In Plain View (17 page)

“Keep it up, Ma. Jack’s gonna buy you a case of cigarettes for your birthday.” The old guy laughed at his own joke. I saw one hand reach for his wife’s ass, give her a squeeze.

Donna didn’t seem to mind. She shifted her weight toward him, leaning until her shoulder touched the whole length of his body. His hand popped into view at the small of her waist, holding her close.

That seemed to be the cue for Donna to take charge of the conversation. Had I ever met Barbara Walters? Was Peter Jennings handsome in person? In between the small talk, I nudged the sheriff twice about talking to his cousin. He continued giving me the brush-off. To make matters worse, I could see Jenny across the way, smiling and talking with some of the older kids. Even though I was itching to get the interview and get out, I wasn’t looking forward to dragging her away, now that she seemed to be having fun. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her have fun.

The whole scene felt odd as hell. I am not familiar with adjusting my schedule to someone else’s good time. I needed how-to training in standing around watching. Not to mention, the feeling that Curzon was being more than merely helpful by inviting me here. Richard Gatt had it right when he said small-town business wasn’t that different from the Chicago neighborhood politics I remembered. My clan instincts were all a-tingle.

Across the lawn, a pair of Curzon women were chatting up a pair of guests who stuck out as non-family. The older man was early forties, tall, with a jawline as chiseled as a comic book hero’s. His lanky body contrasted with a head of thick silver hair for that youthful-but-mature look. The other man I knew. Mr. Vegas himself. Pat. Tom Jost’s ambulance partner.

Interesting. I entertained the fantasy of grabbing a quick interview and crossing him off my pick-up list.

“Who’s Dick Tracy over there?” I asked Curzon. “The guy with the chin.”

“That’s Marcus Wilt. We went to law school together. He and my sister are—”

“Don’t remind me,” Nana interrupted.

“Law school?” I prodded.

Curzon shrugged. “Didn’t stick for either of us. Marcus ended up going to work for his father’s construction company.”

“You guys are friends?” I asked.

“Not close.”

Senior hacked out one of those old-man gargle sounds. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Dad.” It was a warning.

Too late.

“So you guys are enemies?” I repeated with the same cheerfulness.

“Marcus is running for sheriff,” Curzon answered in a bland voice.

“Why shouldn’t he? You aren’t putting up a fight,” his father accused. “Shit or get off the pot, son. If you don’t, the dogs’ll get you with your pants around your ankles.”

“You want another drink?” Curzon asked me politely. “I’m going to the bar, Dad. You want something?”

“No.” Senior flapped a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Go on then.”

“
Phaw.
You tell me ‘keep it up.’” Nana jut her jaw forward and blew a stream of smoke straight up.

“Give it a rest, Ma.”

Curzon took hold of my elbow and walked us toward the patio serving area. Clearly, they didn’t need an audience to enjoy themselves.

“So what’s Pat doing here?”

“Pat who?”

“Pat, Tom Jost’s buddy, who is right now, sidled up to your frenemy Marcus. That’s who.”

“Marc’s got a contract with the hospital. Those two know each other.”

I looked back at Marcus Wilt. He was dapper enough to be entertaining a gentleman caller. “Are they like, together?”

“Christ. I’ll give you twenty bucks to ask Marc that question.” Curson laughed. “No. It was my mother’s idea. She asked Marc to invite the guy. And here’s Nicky. Perfect timing,” Curzon grumbled. “Now you can ferret out the rest of the family secrets. I’ll leave you to him.” Another brief introduction and Curzon marched off in the direction of the bar.

I tried to think of Nicky Curzon as the bad-cop type, but it just wouldn’t stick. A couple inches shorter and a couple years younger than the sheriff, he had the same width in the chest and shoulder. Cop-sized. He’d changed into a red-on-black Be Like Mike T-shirt which, given his earlier net loss, seemed kind of cute.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook my hand—not squishy, not stiff.

I didn’t want to launch straight into the Jost thing. Rarely does the best stuff flow at the start of an interview. I glanced across the patio at Senior. “Seems like your uncle’s pretty annoyed with the sheriff.”

Nicky shrugged. “It happens.”

Occupational hazard of mine—with only a taste of information, I felt compelled to feed him another opening. Something vague and open-ended like, “He doesn’t think Jack’s fighting for it?”

Nicky shot me a skeptical look. “Jack talked to you about the election?”

“More or less.” Curzon would gut me with a spoon if he caught me wheedling personal secrets out of his cousin. I smiled, casually.

“Jack told me to watch myself around you.” Nicky gave me a smug once-over. “Guess that’s because you got to him first, huh?”

I feigned a little maidenly modesty.

Nicky plopped down on the bench beside me and stretched his legs out in front of him, making himself comfortable. He had the blunt body of so many cops. Not clumsy, but stiff. Made to be in motion, they never seemed quite happy at rest.

“I have to agree with Uncle Mike. Jack’s not trying very hard. I think he wants to lose.”

 
“Really? Why?”

“Don’t know. I do know the work’s a part of him. Being sheriff, law enforcement, all of it. Part of his heritage. You can’t just walk away from that.”

“Not easily.” I took a stab. “Do you think the divorce had something to do with it? It’s not uncommon. Guy splits with his wife, wants to make some changes across the board.”

Nicky stared hard at me. “Jack talked to you about that, too?” He exhaled as if he were blowing off steam. “It’s been two years since the She-bitch left. Guess it depends on whether the change improves things or makes it worse. He’s a good sheriff. He knows the job. Marcus—” The look I saw was long-suffering and skeptical. “I don’t want Jack to lose. None of us do. Some good press would help.”

Ah ha. My invitation to the party suddenly made sense.

“Good press can be hard to come by. Tell me about your letter to Jost’s commander at the fire station.”

Nicky was ready for my question. “Maybe I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”

“Tell me.”

There was no camera running. There was no one to hear but the two of us. Sometimes, guy has a problem, all it takes is someone asking nicely.

“What did the girl say to you?” he asked.

“Rachel Jost said you interrupted a clinch. She sounded ashamed and worried for Tom.”

“For him? Jesus. Why?” He shifted around, aggravation coming through in his body language. “She didn’t have a thing to be ashamed about. He was the one acting like a dick.”

“How so?”

“They’d already steamed up the windows when I rolled up on them but Jost must of opened something to keep the air circulating, because I heard her ‘No,’ clear as you and me talking right here. More than once she said it. ‘No,
please
no.’” He said it quick and rough and absolutely flat, in a rumbly baritone. On his face, it was clear that wasn’t how he’d heard it.

I pulled in a deep breath and let it out slow.

“And I heard his answer, too.” Nicky upended his beer bottle and chugged like he was washing out his mouth. “‘Stay,’ he told her. ‘Stay!’ Like he was talking to a dog.”

He was lost. He asked me to stay, I turned him away.

“And then he says, ‘If we do it, you’ll stay with me. I know you will.’ Word for word, my hand to God, that’s what Jost said—right before I dropped on his ass,” Nicky added, grim and satisfied.

“You think he was about to rape her?”

“Girl said no.”

“Fuck,” I said softly.

“Exactly.”

“More ‘paraphilia of a sacrificial type.’” I sighed. Tom Jost was desperate enough to pressure Rachel physically in order to coerce her into marriage. He knew Rachel was conflicted enough about her feelings and conservative enough about sex that losing her virginity to him would seal the deal. She’d marry him.

“What?”

“Rachel was Tom’s sexual sacrifice. Tell me about the memo.”

“They were gonna let him walk. No record. No report,” Nicky confessed. “Firefighter. One of the brotherhood. Nobody got hurt; no real crime. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Sure.”

“I seen guys like that before. Goes right back to his life. Eventually, it’s gonna happen again. You know it. I know it. He’s gonna hurt somebody. Some woman probably.”

He was playing for my sympathy and I was having a hard time resisting.

“Maybe.”

“I kept thinking about her and what Jost had said in the car. I made a couple calls. The guy was no angel. I decided somebody ought to know.” He sucked back another quick swallow of beer. “I wrote his chief and put it on the record. I knew there was a chance I’d take shit for it.” He looked me in the eye and shrugged. Nice eyes. Curzon eyes.

“They reprimanded you for sending the letter?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the guys at the firehouse? Did they give you a hard time?”

“Let’s just say, I better hope nothing near me catches fire anytime soon.” Nicky smiled that feral, humorless grin that stands for
bring it on.

Police and fire service are boy gangs-for-good. They may fight the bad guys, but they live the same code. Fuck with a brother, get fucked back. No firefighter ever had to fear a speeding ticket in his hometown. No cop had to carry out a dead body, even if he made it dead. Especially if he made it dead.

Pat the fireman was twitching his way toward the exit, saying his good-byes. He was full of nervous tension, glancing around, checking his watch. Donna Curzon tried to slow him down, gesturing toward Nicky and I. Pat shook his head and took a backward step.

“I heard Jost was getting a lot of grief back at the firehouse.”

“Guess we both got our share.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Donna crossed her arms and watched Pat head down the driveway. Her husband slipped up behind her. His face said,
let him go.

Obviously, Curzon’s mother was a politician as well. If Nicky was getting shit from the men at the firehouse, who better to make peace than Tom’s pal?

Nicky laughed. “Why? You gonna go beat him up for me?”

“You don’t think I can?” We were easing out of it now, using the jokes to back away from something that was still pretty raw. “I’d like to see you try,” Nicky said. “Especially in those shoes.”

We both took a moment to admire my sandals. Not the kind of footwear that inspires fear in your enemy. Or maybe it was the pedicure. Jenny had insisted on helping me feel better by polishing my toes with bubble-gum-pink-and-extra-glitter after the emergency-room staff held me down for the stitches. I had some fine painkillers on board by then.

Nicky ceased with the admiration when we noticed cousin Jack headed our way. “You must be tougher than you look, if Jack’s interested.”

“He’s not interested in me. I’m a useful irritant.”

“Don’t tell Nana. This is the first peace he’s had from the nagging since Sharon left.”

“Sharon? The ‘She-bitch’?”

“Shh,” he whispered. “Family pet-name Jack never appreciated.”

Right about then, the sheriff himself came striding into the conversation with all the tact of a cop breaking up a house party. “You’re done. Dad wants you inside.”

“Guess I’m done.” Nicky flashed me a grin but asked his cousin seriously, “Trouble?”

Curzon shrugged, noncommittal.

Nicky crossed the patio in a hurry, his voice drifting as he closed the french door behind him, “Whaa-at?”

I shot Curzon a look and he was smiling, too.

“Family.”

He nodded. “The food’s ready. Brats are done.” He pronounced it like a good midwesterner.
Brahtzs
. Sausages. “Dad promised him first pick since he lost the ball game.”

“Doesn’t the winner get first pick?”

“Of dessert.”

I laughed. What was it about being gathered in a family unit that made people revert to their prehistoric patterns? Big man. Little man. Boss lady. She-bitch. I looked over at Jenny and my momentary bubble of equilibrium popped. Who was I to her?

Somehow, Curzon managed to slip a question into that breach. Then another, and another. Questions about how long the drive had taken us, and how long I’d been working out, and how long I’d been away from Chicago Land. I knew he was pumping me. At first, I answered with the thought,
give a little, get a little.
Maybe I’d get a little something about Tom Jost out of him. Much later along the way, I realized I was giving more than I could reasonably expect to get, but the conversation continued. I told him things about work, about me, that I hadn’t told anyone.

“Holy shit,” Curzon marveled. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“That was about the worst.”

Some of the things I’d turned into pictures haunted me. Most of them weren’t frightening exactly. The danger had passed.

They were only bones. Bones can’t hurt you. Even rows and rows of bones. Human skeletons. And me, picking my way across the ground, stepping oh, so carefully. In dreams, it always ended the same. I choose a skull and turn it in my hand, considering the best angle for my camera’s eye. I am trying to find a way to get the light to shine inside behind the empty sockets. No matter how I twist it, nothing ever works. The skull stares back at me, eyes so black they give me vertigo.

That’s the dream that wakes me in a sweat. Curzon took a long drag on his Anchor Steam beer. “The shit people do to one another,” he said philosophically.

“And to themselves,” I added, thinking of Tom Jost.

The kids were organizing a game on the lawn. Ainsley put up a token resistance to being dragged in to play, pulling Jenny along with him. Their voices crossed the space in little sound bites of high-note happiness.

We watched them play as Curzon talked about the things a cop sees.

Work stories. War stories. Everybody has them. I’ve probably got it easier than the sheriff in one respect. My stories might be on a bigger scale but they originated far, far away; his hit closer to home. Maybe it was calculated to charm me. Maybe.