Falls the Shadow (40 page)

One final act of surveillance.

It wasn’t such a tricky piece, this one. There was a sea of cars parked in a wide parking lot. I slipped my car between an Explorer and a red Dodge pickup and set it so I had a perfect view of the big gray door. Then it was just a matter of waiting. But no coffee needed this time, I had company to keep me awake.

“What are we doing here, exactly?” said Beth.

“Surveilling.”

“Why?”

“Well, I can really use the practice. And I also want to know who he called to meet him on his first minute out.”

“He told me he was meeting up with his daughter.”

“That would be nice. But let’s wait and see.”

“I’m just relieved that the whole thing is over.”

“You know who seemed really relieved?”

“Who?”

“Mia Dalton. When Torricelli told her everything about Dr. Bob in the courtroom, you could see her jaw muscles twitch. I think she would have dismissed the case right there, except for what it would have done politically to her boss. I never saw a prosecutor let out such a breath of gratitude at a not-guilty verdict.”

“She offered me the job again.”

“She’s relentless.”

“I told her it doesn’t pay enough.”

“It pays more than you’re getting with me.”

“But the benefits, Victor, the benefits.”

“They get dental over there.”

“Reason enough to stay put.”

It was a hot, sunny day. Our windows were open, but still it was warm in the car. I took off my jacket. I took off my tie. If it had been seemly, I would have taken off my pants, too.

“I’m sorry,” said Beth.

“Okay,” I said.

“I never got a chance to apologize, and I wanted to.”

“I accept.”

“You don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you want to apologize for, I’ll take it. It doesn’t happen so often.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“For being so unprofessional.”

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, Beth, you can do better than that. Being unprofessional is what we do. Derringer and Carl, the unprofessional professionals. In fact, we should copyright that before the CIA steals it. If we had to go around in these stinking suits acting like professionals all the time, what would be the point? I’d quit the business.”

“What would you do?”

I thought for a moment. “I’d like to try my hand at being a foot model. I’m told I have very lovely feet.”

“Who told you that?”

“A very nice Vietnamese woman who was giving me a pedicure.”

She sat back, stared at me for a long moment. “You never fail to astonish me.”

“You want to see?”

“God, no.” She turned to look out the front window for a moment, stared at the still-closed metal door. “So what should I be apologizing for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t do the whole accept-apology thing very well. I always want to say, ‘Forget the apology and just give me cash.’ ”

“For doubting you,” said Beth.

“Okay,” I said. “I accept.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You were taking care of me the whole time. Even playing those tapes in court. They were as much for me as for the jury, weren’t they?”

“Can lawyers plead the Fifth Amendment?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what we do, Beth. We take care of each other.”

“I don’t know where it came from, but I was just overwhelmed. I don’t remember ever feeling so emotionally fragile, so emotionally invested. I don’t ever remember feeling something that strong before.”

“Oh, no?”

She laughed. “You think different? When?”

“Think about it.”

“Victor, I don’t—”

“Hold on,” I said. “There’s the door.”

The big gray door opened a sliver. A guard walked through the opening. He took off his guard hat, wiped his brow with a forearm, put the guard hat back on just so. And then out stepped François Dubé.

I could sense Beth beside me, holding her breath.

François was dressed in a white shirt, open at the collar, and the pants from one of the suits he wore at the trial. He carried no suitcase; I suppose there was nothing inside worth taking with him. He shook the guard’s hand, looked around for a moment, waited for the guard to go back inside and close the door behind him. Then he took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one into his mouth, flicked a match to life, cupped his hands around the flame. He cut quite a dashing figure, did François, almost as if he were posing, like something out of a Godard film, Jean-Paul Belmondo in
Breathless,
rubbing his lower lip with his thumb.

And it didn’t take long for his Jean Seberg to arrive.

The black limousine turned in to the parking lot, passed right by us, slid to a stop in front of François. The back door opened from the inside, before the chauffeur could do it himself, and out popped—who else?—Velma Takahashi.

“I guess the papers got signed,” I said as François tossed away his cigarette and the two embraced.

“I don’t understand,” said Beth.

“Her divorce papers with Takahashi,” I said. “I suppose, after the verdict, she agreed to a quick settlement just to get it over with. Now there’s no more reason to hide in the shadows. She loves him. She always loved him. She gave him to Leesa to keep him for herself while she married Takahashi and his money. And everything’s worked better than she could have hoped. She’s free of Takahashi, she’s loaded down with Takahashi money, and Leesa’s out of the picture. She can spend the rest of her life with François, at least until she gets bored again.”

“That’s why she tried to set up the fake story with Sonenshein.”

“To get François out,” I said. “Even though she thought he really had done it, she missed the big galoot.”

“And he loves her,” she said softly.

“So it appears, or her new bank account. It’s hard to tell when looking into the lifestyles of the sick and self-absorbed.”

We watched quietly as the two, still embracing, maneuvered themselves into the open door of the limousine. Doors slammed with resonant thunks, the limousine pulled away. Beth wiped at her eye.

“I still feel something. Is that crazy?”

“Yes. He has our bill, but it’s her money, so I don’t expect we’ll see any of what he still owes us. Nothing has a lower priority than paying yesterday’s lawyer.”

“What about his daughter?” she said.

“You figure it out. His first call was to Velma. He’s not the type to hang around for his daughter.”

“The poor little girl.”

“Remember Gullicksen, Leesa’s divorce attorney? I sent him to the Cullens, along with copies of the tapes. They’re going to fight for custody.”

“Is he going to fight them back?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Victor, you don’t know. It’s her father. She’ll miss him forever.”

“Probably, yes. I’ve spoken to the Cullens. They said the daughter is going to need some support. The Cullens were looking at the Big Sister program. I gave them your name.”

“Victor.”

“You stuck me with Daniel Rose. I’m returning the favor.”

“I won’t be able to help.”

“Sure you will.”

“She’ll miss him forever. It will never go away.”

“But you’ll still be able to help.”

“I don’t think so. I’m all wrong for it.” She paused for a moment. “Before, you asked about my father.”

“Did I?”

“I don’t think I ever told you about him.”

“No.”

“I don’t think I ever told anybody.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”

“Want to go somewhere?”

“No, this is fine,” she said. “We might be a while.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “But first, it’s sort of hot. Do you mind if I take off my pants?”

Tommy’s High Ball.

I suppose I had become something of a regular, because as soon as I poked my head in the door, the bartender shouted out, “Yo, Pork Chop, your factotum is here.”

I looked at Whitey, standing stoop-shouldered behind the bar. “Factotum?”

“I call it like I see it,” he said.

“I’m not even sure if I know what it is.”

“You don’t need to know,” said Whitey. “But you sure is it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

I turned to the booth closest to the door. Horace T. Grant was deep into a game of chess with his usual whipping post. He looked up from his board.

“I’m in the middle of something here,” he said. “Can you wait a minute?”

“We’ve got to go,” I said.

“Simpson,” he said to his opponent, “we’ll have to resume this exercise in controlled mutilation when I return.”

“Oh, no, we won’t. You play or you resign.”

“Resign?” Horace sputtered with indignation. “I have you on the ropes, old man. If you didn’t take so long to plot your foolish moves, I’d have beaten you twenty minutes ago.”

“Just taking my time, setting my traps. My position’s got possibilities.”

“And all of them calamitous,” said Horace.

“Play or lose,” said Simpson.

Horace looked up at me. I nodded to the door. His shoulders slumped as he tipped over his own king.

Horace’s opponent let out a yap and raised his hands high. “I got you, Pork Chop, yes I did. Got you clean and fair. You surrendered to the overwhelming possibilities of my position.”

“Enjoy it,” said Horace as he stood. “It’s going to have to last you another twenty years.”

On the way out of the bar, Horace said to me, “This better be good.”

“Oh, it’s good,” I said.

My car was parked outside. Isabel Chandler, the Social Services caseworker, sat in the front passenger seat. And in the back, in a car seat Isabel had provided, sat Daniel Rose.

When Horace was seated beside Daniel, I leaned in the car door. “Horace, do you know Daniel?”

“I’ve seen the boy in the neighborhood,” said Horace. “How you doing there, son?”

“Okay,” said Daniel.

“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” said Horace.

“I’ve been living somewhere else,” said Daniel.

“Someplace good, I hope?”

“It’s okay.”

“Daniel, Mr. Grant’s the one responsible for arranging to have me be your lawyer.”

Daniel smiled at the old man. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. And I like them teeth of yours, boy. It’s an improvement from what I remember.”

“They’re not real,” said Daniel proudly.

“Neither are mine,” said Horace.

“You were the one talking to my sister all the time.”

“I might just be,” said Horace.

“I remember.”

“Have you seen your sister?”

“Not for a while,” said Daniel.

“Okay, then. Well, it’s nice to finally say hello to you.”

Horace reached out his withered old mitt. Daniel slipped his small, pale hand inside, watched as it was swallowed whole. And then the gentle shake.

It wasn’t too long a drive. We hit the Cobbs Creek Parkway, followed that down to Haverford and then up toward the golf course. A left and a right and a left again, and then there we were, in the neighborhood of small brick row houses, of children playing in the yards, of families. The house I was looking for was easy enough to find, what with the balloons all tied up to the light beside the door.

“This is it,” I said as we stopped in front of it. “What do you think, Daniel?”

“It looks okay,” he said.

“The Hansons are very excited to meet you,” said Isabel. “This won’t be like the last place, a short-term thing. They’ve promised to take care of you as long as it’s required.”

“What about Mommy?”

“She’s working hard, Daniel,” said Isabel. “When she’s ready to take care of you the way you deserve, we’ll go before the judge and figure out what to do. But until then this will be your home.”

“I miss my mommy.”

“I know you do, Daniel,” I said.

The front door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Hanson came out. They had big smiles on their faces, and they each held a wrapped present.

“Let’s go meet your new family,” said Isabel.

She got out of the car, bent over, and unhooked Daniel. The two of them walked slowly toward his new home.

“You want to get out?” I said to Horace.

“Nah, give the boy some time.”

“This is going to work out for him,” I said.

“It can’t be no worse than what he had.”

“You did a good thing for Daniel.”

“It was nothing nobody else wouldn’t have done.”

“Don’t bet on that,” I said as I got out of the car.

The Hansons were leaning forward, talking to the boy as he clutched hold of Isabel’s leg as if it were a life raft on a choppy sea. When they reached toward him, he shied away. When they tried to give him the gifts, he hid his face. God, it seemed so simple when Isabel and I were setting it up, it seemed so obvious. But it wasn’t working out, there was no joy or excitement in Daniel’s face. Just fear and disappointment, another stop on a train to nowhere.

“Daniel?”

We all looked up. Standing in the front doorway was Tanya Rose, dressed in her Sunday best, smiling nervously.

Daniel peeked at her from behind Isabel’s leg.

Tanya reached her arms out.

Daniel shouted, “Tanya,” and then ran to her.

Brother and sister, they hugged and jumped and fell into a heap and hugged some more, and suddenly Daniel couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

In a very real way, this tender moment was brought to us by Dr. Bob. He fixed Daniel’s teeth, he found for me Tanya’s new family, he taught me to do more than the expected, to find a way to make the exceptional the norm. And maybe for the first time, I felt the pull of what he had been trying to find all his life, the almost painful satisfaction that comes from trying to do something good and seeing it work out better than you could have hoped. Dr. Bob was the ultimate do-gooder, unwilling to let custom or law get in the way of his attempts to help.

Except without custom or law, where the hell are we?

But it wasn’t over, was it? Dr. Bob was still at large somewhere, never to answer the charges that could have been lodged against him: the burglary for sending Seamus Dent into Leesa Dubé’s apartment, felony murder for the way it turned out, conspiracy, obstruction of justice in the framing of François Dubé. Nor even the charge of kidnapping me. He was gone, and he wouldn’t be found. My guess was he had set up an office in the South of France, or in French Guiana, or in Martinique, someplace where he could practice his new language. Go ahead, take a walk, maybe in Pointe-à-Pitre, in one of the poorer sections of the town, and you’ll hear the tale of a dentist with gentle hands and a helpful temperament, a kind and brave soul who does magic tricks for the needy children whose teeth he treats for free, the mysterious Dr. Poivre.

But wherever he was, he was, beyond all else, a dangerous man. He liked to help, he said, but things often turned out wrong. Remember, Leesa Dubé was dead. And Seamus Dent, who killed her by accident, was also dead. Dr. Bob was living proof of the old adage about the road to hell. And, sad to say, my efforts to help had more often than not turned out badly, too. Julia Rose was left bereft, without her children, as she slipped deeper into a sad state of helplessness. And it only took a week for Kylie to abandon the treatment center where Father Kenneth had placed her. She was back on the street, still trying to kill herself, bound to succeed. And sadly, François Dubé had determined to seek custody of his young daughter. I had fought to get him out of jail, and in so doing, I feared, I had put his daughter in harm’s way.

It was almost enough to make me swear off helping in the future, almost enough to convince me that I had been right all along, that my surest path in this uncertain world is to mind my own damn business.

A car door slammed behind me. Horace T. Grant was out of the car, walking toward us, something in his eye.

Tanya Rose stopped her hugging and rolling. She stood up, took a hesitant step forward.

“Grandpa?” she said.

Only almost.