Simple (35 page)

“That's new.”

“You'll be home this afternoon?”

“No. I'm here all day. Probably need to keep at it until about seven. These people want to move in, like yesterday.”

“You're home tonight?”

“I'm seeing Old Reliable tonight.”

“I hope you won't forget me.”

“You're not very forgettable. I'm not always sure I like you, but you are memorable.”

“Can't you get rid of Old Reliable?”

There was a sound of scraping, like sanding over the line. “I'm not sure I want to. We might be thinking of something more permanent.”

“You and some old guy.”

“I never said he was old. Only reliable. I can't believe it. You're jealous.”

“I am certainly not jealous. Only,” he said in his jolliest tones, “I hope you'll keep me abreast of your relationship … status.”

“Tell you I'm getting hitched before I do it. Sure, I can do that.”

Bitches. All of them. It didn't matter. He felt fine. And he certainly didn't need to be tangled with a woman tonight. He went out to his car and patted it—his doggie, his friend. He liked his car.

He got into the driver's seat and started up. He was right to mark the grave of the wallet and cell phone. Nobody, nobody, could have remembered and worked out everything as he had. And his brain was still ticking.

*   *   *

CHRISTIE PULLED HIS
small squad in—they went to a conference room and shut the door. Christie said, “I have a dilemma. I don't know if Connolly is involved in this convenient death. There's something about him—naturally innocent. I like the guy. He might be blocking out the truth.”

Everybody was quiet.

“Denial isn't … innocence,” Colleen said.

He felt himself drift. He had a religious background—Catholic, an almost conscription into the priesthood. “Isn't it? I don't know. Talk to me.”

There was discomfort in their shifts of position.

“Politicians get away with too much,” Potocki said. “We can't contribute to that.”

“Boss, you see something in this guy. Are you … Republican?” Even though Greer used a light tone and pretended to be joking, there was a challenge in her gaze.

Everybody got more nervous. Hurwitz tried to lighten things. “Oh, he's likable, but I personally can't fall in love with a Republican. Just can't. It's bred into my DNA.”

Christie laughed. “I'm an Independent—”

“Big surprise,” Dolan said.

“Who happens to lean Democratic most of the time—and I didn't have to reveal that.” Greer was mouthing, “Whew,” and he ended up laughing again. “So. Connolly is just a person. A rich person. Depressed, I'd say. All about being good and doing good deeds and underneath, pretty darned depressed.”

Colleen said, “What do you want us to do?”

Christie looked at her, then at the rest of them. “Stick to surveillance.” He turned to Hurwitz and Denman. “You two continue on Connolly. Unobtrusive. A couple of cars. I don't know how many vans we have available.”

Surveillance was hard. It was boring. Detectives fell asleep. “I'm banking on somebody behaving oddly. Which means we also need to keep an eye on Cal.”

“He's not on house arrest?” Dolan asked, but it was rhetorical.

“There's a window for him to get medical testing. It could be interesting to see if he departs at all from the program. Artie? You could start and I could join you.”

“Got it.”

“Again I'm not sure what our vehicle situation is.”

“I could check that out for you,” Potocki volunteered.

“Thank you. Potocki, Greer. You two will need a van. You get Todd Simon. Full surveillance drill. I think I have money on him. Anyway, somewhere, somebody is going to give something away, right?”

Then they were all standing, gathering their things, preparing for a long night.

*   *   *

IN MIDAFTERNOON,
Todd Simon was already on the country road that led to the evidence. He had stopped only to buy a packet of latex gloves at a Rite Aid.

It was about eighty degrees and muggy, Pittsburgh muggy, steam pressed between the hills. The evidence, when he dug it up, would be like hot coals in his hands; he didn't intend to juggle them for long and he'd be wearing the gloves while he did.

Freddie would be out all afternoon, she said. And she had a nice backyard. Better to stash things there than at his house or in his car where police might eventually look.

He drove, trying to make himself think of other things. New carpeting. Diana Krall. Haigh's fat belly. Good jokes. The hours spun by with these diversions. He got the whole way to Shell Pond Road.

Oh. Hilarious—the guy with the tractor, same guy, same tractor, idling down the same old road. Todd stared straight ahead, slack jawed, mouth open, because he remembered that he had dived down to his right before. It wouldn't do to repeat. Hopefully the geezer did not have a memory for cars. Todd kept his jaw dropped, his eyes wide, hopefully sending the message that he was just a dumb rich guy in his nice car driving along on his way to an early dementia.

Should have ditched his car before doing this task. Soon, soon, he must get rid of this car, probably for good. If he hasn't traded it in by the time he does the deed, he will have to get himself something else, a cheesy rental if necessary, but there are risks in that, too.

He passes the man.

He finds the dirt road. The tree. His little Cassie Price grave.

Brilliant. The step count was perfect.

He digs. There it is. All there. He removes the rest of the gloves, another eight, from the packet and puts them in his jacket pocket. He lifts the wallet and phone gingerly and drops them in the plastic bag that held the gloves. He is not sick at first but then he is, so he works on his deep breathing. Almost throws up. Doesn't.

He drives back home to Pittsburgh and to the supermarket lot that's two blocks from his house. He needs a breather. As he buys a few groceries, he calls the lasagna woman, Carola. She doesn't work. She teaches part-time, a couple of evenings, if you call that work. Family money keeps her in bread. She answers the phone.

“It was delicious,” he says.

“You have my pan.”

“And I was planning to bring it back. Are you home?”

“Not for long. I'm meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Should I know about this? Are you telling me something, I mean, that kind of friend?”

“A woman friend. For dinner.”

“I could drive you. Pick you up. Wait for you somewhere. I could go have substandard lasagna.”

“Look, I'm kind of mad at you.”

“I gathered.”

It's strange, the charmed life he's led up to now. No woman ever said no to him, not that he can remember. Now they all want him to vamoose. He needs to get his mojo back.

“Later, then. You have a good time tonight.” Screw Carola.

He hates Haigh for ordering the killing, and he hates Cassie who made it necessary. And while he's at it, he hates people in general—they always seem to be in his way. But he doesn't hate himself. He always knew it would come to this one day. He is a server, born to grease wheels, pave paths and make things happen and unhappen. Connolly—bless his damned stupid soul—is the golden boy they've all been hoping for, perfect, perfect. If only this were Europe, the thing with Cassie Price would have gotten no more than a few knowing smiles and winks. But here they are, in the Bible-thumping U.S. of A. where men are supposed to go to bed saying prayers and when they slip from the straight and narrow everybody pretends not to understand.

*   *   *

POTOCKI GOES BACK
to his
cubicle for a moment to work out which cars and vans are available for Christie and the others and for him and Greer to watch Todd Simon.

He feels bad for Christie. Everybody wants Greer. She's great, just right out there, says what she thinks, gets enthusiastic about ideas, people, food, enjoys humor, and is wonderful to look at. She has a bright face most of the time. You can see her get tired and then pow she's back again, bright eyes, glowing skin. Sleep renews her. Food renews her. She wears her hair in a slightly bed-head style, just enough to advertise a bit of whimsy.

They hit a turning point on Sunday after she stormed out, went to visit her folks, and came right back to him. He had thought it might take a few days for her to cool off, but there she was, saying, “Sorry I flew off the handle.” And then she just came in and stayed for dinner. She played Wii tennis with Scott—didn't beat him, but she took it seriously, and his son respected that. They all talked easily at dinner, and Potocki knew for sure this was what he wanted, the kind of blessing he hadn't thought he'd have again soon. He was a family man. He liked peace, humor, easy times.

Colleen was over Christie. He could tell.

He jotted a few notes. Then he went to her cubicle. “Take all the newspapers and a couple of books along,” he said. “This could be a long one. We're going to be in the Jensen twenty-four-hour plumbing van. We don't have another driver, so one of us has to drive and then slip into the back.”

She pulls out of a drawer a cap that says
PNC PARK
and a pair of huge sunglasses in case she needs to be out of the van at any point.

“Here's the plan: You go home, rest up, eat, gather what you need, I'll get the van ready. I'll come get you around seven, seven thirty. You can precede me in your car. We'll park your car a street away from Simon's place, you get in the van, go in back, but if we need a car, we can get to yours fast.”

“I don't think I have anything to eat at home … I'd better get to a store and cook us something.”

“No problem. I'll pick something up.”

“Thanks. Buck me up. I hate surveillance.”

“Two of us in a darkened van. It could be worse. I'll run some ideas by Commander about Cal's house, what his options are. A van on Child Street—seems to me it might get too much attention.”

“He's awfully worried.”

“Sure. The political takedown—if that's what it comes to—could get really ugly.”

*   *   *

CHRISTIE SITS IN HIS
office
,
head in his hands.

If Connolly cops to collusion, accessory, it's easy to figure out what to do, he'll take them all down. But if he determines Connolly didn't know what was happening … where are the lines in this murky case? One way or the other, prosecution is going to end up revealing Connolly's relationship to the dead girl. And the guy is ruined. Mike Connolly.

He has an e-mail from Marina—
Home tonight?
It was her first day of teaching, and he knows she would like to talk about it.

He is about to answer her when Potocki comes in with the surveillance plans. “You can have the van that says
BUG OFF. 24/7 SERVICE.
But you probably don't have to use a van,” Potocki is saying. “Look at this little map. St. Regis is directly across the street from Cal's place. You could hole up in there, I'll bet. Room to breathe. If you like the idea, I'll call the church for you.”

He likes it. “Wow, thanks. Yeah, try to get me and Dolan into the church. That would be great. Van for Hurwitz and Denman?”

“No need. They can have two cars and the coffee shop and office building across the street.”

He writes back to Marina.
I can be at home until 7:30. Then back out.

*   *   *

CONNOLLY AND HIS
wife sat in the yard again, this time together. She looked strained. He could hardly believe in the midst of this, she went to teach. “How did you manage to go to work?”

“What choice did I have?”

“People call off.”

“Not the first week if you hope to have a good rapport with a class. Not that I think I did a good job. My mind wouldn't stay tacked down.” She sighed heavily.

“Do you remember when we met?”

“Oh, yes.”

“We neither of us could work?”

“I remember. What did you see in me then that kept you coming back? Sex, yes, of course I understand we had that. But … that was everywhere to be had. That was easy.”

“You were nice.”

“Nice? Ugh.”

“It's all right to be nice. I mean,
kind
. Aware of other people. You still are. I see how you are with Elinor. And other people.”

Between them is a pitcher of tea Elinor made yesterday. It's odd, not having her around, but the process of getting Cal released has taken up her day.

“Nice doesn't get a girl anywhere. Or does it?” She sounded bitter again, flinty.

“Attraction is … I don't pretend to understand all of it, but an idea takes hold. I think there's a sort of equal yes and no. I have her, I don't have her. I want her, I don't want her. It's a craziness. That's not an excuse.”

“I can't go on like this. I could get an apartment.”

“You must despise me.”

“No. It's more the opposite. I like you better than I did a week ago. I guess I like the truth. Even if the truth is that I'm not enough for you.”

“That isn't true. I'm the one at fault. You shouldn't have to leave this house.”

“It's okay. It isn't mine. It never was.”

“I can't think what to do. Haigh, well, he's probably losing his mind, but he thinks he's going to find a way to keep me in the race.”

“Do you want to be in it?”

He let himself think for a moment. “No.”

“Act on that.”

“Haigh is going to say if I get out, it may cause more speculation than if I stay in.”

“I don't think you're going to beat the scandal. I think it's already here.” Her voice caught. She was very tired.

“We … Say we take the boys. We go to Ireland. We live there for a couple of years. The schools are good.”