Simple (36 page)

“I have a job.”

They sip at tea made just the way they like it. Elinor keeps greasing the wheels of their lives.

“I guess it was too good to be true, an idea like that.”

“And the young women there are good-looking.”

“Please don't.”

“Is Ireland nice?”

“It's wonderful. People tell me even the food is good now. It's … beautiful there.”

“Ireland.”

*   *   *

COLLEEN DROVE HOME,
up over river and dale—well, really the William Penn Parkway—to Squirrel Hill in the slow, slow slog of rush hour traffic. The river looked good today, and one little boat appeared not to be bothered by the pace and stress of the roads above. The city was alive with students—that was one of the problems; new ones didn't know their way around yet, so the traffic was even worse than usual.

The car radio bothered her; she turned it off. When she was alone, she often thought about her parents—the way they'd sagged when she told them they had been bad parents, they were in denial, and had been, letting themselves believe a kid could raise herself, figure it all out herself.

Maybe some did. She thought of children she'd seen on the job—the Philips kids who had lived on their own and were competent at everything and more mature than most adults.

She had needed to be safe—from herself, partly. She was born lively. Flirty, she supposed, but even when she didn't feel flirty, men thought she was flirting. Her uncle had thought so. It was just energy, curiosity, getting translated incorrectly.

Her parents had given her compliments from time to time, but mostly it was their way of avoiding responsibility, at the level of
Here, have a cookie.

It was hard having spoken harshly to them for the first time in her life, but she wasn't sorry she had.

She still loved them.

Finally at her house, she lies on her bed, clothes on, deep breathing. Potocki has only been in her bedroom once. All their other times together have been in his bed. It's easier to land like a little bird and then fly away when you need to. Freedom. Freedom.

*   *   *

HE DRIVES HOME BUT
can't make himself think about food yet. He has to
do
something.

Freddie has a good yard. He can at least get the hot coals out of his possession for a while and get himself some dinner and
then
think what to do next.

He drives to Freddie's place and manages to park on the street. Nobody appears to be inside—her truck is gone. No nosy neighbors poke their heads out. He walks calmly to her backyard and starts digging along the border with a piece of broken crockery. He listens carefully. Still no truck. And pretty soon the things are in the ground.

*   *   *

ELINOR HAD TRIED TO
reason with Cal at the bond office to make his house arrest at her place in East Liberty. But he'd put a hand over hers, squeezed, and refused the offer.

Now she sat with him at his place—back in his neighborhood where the terrible thing had happened. He had let her make him dinner while the two of them cleaned up the place from when the police had tromped through looking for something to implicate him. They gathered up all the garbage and she put it out. It was lucky—this was a refuse pickup night.

Earlier she'd watched her son work. He was different, calmer.

Their dinner was just pasta with bottled sauce, not what she was used to, but she was glad to be with her son.

“Cal? Tell me about the jail.”

“You saw some of it. The food wasn't good. The bed wasn't soft. The toilets smelled bad. It was … jail.” He looked down at his wrist where he wore the watch again. “This watch got me some trouble. I refused to check it when they put me in, and then some guys wanted it.”

“Oh. But you still have it.”

He almost smiled.

“Did you make friends?”

“Not exactly.” And though Cal hardly ever talked at length, he looked as if he wanted to say something, so she waited. “I watched people. It turned out I liked watching what they did, how they acted. There was some bizarre behavior. One guy hated me.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Most left me alone after the first day. One tried to be my friend.”

“I can't believe you made it through all that.”

“The funny thing is, I think I might miss it.”

“Oh, please don't say that.”

“No, not, not what you think. I don't want to go back as a prisoner. I get sick to think I might have to go back.”

“I pray for it not to happen.” She put her fork down carefully and sipped at water. “What do you miss—the people, the order, the schedule?” Had she sounded strident? She didn't want to.

“It's hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“One guy said he was going to kill me.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I kept wondering what he was going to do. And when. And then I went to court and they let me come home. I picture his face, how angry he is about not getting his chance to kill me…” He studied his ankle monitor. “I wish I could see his reaction. And, and then … say something to him.”

“It isn't worth it,” she said. “Dealing with hate.”

“Sometimes it is.”

*   *   *

THE FIRST THING TODD
did when he got home from Freddie's place was go to his computer to look up the refuse pickup schedule for lower Oakland. Thursday, he hopes. Thursday would be good. He could arrange for a different car by then. When he saw what he saw, his spirits sank.
Tuesday.
Today was Tuesday. He wasn't ready. He didn't have an anonymous car. He would have to wait a whole week to plant the evidence. That's what he thought at first.

He was hungry, but he couldn't bring himself to cook or heat any of the things he'd just bought. His stomach roared. He ate a few crackers and then sat on his sofa, thinking.

He sat in front of his TV without turning it on. Ideas, ideas kept coming at him, bam, bam, bam.

He sifted through other times, other ways, he could plant the cell phone and wallet at Cal's place, but he couldn't come up with anything that felt as good as tonight. He was shaking. Again, uncharacteristically for him, he fetched a bottle of bourbon he kept in the cabinet in his dining room. He filled a bistro glass and drank it down in a matter of minutes. He didn't like feeling out of control—it was why he stayed away from booze, hardly ever succumbed—but sometimes, he tensed up so high, he needed it. Soon after he finished the glass of bourbon, he felt a little better.

His stomach roared again. He ate a few more crackers.

Seize the day. He couldn't wait a week. He'd get too nervous if he waited. His hallmark had always been swift action, immediate and sound decisions—he'd done the Cassie Price job with a few hours' preparation while Haigh thought about it and wanted to send in an old man to do it. As if Todd was likely to trust the fate of the campaign to some old loser named Frank Santini.

And now again he had to think fast and act fast. It would have to be tonight.

The first thing he had to do was put the pictures of Cassie someplace else, safe, to keep them in reserve for a second attack on Cal if necessary. Tonight he would go for broke: Plant the wallet and cell phone. The next trick was to get those things discovered. If tonight didn't work then he'd still have the photos to plant next week.

What a shame he'd bothered to bury the things at Freddie's place not two hours ago only to have to go back to fetch them. It was okay, he realized. Her car, he needed her car again. Or truck—even better.

He stared at the blank TV, popped it on, then back off.

All cylinders were cranking away. He had the phone situation figured out. He now owned not one but two prepaid phones.

So, he might as well do it—

It was only seventy-five degrees out, but he was sweating like a steelworker. He gathered several plastic Ziplocs from the kitchen and put them in his jacket pocket. He went out back and dug up his best dahlia.

Put on your thinking caps.
His first-grade teacher always said that. He imagined it looked like the swimming cap his mother wore. If it was tight enough it could keep his brains in, working.

He walked to his car. This was it.

*   *   *

DOLAN, WHO WENT
early to St. Regis while his boss went home for dinner, called Christie to report, “His mother just left. It's garbage night here, so she put out his garbage. That's the
only
activity. Nobody else is coming or going. Neighbor guy keeps sitting on his porch, looking curious. But that's it. Maybe you could use me better for something else. Or you could do something else if you need to.” He stifled a yawn, but Christie heard it.

“It's okay. I'm about to come spell you. Hang on till I get there.”

“Boss? What can the kid do? He's on house arrest.”

“You're probably right. When I get there, you can go. I'll watch.”

“You're spooky. When you get an idea, you're spooky. So, after you get here, I'll go get some caffeine in me and then come back.”

“Up to you.”

*   *   *

COLLEEN AND POTOCKI
were in the plumbing van and just beginning to eat what he had bought for them when Todd Simon came out of his house with some kind of plant—they could see a flower and a stem and what looked like a bag of dirt—and he got into his car.

“Shoot. It looks innocent enough, but we ought to tag him.”

“Good. I'm ready. I'll go.” She handed him her takeout carton and quickly put on the glasses and hat.

“I don't like it.”

“Sit tight. I've got it.” She slipped to the front of the van, grabbed a clipboard, pretended to write something, then opened the door.

“Stay on the phone. If you need me, I'll start up the van,” Potocki said.

“I'm fine.”

She walked fast, clipboard in hand, to her own car and started it. She put her phone on speaker. She was keyed up—she could just see Simon's car ahead. She had to stay five cars behind at least, and the only thing she was thankful for was that the Saab was not totally ordinary. If she lost it, she might be able to pick it up again.

Her speakerphone told her Potocki was eating. “Save some for me,” she quipped. He'd ordered them sweet potato ravioli with butter sage dressing and picked it up at Legume on the way to Todd Simon's place.

Funny. Most people on assignment ate junk.

For a while on Braddock Avenue she couldn't see Todd Simon's car, but she ran a light and muscled her way past a few other cars and caught sight of it again.

For a while, she didn't talk, but she felt she could sense Potocki listening. “Tell me where you are,” he said after more time had passed.

“I truly doubt if this is anything. Don't worry. We're heading up Forbes and I think … slowing for that Dallas Avenue turnoff for Beacon.”

“I talked to Dolan. He says nothing is happening at the Hathaway house.”

“Yes. No surprise.” That was surveillance 90 percent of the time: Nothing. “Todd Simon is, yes, turning to Beacon.”

Ordinarily they would have put more men on, but Boss had his ways. And he was soft on Connolly. So far as she was concerned, it was a relief to hear Christie was more or less Democratic. “We're … yes, we're turning onto Bartlett. I have to stay way behind now. I think I saw him pull into this one driveway. It's too early to tell.”

“Give me the address.”

“I can only give you where I am now. He's about six houses farther up the street.” She gave him a house number. “I'm hanging back for a bit. He might notice the car.”

After a few minutes she drove up the street. Yes, the Saab was in the driveway of a house there. There was a black Sebring in the driveway, too. She couldn't see much past the battered white truck parked on the street, and she definitely could not see the man. “Think I maybe found the black car,” she said.

*   *   *

TODD FIGURED FREDDIE
was home since both her car and truck were parked at her place and inside a few lights were on. It wasn't certain. They could be out in Old Reliable's car, whatever it was. Todd knew one thing. He wanted the truck.

He walked to the backyard where he had buried the cell phone and wallet barely two hours before. He needed to get this next just right. He was breathing heavily. If she came outside in the few seconds in which he put the plastic bag with the wallet and phone into his coat pocket, if she saw, it would be impossible to explain himself, and so he shielded his work with his body, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and removed the small trowel from the larger Ziploc that held it alongside the dahlia tuber. Sprouting from the tuber were three unready blooms and one slightly wilting elder bloom. If he'd known how brief the second burial of wallet and cell phone was going to be, he would have risked putting those things in his own yard, but it was too late to second-guess himself now.

He gasped to see the wallet and cell phone again through the writing on the plastic bag. He quickly fumbled the bag into his right jacket pocket. Then he summoned a jolly mood and began planting the dahlia.

Sure enough, just as he had hoped, the back door opened and Freddie stood there. This was good, though she looked none too pleased to see him. “You! I thought I heard someone. What is this?”

“A peace offering. I brought you a flower. My best one out of my garden. It's symbolic.”

“Look. I told you I had plans tonight.”

“I know. I'm an idiot. But—”

A man loomed in the doorway. Old Reliable was not at all old. He was a strapping fellow of the nonparanoid variety. “Anything I'm needed for?” he asked cheerfully.

“No, no, it's okay,” Freddie said. “I'll be right in.” There was a TV playing in the background. She gestured toward it. “My gardener works all hours. Just kidding. I'll explain when I get in.”