Joey Warnecki - Eight Days Page 6

Chapter 6

  To Sims' eye, the only person in the room who appeared to be at all at ease was Waters, who seemed never to lose his cool, anyway. They had arrived almost simultaneously at eight o'clock and been ushered quietly down into the sanctum sanctorum of Clarkson's private lair. Four wooden kitchen chairs and Clarkson's rolling office chair awaited them, set in a circle in the center of the low-ceilinged basement room. Fluorescent tubes in the acoustic-tile ceiling mimicked the light of the police department. Waters sat in the catbird's seat, dressed in creased, tan chinos and a pale blue, oxford cloth shirt, perusing the first copy from Clarkson's printer. Clarkson stood at the scanner, removing Mary's original time line, which Sims had annotated the previous evening. The Sergeant's concession to being off-duty was to be tieless in his uniform shirt and pants. Mary wore blue jeans and a pressed, blue denim shirt, her off-duty uniform of the day. She distributed copies as each slid into the printer tray, her nervous movements betraying her unease. Knowles was in uniform, clearly surprised at having been handed a delicate china cup of coffee, complete with matching saucer, from the hand of Clarkson himself. He balanced that in his left hand, in his right was the Styrofoam cup he had carried in. Sims was dressed for church in his off-the-rack, blue suit, though he doubted that this morning's agenda would free him in time to accompany his wife to services. With the printer shut off and everyone seated, Waters gave Sims the nod to begin. "Not to pass the buck," Sims said, "but I'm going to defer to Mary here, since she put this all together and can tell it better than I."

  Mary looked back at him in reproach and took a breath. "Thanks a lot, John," she said with slight sarcasm. "Okay. Here it is as I heard it from Warnecki yesterday afternoon, along with the other events that I've plotted in . . ." She spoke as though reading from a script, as indeed she was: the same script that each other person in the room followed, like actors following lines in the first reading of a play about a conspiracy. The others listened silently, apart from the occasional grunt from Clarkson and a few questions from Waters, who took notes on a clipboard on his lap. At the end of her narration, a long silence ensued. The ramifications of considering police involvement in a criminal scheme made every person in the room uncomfortable. More than their careers, the integrity of the entire department was at stake. The only person in the room who had had any experience at all with police corruption was Waters, who had traveled north to quaint Rock Harbor in part to leave all that compromising activity behind. Clarkson seemed embarrassed behind his usual air of irritation.

  Waters broke their musing. "Anything else to add?" he asked.

  Knowles cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "since we were looking to find Trott to confirm or refute Warnecki saying that he was in on that meeting Monday night, I thought I might ride on out there to talk to him. And since when I got to his place and the back door was wide open, and thinking that he might be hurt in there or something, I went in, you know, announcing my presence, of course, and I looked around for him." This drew a grunt from Clarkson, but no comment. Knowles glanced Clarkson's way from lowered eyebrows, cleared his throat and continued, finding a spot on the ceiling to focus upon as he spoke. "I looked through the place and didn't find him, so I left, closing the door behind me to keep the heat in, you know. But, I did happen to notice one or two things in passing, so to speak. One was that the Chief's home phone number was written on the wall there in plain sight. And the other was a shirt with what might be blood on the right shoulder. There was a hole in the shirt there, too. Just happened to glance at it 'cause it caught on the toe of my shoe as I was checking to make sure Trott wasn't lying upstairs hurt, or something. But that's all, you know. I didn't, like, go in to search the place or anything. Of course." Knowles crossed his legs at the ankles, legs stretched out in front of him. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, the picture of a concerned police officer, always looking out for the well-being of the town's citizenry. Mary caught the beginnings of a smile appear on her face and stifled them. Knowles was hoping for someone else to speak and take the focus from him.

  "The consequences of pursuing an investigation along these lines, where the head of the department is a target, are apparent to all of us, regardless of the outcome," said Waters. "This is a very serious business. With that in mind, I'd like to ask each of you as to your thoughts on the matter. Sims?"

  Sims looked inward for only a few seconds before meeting Waters' eyes. "I don't want to do this," he said. "I like my job and I don't want to lose it. Also, I'm sure that this thing is going to hurt the department and make it harder for all of us to do the job. But I don't think we really have any choice. We have to follow the matter, whatever the outcome. How we go about it is my main concern. I trust you to do the right thing."

  Waters' eyebrows rose slightly. "Thanks for that vote of confidence. Mary, what's your take on this?"

  "I agree with John," Mary answered directly. "We have to do it and do it right, so that most of the stink doesn't stick to the department. We have to play it close to the chest. And we have to keep Warnecki alive."

  "Most definitely," said Waters. "Knowles?"

  "I'm retired in a few months. I got nothing to lose but my pension. Maybe. But I wouldn't mind seeing Sloan go down, and Brulick with him. I'll play it however you see fit, long as I can be in it."

  "Let's not convict anyone until we're sure." If there was a loose cannon on board, Waters thought, it would be Knowles. "Sarge?"

  Clarkson glared out at everyone. "The department's got to be kept intact. If the staties or DEA or anyone else gets wind of this, it'll go out of our hands. We have to keep it in-house, take care of our own laundry."

  "It sounds to me as though we've all bought into the proposed train of events. That being the case, I have one more piece to add." Waters looked at each face but Clarkson's. "Sergeant Clarkson brought me the information that Sloan's brother-in-law is an agent for the DEA out of Boston. That makes a circumstantial link of access to the cocaine and, as we've just heard, to a substantial amount of heroin. Charles Adams' happening to come up with a large infusion of cash for his project from an unknown source makes our scenario feasible. The problem we have, especially with trying to be discreet, is to come up with something solid, since all we have is conjecture without evidence."

  Knowles cleared his throat. "They're bound to go after Warnecki again. He's their biggest problem. Watch 'em and grab 'em when they try."

  Waters nodded, but otherwise let the suggestion pass. "The money angle is out-of-bounds for now. Cayman Islands banks are too tight, even for the feds. Trott is gone and unlikely to come back to help. But we can use him as a stalking horse, get into his house legally, somehow, for that shirt. We need to get Mr. Soucup to cooperate with us. We need to keep an eye on Warnecki and keep tabs on Sloan, Brulick, and Adams. What else?"

  "If there's a weak link in that trio," said Sims, "it's Brulick. If he's part of it, and the shit comes down, he'd be the first one to break." Beside him, Knowles grinned evilly, like he wouldn't mind facilitating that breakdown.

  "Find the boat," said Clarkson. "We need LeBeau."

  Waters agreed. "LeBeau should be involved. But no one else, for now. I'll talk to him."

  At that point, the phone rang and Clarkson picked it up. "Clarkson," he said, and listened for a minute. Everyone else in the room held their silence, feeling as though they were children hiding from the adults. It was uncomfortable for them, people who were used to acting in the open now having to act surreptitiously. "Not that I've heard. I'll get in touch with him," Clarkson responded to the voice on the other end of the line. "I'll be in shortly." He hung up without saying goodbye. "That was Sloan," he said, turning to Waters, "looking for you. He wants an update on Warnecki's movements and whether or not we've located Trott." Clarkson shook his head slowly and sank into his chair. Although all in the room were up-front, in-your-face kind of people, Clarkson was an extreme example of that type. "I hate this shit," he said, speaking for all of them.

  "Let'
s break it down like this for today," Waters said. "Mary, give Warnecki a call, find out his schedule for the next few days. Give him some phone numbers, the list of who he can talk to." Mary nodded. "Knowles. Drive on out to Trott's, knock on his door. Check around if anyone has seen him. And pay a short visit to Mr. Soucup, but don't push him. We want to gain his confidence."

  "Would you like me to take care of that?" Sims interrupted.

  Knowles chuckled. "Don't worry, John," he said. "I'll be Officer Friendly."

  Sims looked doubtful, but Waters waved him off. "You're off today, John. Tomorrow you can try Soucup if Knowles has a hard time there. I'd like you to see if June can get more information about what's going on at the bank, if you're comfortable with that."

  Sims thought about it. "She has a legitimate interest, since Adams approached her about the project. I think she wouldn't mind digging a bit, and she's discreet. I'll ask her."

  "Thanks," Waters said. "The Sergeant and I will stay for a while to work out some things, rearrange schedules. If there's nothing else, you're all free to go." He looked around for any response and then looked down to study the time line in his lap. Clarkson shepherded the three officers upstairs and out and they walked to their cars in bright sunlight. The tree-lined, residential neighborhood of single-family homes was quiet. Sims checked the time and saw that he could get to church in time. Knowles and Mary drove off separately in the direction of town, Mary behind him in her red Honda.

  Mary decided to stop at Warnecki's home rather than calling, since it was on her way. Knowles stayed ahead of her, heading for the department to check in. Just after passing the intersection of Main and Water Streets, a shabbily dressed, older man paused in his rooting through a trash barrel to give Knowles the finger as he passed by. Knowles slowed and the old man scurried back and around the corner down Water Street. Mary wondered what that was all about. Knowles kept going and Mary turned right on Chandler Street, towards Joey's neighborhood.

  Her knocking on the rear door of Joey's house went unanswered until Louis poked his head out his own rear door and announced that Joey had walked into town for breakfast a half-hour earlier. Mary thanked him and drove back into town, found a parking space on Green Street, and entered Emily's Rest to find Joey sitting at the counter. The restaurant was just beginning to fill up with families out for Sunday brunch, most opting for table space and leaving the counter seats largely empty. Mary sat between Joey and a man dressed in bib overalls. Joey was sitting with a mug of coffee held before his mouth in both hands. The skin on his hands was red and flaked with pieces of white, peeling skin. He didn't seem to notice her presence.

  "Hey," she said. "How you doing?"

  Joey was startled from his reverie. "Hi," he said back, looking around at his surroundings as though surprised to find himself there. He put the mug down and his hands in his lap. "Were you looking for me?"

  "Sort of," she answered. "Got some things to talk about." She looked at the hair sprouting from under the sides of his red ball cap. "You need a haircut," she observed.

  Joey smiled. "Yeah? That what you needed to see me about?"

  Emily materialized in front of them, pad in hand. "What can I get you?" she asked pleasantly, but seeming to study Mary more closely than the average customer.

  Mary smiled at her. She had a nodding acquaintance with the two owners of the restaurant, but didn't know more about them than what local gossip provided. "How about a large coffee, regular, and a blueberry muffin, to go." She turned to Joey. "You close to being finished? I can give you a ride home and we could talk for a minute." Emily lingered behind the counter longer than necessary, writing down her order. Emily's wavy hair was loose to the shoulders of a western-style, white blouse with red piping and a fringed skirt to match. When Joey allowed that he was done eating, Emily walked away and Mary saw that she wore white leather cowboy boots. Mary caught the look that passed between Emily at the counter and Doris in the kitchen. As a cop, she was used to getting odd looks from some citizens, but this was the look that passed between parents evaluating the suitability of their child's date. It amused her as much as puzzled her. She saw Doris speak a few words to the gray-haired woman in baggy clothes at the stainless-steel sink and the sound of banging pots and pans ceased as the woman came to the opening in the kitchen wall to peer out at her, pushing up her glasses to do so. Joey noticed and waved to her, but she ignored him and returned to her work.

  "What was that all about?" Mary asked.

  "You just got the third degree," he answered. "Martha can go all day without saying a word. So, the fact that she stopped work for a second means she is somewhat interested. If she tips back her head to look at you without pushing up her glasses, then she's more interested. And since she did, well . . ."

  "And she was checking me out how, whether I'm worthy of sitting and talking to you?"

  Joey thought about it. "I don't think Martha thinks like that. It's more like she's handicapping a horse at the track. You know, deciding whether or not to place a bet."

  "A horse, huh?"

  Joey blushed. "No, no, I mean it's just that it's unusual for them to see me with a woman, even if the woman is a cop."

  "Are you saying it's all right for me to be a cop, but not a woman? Or a woman cop. Or what?" Mary had her chin in her hand and her elbow on the counter, wondering why she was enjoying making Joey feel uncomfortable. Joey finally figured out that she was teasing him and rolled his eyes without comment, and stood up to leave.

  Back in the car, Mary set her coffee and muffin on the dashboard and fastened her seat belt. "You have a tab in a breakfast joint?" she asked.

  Joey found his knees jammed up against the dash and adjusted the seat all the way back to accommodate his length. The sound of crunching coffee cups and candy wrappers came from behind him. "Yeah. I do a little work for them and barter for breakfast. Good thing, too, since I'm broke."

  Mary started the car and pulled out from the curb. "Mind using your seat belt? I am a cop, you know." He complied with her request. "It's going to be tough for you, financially, until some of this mess gets straightened out. You going to be all right? Your neighbor seemed willing to help you out." Mary turned left on Main Street, going around the block to head in the direction of Joey's house.

  "Louis is good. He's already paying for my lawyer and he's taken care of what I need so far, but I'd much rather pay my own way. I've got to find a way to work. I got a job for some people that will pay cash if I ask. The problem is getting to the job with my tools without tying up all of Louis' time. It's a drag." The same old man that gave Knowles the finger was back on Main Street. Joey waved to him and he waved back and smiled to show where teeth were missing.

  "Who's that?" Mary asked, stopping for a red light.

  "Pardner Jenks," Joey said, rolling down his window as the man stumbled off the curb in his direction.

  "Joey, how are you? Got any spare change?" Pard leaned to the window and gave Mary a leer. Joey struggled to free some coins from his pocket and dropped them in the man's hand as the light changed to green. Mary turned left, leaving Pard to stand in the street, counting what he held.

  "I guess I've seen him around," Mary said. "He live around here?"

  "I think Pard's homeless now. Last I heard, his wife got a court order keeping him away from her house. I don't know where he stays."

  The snow from the storm had retreated to misshapen lines of dirt-laden lumps along the roadsides and thin patches of crust in the shaded areas of lawns back from the street. By this afternoon, it would likely have all but disappeared, leaving behind the browned grass of late fall to await another fresh blanket of snow to cover its drabness. Leaves not already raked up would freeze in place until spring arrived and property owners were coerced by the new season to set their yards in order. "Not a good time of year to be homeless," Mary said as she pulled into Joey's driveway to stop before his pickup truck.

  Mary noted with approval that Joey had to unlock his place
for them to enter. She stood at the counter in his kitchen to open her coffee, offering him a part of her muffin. He declined, leaning back against the same counter in his quiet house. "I made you a list of phone numbers where to reach a small group of us that are looking into your...situation," she said, taking a folded sheet of paper from a breast pocket. "There's six of us going to be involved for now. We're taking this seriously." They stood facing in opposite directions, Mary tearing off small pieces of muffin, speaking between bites. "I believe I'll be your main contact person." She turned sideways to face his profile. "Call any time, day or night, if you perceive a threat or learn anything important. Both my home and cell numbers are on that paper." She cocked her head, studying him. "You seem especially thoughtful today. Anything going on that I should know about?"

  Joey paused before he answered. "Maybe. There is something else going on." He had yet to face her. "I found some strange papers in the attic." Now he turned her way and told about their contents and the speculations that Louis had offered towards their possible meaning. Then he told her what he was planning to do with them.

  "Tina Bronki? You think that's a good idea? I don't know, Joey." Joey had hit a ball way out into left field and Mary was running to catch it.

  "I don't know, either," he said, "but that's what I'm going to do. Can't be any more stupid than putting those boots on Sloan's porch, could it?" Joey found room for a tentative grin on his worried face. "In a way, it's more of the same. Another thing for him to worry about."

  "Or another reason for him or whoever else to finish what he started." Mary thought for a moment. "In any event," she said, "it's bound to accelerate the pace of whatever is going to happen. Which might not be a bad thing, because this business isn't going to stay under wraps for long."

  "For my part," Joey said, "I've got to see this thing end soon. I'm nervous as hell, and I don't like feeling this way. All my life, I've let things decide themselves whenever I could, but this isn't going to work that way. I've got to push the issue, make things happen." Joey folded his arms and looked down at his boots.

  Mary began to pace the floor. "Alright," she said, "then it's all the more important for you to stay in touch. You can't be floating off on your own anymore, right? If you're walking to breakfast, I want to know about it. What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

  "I think I'm going to stay home, take it easy. Maybe take a nap. I didn't sleep well last night."

  Mary stopped walking. "Listen. You want to work tomorrow?"

  Joey nodded. "Yes, I do. I've got a week's worth of work on the Jennings' porch."

  "I'll come by in the morning, drive your truck to the site. Keep an eye on you for part of the day, drive you back when you're done for the day."

  "Well." Joey was nonplused. "That's very nice of you to offer, but I couldn't take that much of your time. I can get Louis to drive."

  Mary shook her head. "No. I'll do it tomorrow. I'm off work, anyway. I'll call later to set up a time." She checked her watch. "What time is Tina coming by?"

  Joey looked at the clock behind her. "In about fifteen minutes."

  "I'm gonna leave. I don't want to be here when she comes, or she'll think I'm part of it. You weren't planning to tell her any of the other, were you?"

  "No. Not now."

  "Good. Watch out, though. When Tina's after something, she's like a terrier with a rat; she doesn't quit. Okay, I'm gone. I'll talk to you later." She headed for the door and stopped. "You check out any of those books yet?"

  Joey smiled. "Not yet. I will, though. Promise."

  .

  Tina got to Joey's house ten minutes early. She entered by the front door and the first thing out of her mouth was: "Was Mary Hartz just here, and what did she want?"

  Joey had to laugh at her abruptness. "Well hi, Tina. And how are you? I'm fine. Won't you come in, have a seat? Like some coffee?"

  She gave him a hard look for a Sunday morning and flopped down in the middle of the sofa. "Sure. It'll be about my fifth cup today, but why not? Just don't jerk me around today, Joey, I'm not in the mood." She was made up for television, having worked the Sunday morning newscast. She wore a red, raw silk suit over a white blouse, and her stockings and red, high-heel shoes were spattered with mud. An enormous black cloth bag sat on the couch beside her. She immediately stood again as Joey went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. "I'm going to use your bathroom," she announced.

  In the bathroom she noticed the cracked mirror, loose pieces held together with tape. She sat to pee and yelled through the closed door. "Is this mirror broken from a gunshot?" She thought Joey answered in the affirmative. "What?" she shouted. Now he answered loudly enough for her to hear. Good. She'd get a picture of that. Her bag had everything: still camera, tape recorder, laptop with modem, cell phone, even a video camera. Washing up, the mirror reflected back a broken, segmented image of herself. "That's about how I feel this morning," she said. "What?" came a voice from the kitchen. "Nothing," she yelled back. She opened the door and saw that he was still busy with the coffee maker. She went into the front room and retrieved the loaded video camera from her bag and padded back in her stocking feet to shoot the mirror. Then she went into the sitting room and panned the room, lingering on the bloodstains on the braided rug and the holes in the wall. Too bad the windows were fixed, she thought. When she had what she wanted, she boldly walked into the kitchen with the camera running, catching a stunned expression on Joey's face for a second before he broke into laughter. Have to cut that last bit.

  "Shit, Tina, would you turn that thing off, please?" The coffeemaker burbled to a finish and Joey turned to pour. "Milk or sugar?" he asked.

  "Black." Tina returned to her place on the sofa to be served. "Got any donuts or anything?" The camera went into the bag, out of sight, but ready to grab.

  Joey carried a tray into the front room, with the cups, paper napkins, and slices of store-bought poundcake arranged in a fan on a plate.

  "How nice," Tina commented. "So, what do you have for me, Joey, and make it good. I'm running on borrowed time."

  "Potato fields calling? Heard there was a bumper crop this year. That true?" Joey sat on an embroidered footstool in the center of the room, smiling at her and waiting for her to settle down a bit. Even in grade school, she'd been a blur of activity. The only way to get her calm attention was to piss her off just enough for her to focus, without pushing her over the edge into attack mode. She was about there.

  "Enough," was what she said.

  Joey put down his untasted coffee. "This may be part of a larger story. What happened to me Monday night is why you think you're here, but listen to me anyway." He told her how he had found the papers, what they contained, and raised the question of why toxic chemical waste would be delivered to a cannery. He left it to her imagination.

  She chewed and sipped and thought. "You say 'larger story." Are you saying that it's connected to what happened to you last week?"

  Joey looked up and shrugged. He had to choose his words. "There seems to be a connection of characters, if not individual events, or circumstances." His choice of words was ill-considered, giving Tina a foot in the door to his story.

  Tina stopped chewing. "Damn," she said. "Are you telling me that the Adams family is involved in both attempted murder and illegal waste dumping? Is that what you're saying? Because if it is, you'd better have solid proof, or there's no way a story like this is ever going to see the air. Can you imagine the lawsuits the station would face if we couldn't prove this?" She waved her cup and a dollop of coffee sloshed over onto her skirt. "Damn," she said. "Get me a damp cloth."

  Joey's intention had been to push the chemical issue and keep her out of the other, but he'd blown it somehow, and would have to work it out some other way. He was grateful for the distraction of having to get something to blot the stain from her skirt. She followed him into the kitchen where he looked in the cabinet beneath the sink and came up with a clean rag. He handed it to her and she dam
pened it under the faucet and dabbed at the stain. "This has got to go to the cleaner," she said. she straightened. "Well? Tell me. What do you have?"

  He took the rag from her hand and dropped it into the sink. He couldn't trust her to keep anything he told her from eventually being aired for the world to see. But he did believe that she was concerned enough about losing her job and any future job prospects not to release anything that she couldn't back up with evidence. So, why not give her a good piece of it and see what she could do to put the pressure on Sloan and Adams? "C'mon and sit down for a while. I'm going to give you photocopies of some receipts for the chemicals and tell you a couple of strange tales. And then you tell me what you think of all of it, okay?" They returned to their positions in the other room, and Tina elicited the whole deal, notwithstanding his assurances to Mary Hartz. Tina rummaged through her bag as they began speaking, coming up with a tissue with which to dab her nose, and incidentally pressing the record button on the miniature cassette recorder within the bag.

  Tina's technique with reluctant interviewees was to interrupt with a million questions, keeping her subject off balance until he or she had revealed more than intended. With someone like Joey, the process was like taking candy from an innocent babe. He didn't stand a chance, and by the time she was done, he had revealed everything. He squirmed, realizing he had held nothing back. "This is confidential, right?" he asked. "Off the record?"

  Tina was affronted. "Off the record? Nothing's off the record." She threw him a bone. "But. I will act prudently. I respect the fact that you have given me a lot here and I'll do what I can to not jeopardize your safety." Her expression of concern and sympathy morphed to one of awe. "What a story," she said. "It has all the elements: small-town corruption, drugs, murder and greed." Her eyes came back to focus. "The only thing lacking is a good sex scandal. No sex, Joey?"

  Joey was appalled. In two short hours with Tina Bronki, he had managed to release chaos from the box. "Tina. Listen to me. We have to make a deal."

  "What deal?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. What was his leverage for any deal? She had the tape, but it had been made with neither his knowledge nor consent. He had given her no hard evidence, not even the promised photocopies. All right then, deal.

  Joey saw the calculations being made behind her eyes. He needed a visual aid to bargain with. He got up abruptly and went into the kitchen, removed a sheaf of papers from a cabinet drawer, and returned to his perch on the footstool. Her eyes went to the papers as he spoke. "These are the copies. The deal is that you start in slowly. Work around the edges first. We want to push them into making mistakes, not let them build a stone wall. I'd like you to start with the chemical thing, bring the pressure up slowly. If everything breaks at once, we'll lose all control of it. And you have to discuss everything with me before going ahead with any of it." He fanned the papers before her as though showing her a winning poker hand.

  Tina was reluctant, but she could see his point. "Makes sense, I guess, up to a point." Her eyes let go of the papers and returned to his face. "But I'm not going to let you tie my hands. I have to use my own judgment." Shrewdness came into her eyes. "You get me an in with the police and I'll go along — mostly. And I want an exclusive on the story."

  .

  Sims got to the Rock Harbor First Church of Christ in time to slip in and stand beside his wife during the opening hymn. June had saved a place for him beside her in the last row. He held the hymnal with her, but didn't sing. His eyes roamed the congregation, looking for Charles Adams. Adams stood two rows ahead, a bit to his left. He saw that Charles was alone, Leticia not in her usual place beside him. Charles seemed to have done a poor job of shaving that morning, which was also unusual. June noticed his stare and nudged him with her elbow. "On the job this morning?" she whispered. He feigned innocence and tried to find his place in the song, but it came to an end and they sat.

  The sermon that morning blew right past Sims, so involved was he with studying the profile of Adams. He stood and sat at the appropriate times with the rest of the assembly, but he really took no part in the service. After the benediction, he wandered with the rest to the parish house for coffee hour, keeping a lookout for Adams, who slipped away without attending that time of sociality.

  "He probably felt your eyes on the back of his head," June said. She and her husband were standing together with cups in their hands in a corner of the large room, apart from other people.

  "Who?" Sims said. June gave him a look, but felt no need to respond. He rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, never mind. How about we go home? I'll pick up some chinese on my way." June tipped her head in gracious assent.

  At home, at the kitchen table, suit-coats off and sleeves rolled, they spooned from several cardboard cartons: chicken, shrimp, vegetables and rice. They both liked it made extra spicy, and the aromas combined in a heady and heavenly mixture.

  "So," June said from around a bite of hot-pepper green beans, "you actually got to see the inside of Clarkson's house. What was it like?"

  Sims swallowed before he spoke. "Didn't really get to see much. He hustled us down to the cellar, where he has recreated his office at the department, right down to flickering fluorescent lights and a beat-up, gray steel desk. Kind of frightening, really. It's like he has no life at all apart from the department. I did see a picture of him and his wife, taken when they were young marrieds. And the living room was set up with a hospital bed. She must have been living there for the several years before she passed away. He hasn't changed it since she died."

  "That's sad." They ate in silence for a minute, appreciating what they had in their lives. She wouldn't press him to reveal what had been so important and secret to occasion a meeting in such an unlikely locale. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

  The clock on the wall read noon. "Girls are sleeping late," he observed.

  "Yes. They're 'plum tuckered out'. They need it."

  "You want to go for a little walk?" Sims asked. "Nice sunny day, no wind. And I'd like to run some things past you, see what you think."

  "Sure. Let's leave some of this for the girls for their breakfast, change and go. Walk off the calories we just added." Sims added some to his plate before she could close all the containers and put them in the refrigerator. "Chow-hound," she commented.

  .

  Knowles made a pass by Elwood Trott's place, stopping long enough to knock on the rear door and then ask the next-door neighbors if they had noticed any comings or goings. They hadn't. His next stop was at Joe Soucup's. He was looking forward to talking to the old man who had given Sims such a hard time. Sims was generally unflappable, so Old Joe must be an especially hard case. Knowles enjoyed dealing with that particular type. He parked on the street in front of the house, noting the instant appearance of Joe in a front window. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again and waited some more. He could stand there and knock for as long as it took, and it took a full five minutes before the old man was irritated enough to answer his summons.

  "What the hell do you want?" said the high-pitched voice. The door was opened a scant inch, just enough to show one angry eyeball and part of a beaked nose with white hairs sprouting from its tip.

  "Mr. Soucup, like to take a minute of your time," said Knowles in his most pleasant voice.

  "Got nothing to say to you." The door closed. Knowles resumed his knocking. This time, after a minute of knocking, the door opened all the way. Joe stood there in all his splendor: graying, sleeveless undershirt; belt-less, brown, double-knit trousers that had a stain or damp spot at the crotch; and faded blue, open-toed, knit carpet slippers that showed his long, yellowed toenails to full advantage. He said nothing, but glared at Knowles. His chest was stuck out and his gnarled hands were clenched into fists, as though daring the cop to take a poke at him so that he would be justified in knocking the uniformed bastard down.

  Knowles smiled, like a shark. "Good morning, Mr. Soucup. Lovely day indeed, wouldn't you say? I have just a couple of qu
ick questions for you, won't take any time at all." Joe made a move to close the door. "Whoa, now," Knowles said. "I can stand here and knock all day, or you can give me a minute of your most valuable time."

  Joe sized the big cop up, figured him out, and gave him a grin ten times as mean as Knowles' own. As the door closed in his face, Knowles just caught a glimpse of Joe's hand, giving him the finger. "That's twice today," Knowles muttered. "Twice too much." The steam rose to his head and he knocked until other neighbors were appearing on their front stoops and in their windows. And still he knocked. He could feel the old man inside, grinning like Satan. Still he knocked, until Joey saved him from himself.

  "Hey." Joey came from his own front door and around the fence to stand on the walk below Joe's front steps. Knowles turned rigidly to face down at him. "Knowles, isn't it?" Joey asked, trying to keep from looking amused. The cop nodded once, incapable of speech at the present moment. Joey looked around at the elderly neighbors observing them. They, seeing that Joey was taking the situation in hand, retreated from view. "Joe will let you stand there and pound all day and night, enjoying every minute of it." Joey paused dramatically and looked directly up at Knowles' clenched visage. "And when you finally pass out from exhaustion, or die from a heart attack, he'll open the door and stand on your chest and crow like a rooster for all the world to see." The image that brought to Knowles' mind broke the spell and he came to ground. His face relaxed and his shoulders slumped a fraction. "As long as you're here, I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute," Joey said. "I tried calling Officer Hartz at home and got no answer and then I tried Sims' number and got his daughter who said he was out walking."

  Knowles had an out from his stand-off. He could retreat with some dignity left. "Sure," he said as casually as he was able, considering the level of adrenaline still coursing in his veins. He allowed Joey to lead him to his kitchen, where he sat in a chair at the table. His hands had a slight tremor and he hid them in his lap. How did the old bastard do that to him? "Could I have a glass of water, please?" he asked. Joey got him one and another for himself and sat down opposite.

  "Don't try to figure it out," Joey cautioned. "Everyone has some special talent and Joe's is to piss off everybody. Some people can play a musical instrument, some can make themselves rich. Some can sell ice to the Eskimos and Joe could do to Job what Satan couldn't." Joey was talking him down, his own special talent.

  "If you could bottle what that guy has," Knowles observed, "you could destroy the world." He was about back to normal. "I've never seen anything like it. The guy didn't say more than a dozen words to me. I just came apart." There was wonder in his tone. He drank down the water. "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it." Joey saw that Knowles was cool enough to listen to him. "I did something," he began. "It may have been a mistake, but you ought to know about it so that you won't get caught off guard." Joey related his visit from Tina Bronki. Knowles received it with the calm that comes to those in the aftermath of an adrenaline high.

  "Yeah," Knowles said thoughtfully, "she might stir things up beyond what we might appreciate. Cat's out of the bag now, though. We'll have to deal with it. Mary's an old friend of her's. Might be able to rein her in a bit." He paused. "Tell me about those papers again." He leaned forward, elbows on the table as Joey made the issue clear to him.

  When they were finished talking, Knowles left by the front door and trotted back to Soucup's. He lifted the mail slot and yelled inside. "So long, Mr. Soucup. Nice talking to you. See you soon." He knew the old man was just inside. One parting salvo to show who would have the last word.

  Joey spent the afternoon reading and dozing in the chair where he had been shot, with the shades drawn.

  .

  Mary spent her afternoon visiting with her mother. Mom wanted to fix her up with the nice young man from next door, a recently divorced software programmer. "I think he might be Jewish, but you're not getting any younger and can't afford to be too choosy." They were sharing tea and cookies in the tiny woman's small living room.

  "But, mom," Mary said, taking the bait and running with it, "what about the children? Would they be Jewish or Christian?"

  "I've looked into that," her mother said seriously. "I believe that for the children to be Jewish, the mother has to be Jewish, so you'd be okay in that department." She gave her daughter a comforting smile.

  "I've heard that Jewish men have unusual sexual practices," Mary said, concerned.

  Mom didn't want to go there. "I wouldn't know about that," she said, looking in the air about her for another direction to lead the conversation.

  "I'd have to try him out, first, so I'd know what I was getting into, don't you think?" The fish was in the process of landing the fisherman, who would be flopping out of the boat in another minute. "Should we invite him over now? I've got plenty of time to check it out."

  Mom let out a deep sigh. "Let's forget it, shall we? You're just toying with me."

  "Sorry, mom. You know where this conversation always leads. You have to accept that I'm a big girl now, responsible for my own choices. Let's talk about you. Maybe you should find a man. Any worthy candidates in the running?"

  Her mother tittered. "Oh my goodness. I'm not looking for anything like that. Your father was the end of the line for me." With that, Mary was able to steer the conversation to her mother's remembrances of things past, a subject they could explore together in comfort.

  In the evening, when she got home, she got caught up on the day's events by phone and arranged to meet Joey at his house at seven a.m., to drive him to his job site. She fed her cat, cleaned his litter box, and went to bed early. Tomorrow might be a long day.

  Knowles, off-duty by evening, took it upon himself to drive by both Sloan's and Adams' houses several times until the early a.m. They both seemed to be staying at home in the hours of darkness, with their shades drawn.