Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (10 page)

“I want that at my funeral,” I whisper.

“Don’t even joke about it.”

I feel strangely detached from the spectacle. I shouldn’t, but there it is. No voice, no matter how haunting, can bring me ritual closure. No endearing anecdote, no volume of tears. If I want, I can conjure Jerry in my mind, blood-spattered and choking, whispering his final confession.

My kid
.

None of them will ever have that moment. I wish I didn’t. But I do, and because I do, all this does nothing to stir me. I can’t bury him, not yet. I can’t shovel the dirt onto his coffin and move on. For everyone else, this is a great trauma, something that happened and can’t be reversed.

For me, it’s still happening. The guilt trip from the
IAD
investigator sees to that. It was my gun that killed Lorenz. For me, his death feels utterly reversible, too.

I retrace the moments, following them back, then push play and do it all over, gaining valuable seconds in the process. I can move faster, load quicker. I can get down the stairs in time. When the shots rang out, I was in the vestibule just feet from the building’s entrance. As the pallbearers approach either side of the casket, as they take up the weight of their burden, here I sit, working out how to shave a few seconds off my time. Like I’m back at Shooter’s Paradise, watching the others run the course so I can learn from their mistakes. Only it’s myself I’m watching, my own mistakes, and eliminating just one of them could make the difference.

We stand as the casket makes its exit. Charlotte presses a tissue to her eyes. As the bearers approach, I drop my eyes, hoping to go unnoticed by the passing mourners. All at once, the pews around me go silent. I look up to find Jerry’s widow standing before me, the whole procession paused behind her. Her composure astonishes me. She reaches for my hand, the skin still nicked from my rushed loading of the AK magazine, then starts to say something. Suddenly the brittle surface of her pale, drained face is like an opalescent egg—first smooth, then dented, then cracking all to pieces. She presses herself into me, clinging to my arms, balling my sleeves in her fists.

“That
scum
,” she sobs into my chest.

My cheeks burn. With every eye on me, I start to wilt. Looking over her shoulder, I see the two-year-old riding a relative’s hip, looking confused by his mother’s actions, perhaps by everything that’s going on around him.

Jerry’s brother advances to take her by the arm and ease her back into place. His expression is fraught and apologetic, perhaps not realizing who I am.

She looks me in the eyes again. “
Thank you for what you did
.”

Once they’ve gone, I glance down. The lapel of my jacket is wet and glistening. I cross my arms and tuck my hands into my armpits to stop them from shaking.

The mourners move on. I take my emotions and stuff them way down, struggling to get control. Wanda Mosser pauses beside me and leans to whisper in my ear.

“Tomorrow,” she says. “I want to see you in my office.”

I nod, trying to hide my confusion. Whatever help she imagines she can offer—a self-help lecture of some sort, presuming on our past relationship—I don’t need it. Charlotte asks what she said and I just shrug.

Finally we join the procession, Charlotte taking the lead.

Someone behind tugs at my sleeve. Bascombe.

“What did she want?”

“She thanked me for what I did.”

“No,” he says. “Mosser.”

I tell him and his mouth twists.

“That’s her,” he says. “The new boss.”

“Who, Wanda?”

“
Captain
Mosser. They announced it today.”

I file out, staring at Charlotte’s slender back, the curve of her shoulders. Behind me I can hear the lieutenant muttering. I can hardly believe it. Wanda Mosser? She’s a good cop. She’s not a conniving political—well, she’s got her ambition, obviously. But I’d never have thought Wanda would put the knife in the captain’s back.

Out in the sunlight, mourners huddle in small groups on the lawn, waiting under a mockingly beautiful sky as the pallbearers slot the casket into the long black hearse. Cavallo comes over, tucking a stray lock behind her ear, her face blotchy from crying. She speaks to Charlotte a while, asking about her trip to England and if she’s heard whether the Robbs have chosen a name for their baby yet, or found out if it’s to be a boy or a girl. Then she glances sideways at me, like she’s only just seen me there. She must sense the
distance between us.

I step closer. “You knew about Wanda?”

“I couldn’t say anything,” she says. “I wanted to.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The hearse doors shut and it begins to roll forward, a line of cars edging into procession behind. Time for bystanders to decide whether attending the church service was enough or if they will continue out to the gravesite.

“That was the last time I saw Jerry. When the two of you came to see me. Was that the same case you were working on . . . when it happened?”

“It seems like such a long time ago.”

Cavallo’s husband, who’s been standing with a couple of cops in dress uniform, makes his way over. She bites her lip with indecision.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Wanda’s move. She wants me to go with her. I said I would.”

“You passed up the opportunity when Hedges offered it.”

“Well,” she says, “things are different now.”

She leaves us to meet her husband halfway. Charlotte raises an eyebrow: are we going to the gravesite or not? I mull it over a second, watching Cavallo depart. Things are different now. There’s no doubt about that.

“We’re going,” I say. “I owe it to him.”

The first time I reported for duty
to Wanda Mosser, I was a different man, a newly minted detective with a happy marriage and a little girl at home, an up-and-comer with prospects and connections. Though my law enforcement experience up to then had been in uniform, unlike most officers getting their first plainclothes assignment, my resumé included a stint with
CID
while I was in the Army. Military service is always a plus, but having been an
MP
was golden. Not only would I shine in my new position, but my colleagues would be lucky to have me.

It took Wanda maybe ten seconds to cut me down to size.

“The question is whether I can make anything of you. With most of the boys they send me, even I can’t turn ’em around.”

We were always boys to Wanda. Even the women under her command, when referred to in the aggregate, were boys. And after a while, if you could endure her constant scrutiny and her blistering lectures, if you could earn every so often one of her reluctant smiles, then you counted yourself fortunate to be one of Wanda’s boys. She tore you down only to build you back up. Wanda was a master of
esprit de corps
.

No one called her Lt. Mosser. No one called her boss or sir or ma’am. She was Wanda to everyone, and yet you never felt like you were using her first name. I remember a veteran detective, a mustachioed old bull trying to stay young by dyeing what was left of his hair an unnatural black, telling a story that pretty much summed the situation up. He’d gone to a family Christmas party, this man of perhaps fifty, where his widowed mother sat in a wheelchair receiving kisses from a line of kids and grandkids. When he approached and planted a kiss on her forehead, he whispered under his breath, “Merry Christmas, Wanda.” Then, realizing with embarrassment the mistake, he corrected himself. “I mean, Merry Christmas,
Mama
!”

He told that story once in my hearing, but Wanda must have repeated it a hundred times. Supervising the Missing Persons section wasn’t enough for her; she wanted to be our matriarch, too. Fierce and protective as a mother, amongst her children Wanda also played favorites, pitting us against each other in the struggle for favor. The force of her personality was such that, once you were sucked into the familial mind-set, there was no getting out. She dominated your thoughts, provoking fierce loyalty and simmering anxiety at the same time. You’d cry into your beer after-hours about how Wanda didn’t appreciate you, didn’t even notice all the sacrifices you made, and then she’d bestow an “attaboy” and leave you beaming with pride.

I rode that roller coaster awhile, earning my way into her good graces, getting close enough to see how the Cult of Wanda worked. None of it, I decided, was premeditated. She plied her divide-and-conquer strategy by instinct, unaware she was doing anything at all. Realizing that, I admired her even more. I just didn’t want to work for her.

In my experience, Wanda was not above departmental politics. She even excelled at mid-level intrigues and interagency skirmishes. Before now, though, I would have said she only indulged in the squabbles to protect her territory and back up her people. Necessity drove her rather than ambition.

Last time I walked into Homicide, the captain’s awkward leave-taking had spoiled the atmosphere. The morning after Lorenz’s funeral, the shift hasn’t recovered. If anything, the detectives hunkered down in their individual cubicles give the impression of being shell-shocked. Only a few bother to look up as I pass. My own work space has been tidied by hands other than my own, my briefcase tucked under the footwell, and the one where Lorenz worked is entirely vacated.

I go to the break room for coffee, spend a few minutes at my desk getting my head straight, then lift my briefcase onto the desktop, opening the limp leather flap. From my drawer I transfer Bea Kuykendahl’s file on Ford into my case, along with every bit of paper I can find related to the investigation. The keyed lock on the flap is broken, so I pull the wraparound straps taut before tucking the briefcase back under the desk, ready for a quick exit.

A loud thump on the other side of the cubicle wall gets my attention. Glancing over, I find Cavallo dumping a second cardboard box onto Lorenz’s old desk. The rest of her things are secured by bungee cords to a collapsible luggage cart.

“Moving in?”

“Don’t start in on me, okay? It’s hard enough—”

I lift my hands in surrender. “No offense intended. I’ve been called to the principal’s office, that’s all. I don’t look forward to it. What’s she got in store for me? I’m guessing you already know.”

“Come on, March, you can’t ask me that. My loyalties are complicated enough. I can’t go behind her back. You know that.”

“Just tell me this: should I be worried?”

“If I played the game your way, I’d always be worried.”

I have to smile at that.

The clock is ticking, but before I obey the summons from Wanda, I take Cavallo through the office and introduce her to some of the newer detectives, the ones who weren’t around to witness her work on the Hannah Mayhew case firsthand. I let them know Hedges wanted her in Homicide back then, trying to head off any potential ill will. It’s the least I can do for a friend who’s put her career on the line for me more than once.

While I’m breaking the ice for her, the captain’s door opens and Bascombe peers out. He beckons me with a crook of the finger.

“Wish me luck.”

I don’t know what this place will look like once Wanda’s put her stamp on it. In a lot of ways, it’s changed already. The old stalwarts are gone. Hedges is gone. Lorenz. Of the old guard, there’s just Bascombe and me, and our relationship has always been tenuous. The squad as I knew it is over and I’m turning the page—as always—with a blot on my book.

———

The captain’s office proves unrecognizable. Everything’s changed, right down to the carpet. The sterile, businesslike style Hedges preferred has been replaced by tufted chairs, warm earth tones, and blond wood. Even the cheap metal blinds have given way to thick white plastic ones with faux grain molded into the slats. Instead of waiting behind her desk, Wanda occupies a wing chair in a new seating area, while Bascombe sits rigid on the low couch, his knees halfway to his shoulders.

“Come in, March,” she says. “Have a seat.”

I take my place beside Bascombe. Wanda crosses her leg and consults a notebook resting in her lap, reminding me of a therapist.

“I feel like I should be lying on the couch.”

She smiles faintly while Bascombe just shifts his weight.

“I’ve asked the lieutenant to sit in,” Wanda says. “I’m sure you know what this is all about. You’ve worked for me in the past, so you know how I like to run things. I expect a lot from my people and they expect a lot from me.”

“I understand.”

“Lieutenant Bascombe has already briefed me on your case load. While you’re on leave, we will be reassigning the open investigations. Theresa Cavallo will pick up the slack, so I’d like you to brief her on anything outstanding.”

“Is that really necessary?” I ask. “Nothing against Cavallo, but the thing is, I’m ready to come back to work.”

“You’ve been through quite a trauma.”

“Regardless, I don’t want to sit on the sidelines any longer.”

“There’s the question of the
IAD
investigation. Until that’s concluded—”

“I’ll be riding a desk. I understand.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you do understand. Until further notice, you are on leave. We’ll review the situation periodically and reassess. In the meantime, I want you to hand everything over to Cavallo and bring her up to speed.”

“What are you trying to say, Wanda?”

“I think I said it.”

“That sounds like indefinite suspension to me.”

“Not at all.”

I turn to Bascombe for intercession. He’s busy counting the tiles in the suspended ceiling. Clearly Wanda has already clipped his wings.

“Listen,” I say. “My partner was murdered practically before my very eyes. I was held at gunpoint while they removed important evidence from the scene. We don’t have the luxury of sitting back and waiting, Wanda. This needs to be our top priority.”

“Are you really going to fight me on this, Roland? On my first day in the saddle? Frankly, I’m insulted that you feel the need to lecture me on my priorities. If you had your head on straight, you’d realize that the second you decided to shoot a man in half with a machine gun, your involvement in the case was basically over. At best you’re a witness, at worst—I don’t even want to say it.”

The problem with having history between us is, it gives me liberty to say more than I should. At a certain point, in an argument with Hedges or Bascombe, I’d know when to shut my mouth. Not with Wanda, though. In a family squabble you speak your mind, even when it’s suicide.

“You know something,” I say, “it
is
your first day, and with all due respect I’m only lecturing you because you seem to need it. One of our people is dead. We should be out there making our presence felt. There are some serious irregularities in this case and—”

Bascombe cuts me off, coming to life so suddenly he makes me flinch. “Now you listen to me! You’re
way
over the line. Now you either shut your mouth right now or you
will
be on indefinite suspension. Do I make myself clear?”

“Lieutenant,” Wanda says calmly.

I stare at Bascombe, still surprised. And then it dawns on me what’s going on. Despite what Wanda said, he hasn’t briefed her on the case, not entirely. He jumped in to prevent me from enumerating the irregularities—namely the
FBI
runaround and the fact that, unless he has a twin brother, my decapitated victim is very much alive and well and wielding a shotgun.

“You were saying?” Wanda asks me. Not that she really wants to hear it. She’s just giving me more rope.

My first impulse is to get everything out in the open. Why hold back? But Bascombe chose not to say anything, and he must have his reasons. I can feel the tension coming off him in waves.

“Nothing,” I say. “Never mind. If you want me to take a couple of days off, that’s your call. You can imagine the stress I’m under, so please disregard what I just said.”

She lifts her hand. “Don’t say another word. Lieutenant, let’s have Detective March come back in two weeks—”

“Two
weeks
?”

“—for a reassessment. Assuming he’s up to it and there are no new developments, we can look at the option of restricted duty.” She makes a note on her pad, then rises to escort me out. Again, like a shrink whose client’s hour just ran out. Bascombe starts to follow me out, but she recalls him to the couch, saying they have a lot of work to get through. “I’m sure March knows how to find the exit by now.”

———

After I’ve summarized my open cases for Cavallo and answered questions to the best of my ability concerning a couple of Lorenz’s files, I hoist my briefcase and make for the door. With every step I expect to be called out for trying to leave with the Brandon Ford paperwork. But I make it to the elevator without incident, then down to the lower-level garage.

Charlotte calls from her office, asking if I’m interested in lunch. I start to agree, but I really don’t feel up to it. I want to be alone, to lick the fresh wounds the morning has inflicted on my pride. Sensing my mood, she backs off.

“I did make you an appointment with a doctor, though.”

Before the funeral, I’d confessed to her about the constant pain that followed from my fall in the woods. Then she threatened to call a doctor, making me regret saying anything at all.

“I don’t need to see a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. If it’s nothing serious, he’ll give you a prescription and you’ll have some relief from the pain. And if it is serious, Roland, then the sooner you do something about it, the better. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, baby. Just stating the facts.”

Which is how I end up, a couple of hours later, perched on a blue vinyl examination table wearing nothing but a stiff cotton gown. X-rays of my lower spine glow on the light board across the room, placed there by a nurse with appliqué crystals on her fingernails. As she departs, she estimates the doctor’s arrival time at three minutes.

Twenty minutes later, a short, handsome Asian man in his mid-thirties appears, wearing mint scrubs and a modish pair of black plastic glasses. He launches into a speech about the mysteries and complexities of the human back. His tone sounds a little defensive, as if I’ve suggested there’s an easy fix. “Have you ever known anyone who’s had back surgery?”

“Not surgery,” I say. “Surgeries, yes.”

He laughs. “I’ll have to remember that one. There’s some truth to it, for sure. You don’t want to go down that path, assuming you don’t have to.”

The vertebrae could be compressed, he notes in a dubious tone, pinching the sciatic nerve, but there’s no herniation. “The symptoms you describe, though, sound consistent with a herniated disc.” He says a lot more, most of which I don’t catch. In my case, he says it’s possible we might do nothing and the pain will go away. Or we could take action and inadvertently make it worse. The thing to do is to wait and see.

“For now, I’m going to recommend rest,” he says. “And I’ll write you an anti-inflammatory prescription to bring the swelling down. No heavy lifting.”

In other words, no gun, no cuffs, no lugging that thick leather briefcase.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

———

When I get home, I swallow a couple of pills and start running a bath. Just as my toe touches the water, the doorbell rings. I slip on a terry cloth robe and grab my Browning before descending the stairs. Through the peephole I see Bascombe, his eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans.

“Open up, man.”

I welcome him inside. He smirks at the gun in my hand.

“Can’t be too careful,” I say.

We go through to the kitchen. He’s never been to the house before. He pauses to appreciate Charlotte’s marble counters and stainless appliances. Then he pulls out a barstool and sighs. “You didn’t make things easier on me this morning.”