The Angel of Knowlton Park (14 page)

"You didn't hear?" he said. "We've got a dead kid."

She recoiled like he'd hit her, shaking her head. "Terry didn't say. I haven't seen him for a couple days. He's been in a rotten mood. Yesterday, we were supposed to have the girls, so when I picked them up, I took them to my place for a girls' sleepover, and today we went to the beach. I dropped them off at Wanda's and when I got here, I found him like this."

The living room was dark, shades drawn against the heat, the air still and thick and smelling sour. "Where is he?"

"In the bedroom. I didn't call 911... I was afraid if it was drugs... an overdose... or drinking... that he'd get in trouble with the job." Her voice veered between uncertainty and defiance. "Terry's got enough trouble right now."

He followed her into the dim bedroom, catching a bottle with his toe and sending it clattering into the baseboard. "He was on the floor," she said. "I got him onto the bed, but he won't wake up."

Detective Terry Kyle, wearing only gray gym shorts, sprawled face down across his bed. His skin was a waxy yellowish-white, and Burgess could have counted every vertebrae and rib. Kyle always ran at high revs and was whippet thin, but now, seen unconscious and vulnerable, Burgess realized Kyle was thin to the point of emaciation. He grabbed Kyle's shoulder and turned him over. The body rolled loosely, without reaction or resistance.

"I'm scared, Joe," she said. "I hope I did the right thing, calling you."

Burgess checked Kyle's face, his eyes, his pulse. "Turn on more lights," he said. She moved to the wall switch and flipped it on, then turned on the second bedside light. The floor was strewn with clothes and covers that had been flung off the bed. There was an empty Jack Daniels bottle on the floor. He checked the bedside tables, dresser top, and wastebasket for empty drug containers.

"He taking any prescription drugs you know of?"

She shook her head. "He's been real depressed. And angry. But you know Terry. He'd rather hurt than do something about it.

"Call my number," he said. "See if Chris is there. If she is, tell her what's happening and ask her to come over. Then make some coffee."

He went into the bathroom, turning the shower on, full-bore cold. He levered Kyle to his feet, half-dragged him to the tub, and dumped him in. It was awkward with his bad knee, and he got soaked in the process, but it was so hot in the apartment the soaking felt good. Then he lowered the lid and sat on the toilet, watching Kyle's face. This wasn't medicine. Burgess didn't know much medicine. This was shock treatment, what one cop did for another who didn't want it on record that EMTs had dragged him out of his house comatose with drink. If this didn't work, and Kyle didn't wake up, he still might have to call for help.

This wasn't the day for him to play Clara Barton. His mind was crowded with images of a slaughtered child, with lists of things to do, people to see, all the mental triage of a murder investigation. He needed to be four other places, asking questions and gauging reactions, writing reports, reading reports, considering what they knew and where to go next. But Kyle had been there for him when he needed help. If Terry needed him, even in the middle of an investigation, he had to help. Even with Cote and the media looking over his shoulder, snapping at his heels for answers. Because the living mattered.

He focused on Kyle's lean face, watched the water pour down, waiting for the sharp, cold gray of Kyle's eyes. People always said Burgess's face was fierce, but he looked like a pussycat next to Kyle. Kyle had a way of going dead behind the eyes, showing only anger and disbelief, that Burgess didn't have. Mate that with the bristly dark hair, narrow mouth, and sharp cheekbones, and Kyle was one scary piece of work. A cop whose whole being said that lies hurt him, and that hurting him made him angry.
At you. Scumbag. So think twice about what you just said.

Burgess watched the eyelids, willing them to move. Open. "Goddammit, Terry," he said. "What's going on here? What do you think you're doing to yourself?"

Water poured over the bruised-looking cheekbones and down over Kyle's bony chest, soaking the gray shorts a darker gray. Burgess thought about how vulnerable Kyle looked and how he'd hate it if he knew. The room was stifling and smelled of sickness. He imagined Terry sitting in this miserable, sweltering place, shades drawn, drinking himself sick, sleeping it off, and starting all over again. Cops were good at being professional alcoholics—sober for work, drunk the rest of the time. Had Terry been doing that? And where had they all been?

In the bedroom, he heard Michelle moving around, cleaning up. Changing the bed.

"I've been here, Terry," he said. "I've been right here. Why didn't you call?"

"He didn't think anyone could help him," Michelle said, from the door. "He's such a goddamned stoic."

She took a few steps into the room and stopped, staring with tragic eyes at the man in the tub. "He's always liked to drink. But lately, this thing with Wanda, it's just gotten worse and worse. Is he going to be okay, Joe?"

"Let's give it a little longer," he said. "You find Chris?"

"She's coming over."

"You make that coffee?" She nodded. "Good. Bring me some. Cream and sugar and pour it over ice. Thanks."

He didn't want coffee. Not on top of the last bad coffee and hastily gulped sandwich. He wanted her out of the way, leaving him alone with Kyle. Kyle wouldn't want her seeing him like this. It was the downside of serve and protect—they tried to protect the ones they loved from the ravages of the job, the toll it took on them.

"Sure, Joe. Sure." She backed out of the room. Afraid of him, he thought, though he'd never given her any reason to be.

"I'm here for you, Terry," he said. "Whatever it is. But you've gotta wake up and talk to me. I can't help you otherwise." Stretched out like this, with those purplish-blue lids in a gaunt, exhausted face, long pale limbs ending in long, bony feet, only a drape of gray cloth around his loins, Kyle reminded him of pictures of Christ taken down from the cross. Policing was so intimate sometimes. They got to see each other at their worst, most strung out, most vulnerable. Had to trust each other with that.

"Jesus, Terry... Talk to me. Please!"

Kyle's lids fluttered, fluttered again, then lifted from red, glazed ugly eyes. Thin hands flailed at the falling water, trying to keep it away. Burgess reached out and turned off the shower. After a while, Kyle's eyes opened again. "Hey, Joe." He grabbed the side of the tub. "Sick," he muttered.

Burgess flipped up the toilet seat and gave Kyle his arm, supporting him, holding him, wiping his face. Then he stripped off Kyle's wet shorts and put him to bed. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. It was a lot like a marriage.

He led Michelle into the kitchen, sat her down at the table, and took a chair across from her. "He's gonna be sick as a dog, but I think he'll be okay," he said. "And you'll have Chris. She's steady."

Now that the crisis was over, she put both hands over her face and sobbed. He went around the table, knelt beside her, and pulled her close. Like a kitten, she worked her face into his neck and stayed there, sucking up whatever comfort he could offer. He was glad to help. Kyle had a hard life. His ex-wife made it her life's work to try and turn their girls against their father, constantly jerking him around about support and visitation. He'd seen plenty of domestic situations in his years as a cop, and Wanda Kyle was up there with the worst of them. Michelle was about the only good thing to happen to Kyle in years.

When she'd calmed down, he said, "What's going on?"

"It's Wanda, of course. She can't stand it that Terry and I are happy. He's tried to enforce the visitation in the separation agreement, so he's got regular times with the girls and some time to be with me." She grabbed a paper napkin off the table, dried her eyes, and blew her nose. "She's so mad that she can't jerk him around day and night, that he isn't always at her beck and call... now she says she's moving to Texas."

Her big eyes swam with tears. "It's killing him, Joe, just thinking about losing the girls. I was trying to help, so I... I moved out."

She gripped his arm, her eyes intense, determined that he not misunderstand. "Not because I don't care about him. Terry means everything to me. Enough to leave him, if it meant he could keep his girls."

Burgess felt his own throat get tight. Life was just one damned thing after another. Not just the investigation that wasn't catching any breaks. Few of the people he knew were, either. The harshness of their lives just kept scouring them until they were all sore and bleeding. "Has he seen a lawyer?"

"Finally. The only way to stop her is to get custody of the girls himself. That means fighting dirty. It means he's got to show she's unfit."

"Which she is!"

"Which she is," Michelle agreed. "But he's always believed he shouldn't try to poison the girls against their mother, to let himself be dragged down to her level. And he's never thought he could raise them himself. Not with his hours, his schedule."

She played with the salt and pepper shakers, a pair of English Bobbies someone had given Kyle as a joke. "I suppose he could get a different job, maybe even a different job in the department, but you know how much he loves what he does. So..." She knocked over the salt shaker, automatically picking up a pinch of salt and tossing it over her shoulder, as if, at this late stage, she could ward off their bad luck. "Terry being Terry..."

"He's been letting it eat him up inside instead of talking to people about it."

"It's not so hard to understand, Joe. A cop being stoic, protecting his private life? I told him we should get married. The court would like to see him as a stable, married man. But Terry's scared to get married again. And after Wanda, who can blame him? I moved out, so he wouldn't be—"

She tipped her head sideways, and smiled, shyly. A lovely, honey-haired, All-American Homecoming Queen. All she had to do was enter a room and Terry lit up. "Living in sin. Only... only I miss him so, when I'm not with him. And then he goes and does this. Whether he likes it or not, I'm moving back in. I don't see how he does anyone any good if he drinks himself to death. Do you?"

"I'd miss him."

"Miss him! Joe Burgess, you're such a jerk. You love him like a brother, and you know it."

There was a sharp rap on the door. Michelle hurried to get it, threw it wide, and then, continuing her forward movement, threw herself into Chris Perlin's arms. Chris looked at Joe over the quivering blonde head. "Thought I came back from Boston to take care of
you?"

"This
is
taking care of me."

"Right." She nodded, and he could see her mentally rolling up her sleeves. "You want to fill me in a little before you jump on your steed and go charging off in search of bad guys?"

"Out here in the hall?"

She led Michelle into the apartment and disengaged long enough to wrap her own arms around him. He stood a moment, savoring the perfume of her hair. She'd been gone three days, and he desired her with an almost adolescent desperation, a degree of need and desire that scared him. He filled her in quickly, then said, "Do you mind if we put the canoe on your car? Cote's having fits about it. He says it's not professional."

She narrowed her eyes and gave him a mean look. The canoe represented their time together away from all this. She'd been talking about this vacation for months. "On my car? I wouldn't mind shoving that canoe up Cote's ass."

The three of them moved the canoe to her car. He checked on Terry one more time before handing him over to an experienced nurse, then kissed her, knowing it would make him want to stay. All the way downtown, he distracted himself from missing her by thinking about the canoe and Cote's ass.

Chapter 11

The long summer evening was drawing to a close, darkness moving softly in, bringing no relief from the heat. As Joe drove past people sitting hopefully outside, waiting for the breeze that wasn't coming, he saw a city settling in for a long, restless night. Last night, under cover of the steamy darkness, an immense evil had moved through the city. He hated to see another night fall without some hope of a solution.

Maybe he'd get back to headquarters and there would be news. Maybe someone else would have shaken something loose while he was tending Kyle. But he didn't think so. If it was important, they would have called him. And anyway, this case felt like dogged persistence and endless questions, infinite tiredness and sore, swollen feet.