a break, Tony.”

  “All right, listen. That newspaper guy, that rich bastard A.C. James, your great eyewitness. He knows about the videotape you’re looking for. He hit Belinda up about it yesterday. She’s scared shitless he’s going to put something about them in the paper and her old man’ll find out. And you know what her old man is like.”

  “What about you, Tony? Don’t you know what he’s like? You’re sleeping with his woman. Don’t you know how wiseguys in his position like to deal with situations like that?”

  “I’ll worry about me.”

  “I’m not talking about you, Tony. The outf
it isn’t going to mess with a cop who isn’t in the business. But what about her?”

  “I’m trying to help her, Ray. That’s why I’m telling you this.”

  “What does James know?”

  “He knows there’s a videotape that wasn’t shot by Walt Disney and that Belinda was paying off somebody to keep it out of circulation.”

  “Did you talk to James?”

  “No, just Belinda.”

  “Does he know who she’s paying? Do you?”

  “That’s what he was trying to find out.” Gabriel took a long final drag and dropped the cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it with his highly polished shoe. “I know who it is, Ray. Belinda was stupid enough to tell me.”

  “His name’s Gorky, right? A photographer named Gorky?”

  “No, she never mentioned any Gorky. It’s Molly Wickham’s fat boyfriend that she’s been paying. Pete something.”

  “Pierre. Pierre Delasante.”

  “Whatever.”

  “But he was in the tape.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s got it. And he’s been shaking Belinda down. He’s taken her for more than ten thousand so far. Ten fucking large.”

  “She’s not bullshitting you?”

  “She’s in love with me, Ray. And she’s scared to death.”

  “They’re always in love with you, Tony. This one you haven’t known a week.”

  “Things happen, okay? Look. I helped you out here. You help me out. Help me get the fucking tape back. Lean on this guy.”

  “I’m not much interested in charity work, Tony. Least of all for a police detective who’s screwing a witness. But I’ll go this far with you. I’m investigating a homicide. I don’t give a damn about somebody’s dirty pictures unless they’re material to the case.”

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  “But if they are material, if the D.A. needs a count of every pubic hair in every shot to score some point with a jury, then all bets are off.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.”

  It was black talk. Lanham didn’t like it coming from Gabriel.

  “And Tony, I don’t want you putting the arm on that newspaper columnist. You’ll only make things worse.”

  “I can’t even find him.”

  “Don’t find him. I’ll deal with him.”

  The evil little genie in Lanham’s pocket began its insistent squeaking. As he turned toward the church, he heard Gabriel’s beeper go off as well. In the crowd, Caputo and the lieutenant were moving. Lanham searched for Petrowicz’s face, finding it near the hearse, just above the line of blue caps. He was shouting. Lanham couldn’t hear, but could see him mouthing the word.