Deadly Lullaby (27 page)

There's no answer when I call the old thug.

Stupidly worried about cops at the scene smelling booze on my breath, I stuff one handful of mints in my mouth and another handful in my coat pocket before leaving the Karma. Driving east on Beverly in a daze, there's a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that's multiples worse than the one I get at funeral-home visitations of colleagues killed in the line of duty. I've imagined this occasion many times before, mostly when I was a teenager—the occasion I'm called upon to identify the old thug's body. The beginning of the daydream (sometimes a sleeping dream) is always more or less the same: a coroner's assistant in a morgue, or a cop at a crime scene yanks the white sheet away from the old man's face. Standard stuff. Then the fun begins: his throat's slashed ear to ear; or he's taken a large-caliber round to the head, sometimes two or even three rounds (a revenge murder where often his dick and balls have been crudely hacked off and stuffed in his mouth); or his corpse has been recovered from a body of water, or a shallow grave, and the decomposed flesh and wiggly parasites feasting on his face make him completely unrecognizable to anyone but me.

Considering the circumstances, the reality today, if it occurs, will resemble the large-caliber-round-to-the-head version.

The parking lot that fronts the little strip mall is jammed with black-and-whites, unmarked cruisers, and EMS vans. The entrance to the mall on Beverly is blocked by a patrol car parked behind yellow crime-scene tape. My cheeks bulging with the remainder of the mints I squirreled away in my pocket, chewing, gulping, I have to park my cruiser on the sidewalk next to the lot entrance on Beverly in front of HoneyBaked Ham on the corner.

Out of the cruiser, pulling the chain from my badge wallet and looping the lanyard around my neck, I weave around the spectators on the walk, ignoring them instead of peppering them with questions the way I usually do. The uniform guarding the lot entrance eyes the badge dangling at my chest, waves me through, holding up the tape for me to duck under. Dazed, as if wading through the plasma of a dreamscape, I walk across the lot toward the bank's front entrance at the other end of the mall, uniformed EMS and police personnel moving about me in slow motion. Feeling the stares, hearing voices, I have to shade my eyes from the patrol-sled strobes before they trigger a photosensitive epileptic seizure.

I come to a dead halt when, there, at the bank door, standing alone, are two plainclothesmen, both black guys. I breathe deep, swallowing the mints, and continue on.

I introduce myself and in return get a shrug from one, a blink from the other, noncommittal gestures you'd not interpret as hospitable. Neither offers to shake my hand.

Without further prompting I say, “I was down the street having lunch at the Karma Bar and heard the all-units call. I'm a relatively new detective, so I thought I'd stop by and see what I could learn.”

This seems to soften up one of them. The one who remains unimpressed is the guy leaning against the doorjamb, the one with “Detective II Leroy Paterson” on the identification hanging from his lanyard. A dark-chocolate African, boot-camp brawny, Paterson has a drill-sergeant crew cut, complete with whitewalls. He wears a gray three-piece suit and navy-blue shirt with an identically colored tie. His arms crossed, he's tonguing a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, trying hard to look bored.

Paterson says, “Well, I dunno…” turning his head to his partner, whose badge identifies him as Detective III William D. Marten. Marten is a latte-skinned African with a short and tight 'fro and a thin, weepy mustache. A tall, skinny man, my thought upon looking at him is he's all legs and lungs, which explains why his blue suit doesn't fit him quite right. Marten, who from the get-go seemed more open to my presence, says, “I don't see a problem with that.” He shakes my hand and says, “Call me Doc.”

“Thanks. Everyone calls me Crooch.”

Paterson maintains his bored persona. He glances at my feet, removes the toothpick from his mouth and jabs it at me to emphasize his words. “You want to learn something about crime-scene analysis,
Crucci,
” he says, “
fine,
we'll give you the tour. But you
gotta
wear
shoe
covers.
”

“Rule one,” Doc says, nodding, serious, “is ‘Preserve the integrity of the scene.' ”

“What's, uh, going on here?” I say, peeking over and around Paterson's shoulder through the bank door. A pair of splayed legs are visible on the floor in the distance, ass up—jeans, black ankle boots. No sport coat I can see, which is encouraging, since my father almost always wears one. I haven't paid attention to the type of shoes he wore either time I saw him. He wore jeans both times.

“Freaky is what it is,” Doc says.

“Yeah,” Paterson says. “Freaky.”

“Freaky,” I say, my mouth still dry even after a couple of swallows. I clear my throat. “Why do you say that?”

Exasperated, Paterson shakes his head. “You deaf? You get shoe covers and we'll let the
crime scene
tell you why.”

For effect, knowing there's nothing there, I reach into my back pocket, say, “I forgot 'em in the cruiser.”

“Damn, son,” Paterson says, clicking his tongue, “looks like you'll have to trot your ass back there and—”

“Why do you act like such a prick at times?” Doc says to him, putting his left hand on my shoulder and reaching into his back pocket with the right one. “Crooch here is takin' free time to answer the all-units call, least you can do is treat him like a brother.”

“Aw, Doc, I was just givin' the boy some—”

“I know what you're doing,” Doc says to him, then to me says, “Here,” handing over a pair of polypropylene surgical shoe covers, “slip these on and follow me.” He reaches in the breast pocket of his coat and comes out with surgical gloves. “Put these on, too.” Doc walks in the door, turns to his left to say to Paterson, “Stay here and watch the door, be useful.”

Paterson shakes his head. “That's
cold,
man.”

My thoughts twirl as we step inside. After a few strides we stop at the corpse sprawled face down on the back edge of the lobby's tile floor, the one whose legs I spotted from outside. A cautious sense of relief flows through me at the sight of it. The corpse is clothed in jeans and a jean jacket, and there's a ragged, gaping hole in the back of its head, an exit wound accented with bits of skull and brains; the hair's straight and long in back, a mullet, nothing at all like the old man's thick, wavy, '80s-Travolta blow-back. Upon closer inspection of the man's features, he's obviously Hispanic, with bushy eyebrows and a big mustache. A .38 revolver is on the floor close to his outstretched hand.

“Now,” Doc says, “one thing about this bank robbery that sets it apart is the recording system to the surveillance cameras was turned off. Last thing recorded was yesterday, so the bank employee responsible for the system either forgot to turn it on or was in on the robbery, an insider.” He shrugs. “My hunch is the employee just forgot, which I'll explain in a minute. Either way we have no surveillance tape. All we have at the moment is one eyewitness who was watching from inside HoneyBaked Ham down the row here, the manager. He says he saw a male matching this description”—pointing at the corpse—“and one other Hispanic male meet and talk in the parking lot. He saw this one come up and knock on the front door, even though there was a Closed sign on it. He didn't pay any attention to what the suspects did afterward, and didn't think anything was out of the ordinary 'til he heard shots.” He inclines his head toward the floor. “So our preliminary theory is this one knocked, figured nobody was home, and called a locksmith coconspirator to break in the back—which obviously cuts against having an insider.” He shrugs again, says, “One thing that looks pretty certain is that the shooter that popped him is right there,” pointing to the body at the head of the short hallway that leads to the back door.

More relief hits me after a few steps to the body. It's face up, blank eyes to the ceiling, a nonfatal wound on his right cheek, dead from a frontal head shot from a small caliber round—a .25 or .22 smack between the eyes. A short and slight Latino male with a mustache, jet black, curly hair, definitely dyed, wearing a maroon polo shirt, khaki slacks, and topsiders.

Definitely not my father.

“That's the bank's owner,” Doc says. “His name's Errol Ovando, according to the HoneyBaked Ham wit. He must've confronted the first in the lobby here, shot him with that .45 there”—he points to the chrome Colt .45 1911 still in Ovando's right hand—“then heard the others in the back hall.” Doc puts his hands on his hips and stares at Ovando's body, shaking his head. “And this is the unusual part: It's kind'a crazy, but the only scenario that makes sense here is that after Ovando took out the first guy in the lobby, he walked to the head of the hallway
here
”—plants his feet, forms his thumb and forefinger into an imaginary pistol and aims down the hall—“and
pow,
popped the locksmith first, then exchanged simultaneous headshots,
pow pow,
both fatal, with the other male coming out of the vault.” He motions with his head to the back door. “C'mon, you'll see what I mean.”

We step over the bank owner's corpse—my mind flashing back to the old man's claim that he was a money launderer, a skimmer—walk down the hall a few steps, stop.

The locksmith's body is easy to recognize from his work uniform. He's slumped against the wall by the door, a blossom of blood spread across the middle of his white work shirt; I instantly eliminate the possibility that this corpse is my father's.

The fourth one is facedown in the hallway, a tall and muscular body like my father's, same approximate height. The torso is outside the vault, the lower half inside it, dressed similarly to the old man in jeans and blue blazer, a large exit wound in the back of his head; that part of the black hair that's not matted with blood and brain matter is styled similarly to the old man's. A briefcase is tipped over next to his left hand, open at the top, leaking packets of money on the floor. A small-caliber pistol rests by the corpse's right hand, a pistol fitted with a suppressor, the pistol used to off Ovando.

Doc is saying, “This guy's in the vault, loading up with cash, right? Hears the shots and…”

…the rushing sound in my ears drowns out Doc's voice as I bend over to check out the corpse's face…

My God, the relief that floods through my system is overwhelming.

The foxy old thug made it out alive.

Doc's words return to me as I stand, weak-kneed and breathing deep, having to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing…

“Damn,” Doc says, grabbing my biceps to steady me. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, smiling on the inside but rubbing my temple and grimacing for Doc's benefit. “I'm fine. I, uh, had a lot to drink last night. I'm hungover.”

He views me with suspicion. “Man, how many 10-54s you worked before?”

Unable to keep from smiling on the outside now, I cuff sweat from my forehead, sniffle, and take a deep breath. “Quite a few. But never one quite like this.”

“Well, my son, so good of you to fucking call.”

“Good of you to finally fucking answer. You had me worried.”

“No shit? Everything considered, I thought your previous calls were misdials.”

“Enough of that. How are you?”

“Not a scratch, no thanks to you.”

“What about Barzi?”

“Hey, Chief, my son wants to know how you are.”

“Tell him I'm good enough to bend over and let him kiss my hairy ass.”

“Tell him I owe him one, all right? I mean it. Tell him.”

“He says he owes you one, Chief.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Look, old man, if it's any solace, I don't feel very good about myself right now.”

“What, you regret not dropping by and slapping your cuffs on us before we could get away? Or maybe you just wanted to put a bullet in my head and rid yourself of your shame once and for all.”

“That's hurtful.”

“And the shit you said to me today was what?”

“See my side of this for a minute, just one fucking minute. You caught me off guard and I shot my mouth off. If I could take back my words, I would. If I could change my decision to refuse you help, I would. But consider the possibility I might have made your situation worse. At the time I figured you could take care of yourself. Turns out I was right, right?”

“At considerable cost in blood and treasure, yes, you were right.”

“Old man, it's worse than unfair to hold that against me. If you had made the decision to stay home today, there would've been no blood.”

“…”

“Old man?”

“I am here, saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers in penance for the twisted criminal mind God gave me.”

“That's it, blame someone who doesn't exist. At least you're not insulting anyone.”

“If you called to make me feel like a creep, you failed. Now, if you have nothing else to—”

“I called to tell you I'm sorry.”

“Well, you already did that in your own way, so guess I will be—”

“Hey, don't hang up. You canceled lunch today and gave me a rain check for drinks this evening. I'm cashing it in.”

“…”

“Old man?”

“I am busy tonight.”

My nerves are no longer sparking like the frayed ends of downed power lines, so my sole concern at this moment is that the AC is on the blink again and the living room is now a sauna. Fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but old running shorts and a tank top, from flat on my back on the couch I inspect the cracked plaster on the wall, the blistered paint on the ceiling, and the picture-window frame's rotted corners. It contrasts nicely with my new stereo rack and plasma flat-screen, the freshly potted plants and flowers, and framed prints. After nine years confined to forty-eight square feet of steel and concrete I shared with another inmate, this place seemed like a palace when I got out. Now its luster has worn off.

Maggie appears above me holding another vodka rocks, offering it downward. Her mouth moves but the ringing in my ears drowns out most of the words.

“What did you say?” I say, squinting.

Wearing short-short cutoff jeans and one of my ragged wifebeater tees, she kneels on the floor by my head, speaks at eye level as if offering me her lips to read. “I
said
we're almost out of vodka.”

“We have other stuff, right? Bourbon and rum, gin, tequila…”

“All the above plus a fresh twelve-pack of beer,” she says and hands me the tumbler, watching my every move as I take a healthy dose—my thought being,
Ummm, yeah, nice burn
—her expression serious, concerned. Her words are measured and spoken louder than usual so I can hear them. “Babe, tell me what happened to your hearing?”

“I will, but not yet. What I am thinking now is that it is time to sell this house. The dump has been in my so-called family since my father was ten, and it is time for me to move on….Indianapolis is an option, but I am thinking San Diego.” I pause to let that sink in, meet her eyes. “Would you like to move with me?”

She cocks her head at that, the afternoon light from the picture window glistening off the sweat trickling down the side of her cheek, down her neck, and underneath her halter top. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Is that a no?”

Without hesitation she grabs the point of my chin to gradually pull my face closer to hers. “Honey, if you want to move to San Diego, I'll move there with you. If you prefer Indianapolis, I'll move there.” Now we're nose to nose, so close I smell the mint on her breath, the butterscotch scent of her hair, her sweat. “If you want to move to fucking hell, I'll move
there
with you, too.”

“No, moving to Detroit would be asking far too much of anyone.”

She smiles, brushes her lips across mine, strokes my cheek. “The only reason I hesitated was I thought you have to go on the run. You know, because of what happened today?”

I put my left hand behind my head, nod to the ceiling. “Today has something to do with it, yeah, but not in the way you fear.” I turn to her, note the anxiety watering her eyes, and decide to tell her as much about today as I can; she resides, after all, in my zone of danger. “Listen, shots were fired today, a hell of a lot more shots than I had planned on.” Her hand is in my right one, and though she is outwardly calm, I feel her pulse race. “It was the closest call I ever had without getting tossed in the can.”

Now her hand is flat on my chest and the expression on her face relaxes, as if my steady heartbeat calms her. After a quick glance out the picture window, she says, “Could they be coming for you?”

I shake my head. “Somehow, some way, we got away clean, of that I am virtually certain. Otherwise, me and you would not be together now. That is the reason I came back here as soon as I could. To be with you, you know, one last time, in case the cops had a bead on me.”

This is a true statement.

This brings a suggestion of tears to her eyes, brings her head down softly to my chest, her ear over my heart now. She turns her head to me to make sure I see her lips, and after a small sniffle, she says, “You were so calm when you walked in earlier, so nice to me; if you weren't almost deaf, I would never have suspected a thing. And all the while you thought the police could show up any second to take you away.” She scoots closer. “
And
you did all that for me so I wouldn't worry, so I could have some final moments with you in peace. I love you for doing that for me, Babe. I'll love you forever for that,” she says and she scissors her right bare leg over my bare legs to leverage herself on top of me, her damp body sensual, musky, and gives me a deep kiss.

When we finally break it off, I say, “All the things I said to you were from the heart…”

…which is a true statement…

“…and I did not expect you to fuck me in return…”

…which is
not
a true statement.

After brief, intense lovemaking, I reach for her pack of cigarettes on the coffee table—an ultraskinny, ultralight menthol brand—and light one for her, one for me. The cigarette tastes like burnt peppermint and delivers just as much punch. We sit up in bed and Maggie bunches pillows behind our shoulders and backs, places the ashtray between us on the bedsheet. The day is catching up with me, my head numb from sleep deprivation and stress, but Maggie makes sleep both impossible and unwanted. Amped by our sex and by our pending move, she accelerates quickly into full nesting mode, chattering away about our new home, which she has just decided should be located in San Diego:

“Rent or buy? Buy, definitely buy,” she says when I remain quiet. “Why give up the tax write-off on the interest on a mortgage payment when—”

My dead-eyed expression stops her cold.

“Tax write off, ye-aaah,” she says, “which pretty much requires you to get a bank loan
and
file tax returns…soooo renting will be fine, just fine, as long as the landlord takes cash, and we'll find one that will…” And off she goes ticking off other home-shopping issues, resolving them all herself.: “House or condo? Who cares, as long as it's by the beach…Oh, Babe, we just
have
to look on Coronado Island
first.
I was at the Hotel del Coronado about a year ago for…well, never mind why I was there”—she clears her throat—“but the island was
beautiful,
little restaurants and shops and a little theater and…”

…she goes on and on until finally getting around to the monthly budget for our new abode, sneaking up to it, stepping lightly, but definitely wanting an estimate of what we can afford: “Just a number,” she says, “nothing firm, but we should have some idea, you know, just a ballpark number so we can…”

I sip watery vodka from a sweaty tumbler, smiling smugly, waiting for her to run out of gas, waiting until her suspense becomes palpable before I finally drop the ballpark number on her—the upper end of realistic, but realistic nonetheless.

Her eyes widen, turn up and away from mine as if, in fact, watching a ball flying out of the ballpark. She looks at me. “Did I hear you right?”

“Yes.”

She clutches my arm. “You don't have to lie to me. I'd live with you in a hovel, you know.”

“I know you would, because you practically do now. But there is no need for you to live like this anymore. We can afford a nice bungalow on Coronado Island.” I look around. “About this size, maybe a little bigger.” I smile at her. “
Close
to the beach, but probably not on it, and have enough left over so I can get out of the Life for a while. A
long
while if the market gets even better. And when I do have to go back to work, there is a friend of mine in Dago who says he can set me up in a job that is more or less legitimate—corporate security, or something resembling it.”

This is a lot for her to absorb.

It is difficult for me to absorb, too, for my long-term financial security is no longer a goal, a vision; it is a fact.

Still stunned, Maggie says, “Babe, do you mean you'll never have another crazy day like today,
ever
?”

“Not for a long while, if ever, yeah, that is exactly what I mean.”

She embraces me, rests her head on my shoulder and remains very still, quiet. She finally says, “Did you make all that money today?”

I shake my head while stubbing out my smoke. “A chunk of it, but by no means most of it.” My mind flashes briefly to the hundred grand we left at the bank today in order to put the final touch on the illusion of a foiled robbery. It would be nice to have added that cash to my kitty but, shit, I let the thought go as quickly as it arrived; this thought makes me even angrier at my son—if that is possible. “I was set well financially when I went to prison the last time. Not what you would call wealthy, but I had a decent nest egg that my advisor in the Caymans was handling conservatively. It sat there untouched for eight years, and when I got out I asked him if it was enough to generate a certain amount of income for ten years. Not to live high, understand, but well. Just enough to maintain a decent house, to eat out when I want to, to go to ball games when I want to, to travel modestly when I want to.” I shrug. “Anyway, he said there was not enough to do that, and told me how much more I needed. I have hustled my ass off the last three days.” I wink at her. “Baby, today I exceeded that number—not by much, but it is more than I need.”

“Time to celebrate,” she says, laughing, and swings her legs off the bed and pads naked from the bedroom to fetch us fresh drinks. She returns with a bottle of Miller for me and tequila on the rocks for her, and we clink glasses in a silent toast.

Sitting on her haunches, after a follow-up sip of tequila she says, “What about Leo?”

A good moment ruined, shit. I gulp beer, swallow. “Yeah, what about Leo.”

Puzzled and disappointed, she lightly slaps my thigh. “Babe, how can you say that?”

My words come out in a growl. “That is the best thing I
can
say about my son right now.”

“What's happened? All you've talked about since the night we met has been—”

I show her a palm. “I know, I
know,
but now I—”

Count to ten.

I get to
four
before I say, “The little fucker could have helped me out today and instead he left me hanging in the wind. Shit, I could have got my ass shot to hell for all he cared.”

“Babe,” she says, straightening her spine. “You mean you expected
him
to help you
today
?”

“I was in a jam, Maggie. All he had to do was flash his tin badge at some guys and hold 'em up a few minutes.”

Rapping her knuckle against my noggin, she says, “Babe, hello, your son's a cop. You can't hold that against him. And you got away from whatever the problem was. So what's the harm?”

Other than three dead men and an abandoned hundred grand, none. “The boy inconvenienced me.”

She rolls her eyes, sighs, fogging the inside of her tumbler as she drinks. “Men,” she says after swallowing, shaking her head in disgust. “Listen, Babe, get over it. He had reasons for not doing whatever it is you wanted him to, good reasons. You two are…well, different.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I'm not saying he's a better person than you. You know I love you and don't think you're bad. But”—a shrug—“you two are in different lines of work.”

This statement stirs the air for a long moment. “You are right,” I finally say, throwing up my free hand to emphasize the fact. “As much as I hate to admit it, it has been my fault for not realizing our differences from day one.” I look at her. “He did call later to apologize.”

“And you didn't accept his apology, did you?”

“No, I was steamed then and am steamed now. I will call him tomorrow.”

“Men,” she says, shaking her head.