Time of Departure (19 page)

“A revenge ruling? Nine women are dead! I know Barlow is petty, but this?”

Sam put his hand on my arm. “We've been down this road with the bastard before. He doesn't like me—I'm that Indian who whipped his ass too many times when he was an attorney and embarrassed him too many times in the appellate courts. I don't know why he doesn't like you, but it isn't hard to guess: You're a woman and you're smarter than he is. Together, we're a constant reproach to his delicate ego. Bottom line: Some of that poison will leak onto the pages of his ruling and bolster our grounds for an appeal.”

I sighed. Every instinct told me the case was permanently lost, but I felt a glow of gratitude to the fine man standing in front of me. He'd questioned my judgment from the start and I'd gone against his specific instructions, but now the chips were down, and here he was, fighting for me and fighting for my case.

As Sam and I left the courtroom, a bailiff was leading Tribe away. He was still looking at me.

Marc was waiting outside the courthouse, standing out of the flow of foot traffic on the grass verge next to a lamppost. Sam said, “See you at the office,” and kept going.

I walked over to Marc. I offered some stilted greeting, even though I actually wanted him to hug me.

“He'll get bail,” Marc said.

“I know.”

“Don't worry about it.”

I stared at him. “Don't worry? That man murdered nine women!”

At that instant, Geiger and Lipinski walked past. Lipinski's face was flushed with anger. “Fuckin' stupid woman!” he muttered as he walked by.

Marc's explosive reaction took me by surprise. He had Lipinski by the throat and slammed up against the lamppost so quickly that not even Geiger—thirty years his junior—had time to react.

“You're a disgrace to the badge, Lipinski!” Marc hissed. He tightened his grip.

“Let him go!”
Geiger pushed in and tried to break Marc's hold. He failed. He reached for his weapon.

“Marc,” I said quietly. “Please.”

Marc released Lipinski, who immediately bent double, wheezing and coughing.

Geiger threw an arm around Lipinski's shoulders. “I should arrest you for that, Hastings!”

“Do it, pretty boy!” Marc shot back. “A public trial will give me a chance to show the world what a pair of fuckups you two are!”

Geiger hesitated, and I seized the moment. “Come on, Marc. Sam wants to talk to us.” I led him away.

After we were out of earshot from the two cops, I said, “Very chivalrous of you, old man.”

“I come from a different generation.”

“You come from the same one as Lipinski.”

“He's an aberration.”

“
Fuckups
. Is that one of those old-time expressions?”

He smiled. “You'd be surprised how we talked back then.” We walked in silence for a few more seconds, and then he added, “I thought we were seeing Sam.”

“I am. You're not. I just said that to get you out of there.”

“Okay. But we're walking in the wrong direction.”

“I know.” I glanced at him. “I need a drink first.”

*   *   *

When I walked into Sam's office, his phone was ringing. He waved me into a seat as he picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” He scowled as he listened. “Tell her I'll call her back! And don't put any more calls through! I'm in a meeting.” He hung up and looked at me. “We have a problem! I've just been—” His cell phone started vibrating. He snatched it off the desk and checked the display. “It's Diana.”

I started to get up. “I'll come back.”

“No! Stay!” He thumbed a button and put the phone to his ear. “Hi, honey.… Yeah. No, she's with me now. I'll talk to you later, okay? Yes, I'll tell her. Okay, love. Bye.” He put the phone down. “Diana sends her love.”

“She knows?”

“She made me promise to call her when we had a ruling. I left her a voice mail.”

“You mentioned a problem.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you mean a problem more serious than losing the evidence of seven buried bodies and a crate stuffed with murdered women's clothes?”

“Yes.”

Somehow, I guessed from his tone what was coming. “No!”

“I need you to clean out your desk.” His throat convulsed. “I feel sick about this. I'm sorry.”

“Why? Why, Sam?”

“I just had a phone call from the AG's office.”

I stared. I felt a cold chill. “Perry Standish! He made a call, didn't he?”

“Yes. He got that Whitman conviction, and now—”

“—and now he's riding high and figures he can take me out!”

“You got it.”

“Sam! Whether I stay or go is
your
decision, not the Attorney General's!”

“You're right, but she boxed me in.”

“How?”

“She also got a call from our favorite judge.”

 

27

The next day, just before five o'clock in the afternoon, I slipped the key Marc had given me into the lock of his apartment door. I opened the door and walked in.

Music was playing. It was an old song—“Broken Hearted Me.”

I shut the door quietly.

Marc was stretched out on the couch. As I approached, I saw that his eyes were closed. For a horrible second, I thought something was badly wrong. Then I saw the tear on his cheek. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

My shadow rippled across Marc's face. His eyes opened.

“Anne Murray,” I said. “I haven't heard that in years.”

“Number one on the charts in November '79.” He sat up and wiped his cheek without any sign of embarrassment. “The same month you were born.”

“I don't recall telling you when I was born.”

He responded with an ironic look and I flashed on an earlier discussion in this room: my affair with a law school professor … a bottle of '83 Margaux …

I nodded in defeat. “Research.”

“Right.” He picked up a remote and killed the music. “I've been waiting.”

“They're calling it an ‘administrative suspension.'”

“It was on the news.”

“There's a Channel 20 news crew camped outside my town house.”

“I made up the spare room.”

“Thanks.” I sat down. “Barlow has filed two formal complaints against me—one with the Attorney General and another with the State Bar.”

Marc reached for my hand. “It's just bluster, Claire.”

“Sam's doing his best to protect me. He knows the press will try to crucify him, but he seems more worried about me. He's insisting on handling the appeal himself.”

“I'm sorry. I knew better than to go in there. But I just…” He went quiet.

“C'mon! You would have gone there no matter what I said! All I had to do was stay home! Sam would have given you immunity on the burglary, Barlow could never have gotten away with ruling you were a State agent, and your evidence would have gone in.” I could feel the tears coming as I spit out my next words. “All we needed was a decent, thoughtful judge, but instead we got stuck with that woman-hating egomaniac!”

The tears flowed. Marc slid an arm around me, and I collapsed against him.

For a long, warm minute, with my face pressed to his chest, it felt like I belonged there.

At least, until the defensive part of my brain pointed out that he was stroking my hair.

I sat up and straightened my top. “I need a drink.”

“Beer? Wine? Scotch?”

“Anything.”

He rose and padded into the kitchen. I heard a cupboard open, glasses and ice clinking. “Something to eat?” he called.

“Not hungry.”

He reappeared with three tumblers enclosed in the clasp of both hands. One was filled with ice cubes, with a spoon standing in the ice. He lowered the three glasses to the table and then passed one to me. It was half-filled with scotch.

He grinned at me. “Last time you weren't hungry, you yelled at me and stormed off.”

“How did you get home that night?”

“Took a cab.” He sat next to me and spooned an ice cube into his drink.

I looked at him. “How can you be so calm? A serial killer just walked!”

He shrugged. “I said you would solve this case, and you did. The killer has been identified. And after all these years, any other suspects are finally eliminated.”

“Other suspects?”

“You read the files upstairs.”

“Okay, but…”

“The world now knows who and what Tribe is … including his neighbors. Take a look at O. J. Simpson's life after his acquittal.”

“Simpson was a celebrity! The world knows him on sight. Tribe could move to another state—hell, he'd only have to move to Miami—and no one would know him from Adam!” I took a swallow of whisky. “I screwed up and I can't fix it!”

Marc wiped a tear off my cheek with his knuckle. “Dear, dear Claire. Maybe you already have.”

“What?”

“Fixed it.”

“Please, no more of your riddles!”

“The Chinese have a saying.…”

I groaned. “And what do the Chinese say?”

He answered, looking straight into my eyes. “Only the future is certain. The past is always changing.”

I had no idea what that meant, and I was too upset to ask.

*   *   *

When I eventually fell asleep, with my head on a cushion and my bare feet on Marc's lap, my third glass of scotch was sitting untouched on the coffee table, right beside the half-eaten remains of a pizza we had ordered. I have a wispy memory of Marc gathering me into his arms and carrying me across the apartment.

After that … nothing.

When I woke up, the sun was high and I couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon. I was lying on my back, under covers. I had one of those invidious headaches that hurts only when you move your head. A roll to the left ramped up the pain in my skull, but confirmed that I was alone in the bed. It was only then that I realized I was in my underwear. I did a quick check to make sure I wasn't wearing a thong. I wasn't, which was something of a relief, but still …

I sat up and surveyed my surroundings. My jeans and top were on separate hangers on the back of the door. A glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sat waiting on the bedside table, along with a neatly folded terry bathrobe on an adjacent chair.

I swung my legs out of bed, shook two Tylenols out of the bottle, and gulped them down with a swallow of water. I stood up and pulled on the robe. I hadn't decided yet whether to be peeved or not about Marc's undressing me.

While I was making up my mind, things got suddenly strange.

There was a tap on the door, and Marc's voice called out: “Cat? Breakfast is ready!”

It took me a few seconds of shock to digest what I had just heard. By the time I opened the door, Marc, wearing oven mitts, was carrying plates from the kitchen to the adjoining dining area.

He set one plate down, circled the table, and then spotted me standing in the bedroom doorway. He must have noticed the expression on my face. “What's wrong?”

“‘Cat'?” I asked sharply.

“Oh … uh … your initials. Just popped into my head, I guess.”

I marched toward him, my bare heels thumping on the hardwood floor. “Only my mother calls me that! Have you been talking to her?”

He stood stock-still. “No.”

I studied the plate on my side of the table … eggs, sunny-side up, weird-looking bacon, fried tomatoes, and wheat toast … cut into narrow strips.

“What's this?” I asked, pointing.

“Dippers. For your eggs.”

He was still holding his own plate. I stared at his toast. It was unsliced.

I was spooked. My head was pounding, which made the tone of my next question sound more harsh than I had intended.

“How the hell did you know I like to dip my eggs?”

He set his plate down. “I guess … I guess I know quite a few things about you.”

“More ‘research'?” I glared at him. “And just why this burning interest in my personal preferences, Mr. Hastings?”

There was an uneasy moment, and then he said it.

“Because I'm in love with you.”

I blinked at him. I remember that blink because it wasn't a spontaneous blink. It was an act, because he had just admitted what I already knew. I had been ready for it, but I pretended that I wasn't. I pretended I was surprised.

But pretense is hard to sustain. What do you say next when you're totally at sea and confused about your own feelings? I couldn't think of a damned thing that wouldn't sound lame, so I sidestepped.

“Oh, hell!”

“Oh, hell … what?”

“Oh, hell … I'm hungry and it looks good!”

I sat down and so did he. For a few minutes, we ate in silence.

“What kind of bacon is this?” I asked. It was spicy and delicious.

“Pancetta. It's Italian.”

“Hmm. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?”

By the end of the meal, my headache was gone.

 

28

Situational awareness.

Good cops have it, and if they want to stay alive, they keep it switched on all day, every day, on duty or off.

Most often, situational awareness just means seeing something that others miss: clothing or body language that doesn't fit; a light in the wrong window; an out-of-place sound. But sometimes it means the reverse. Sometimes, especially in police work, it means the well-honed skill of ensuring that other people don't see something.

For example: making sure that those other people
don't see you
.

After our breakfast together, and after a quiet discussion over coffee, I showered, dressed, and took my leave from Marc. I drove home. Thankfully, the news crew was gone.

But they'd been replaced.