Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (12 page)

Saturday
in the Heights.
Johnny Cash on the stereo and steaks on the grill, the neighbor’s automatic sprinklers
wick-wick-wicking
on the far side of the wooden fence. I’m stationed, spatula in hand, comfortable as a lizard in the sun, trying to tell myself this is the life and I could get used to it. Charlotte, who’s flowering now that she’s practicing law full-time, has lectured me twice already about a man being more than his job description.

I’m trying to take it in stride.

Behind me, Carter Robb is trapped in a conversation with Cavallo’s husband, Dean, who gulps down Shiner like water and has none of the veteran’s stereotypical reticence when it comes to boasting about wartime exploits. Robb slips in the occasional yeah and uh-huh. Most of Dean’s stories seem to involve some combination of exploding goats and friendly fire, and I suspect he plays up the details, testing the young reverend.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, though, being over there,” he says, “it’s that people are more similar than they are different.”

“Uh-huh,” Robb says. He must know, judging by what’s gone before, that there’s more to Dean’s heartwarming pronouncement than meets the eye.

“Take this, for example. The Arabs, they think all the bad stuff that happens to them is the result of some international Zionist conspiracy. The family goat walks into a minefield, and they blame the Jews. Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Robb says.

“Then I come back here, and Terry says we’re going to church. And I meet this old guy there, and when he finds out where I’ve been, he starts in on how the president won’t produce his birth certificate and steel doesn’t melt just because some jet wrecks into it. See what I mean? Different players, same idea. Somebody’s running things behind the curtains. Nothing ever just happens.” Dean chuckles to himself. “Although this guy, he really seemed big on Israel.”

Cavallo’s husband may be a bit of a blowhard, but I figure he’s earned the right. And it’s not like he doesn’t have a point.

“Don’t get me started on conspiracy theorists,” I say.

Dean perks up. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve got this cousin who thinks her brother was murdered by Dean Corll—you remember him? He was a serial killer here in the Heights back when we were kids. The Candy Man, they called him. Anyway, she devoted a website to all this, convinced all these other fruit loops that she was right—”

Charlotte brings out a bowl of tossed salad from the kitchen, her sundress fluttering in the breeze. “Who are you talking about?”

“Nothing, dear.” I smile ironically and Dean starts to laugh.

“Don’t talk bad about people behind their backs.” With a wink she rejoins the women inside. A moment later, they all emerge, their arms laden with plates, glasses, pitchers—Cavallo in white shorts and oversized sunglasses, Gina Robb pink-skinned and waddling, looking ready to pop, but still as radiant as she was in front of the camera.

Carter rises to make room around the patio table, probably relieved for the deliverance.

Over lunch, Dean fades a little, not having much to contribute to a discussion of baby names and due dates. The Robbs have settled into their new place, but they’ve had to suspend their planned repainting because the fumes are giving Gina headaches. She lights up as she describes the nursery’s two perfect marigold walls and the two untouched sides that still sport the hideous original flocked velvet wallpaper, dating back to before either one of them was born. “When I’m at the hospital in labor,” she says, “I told Carter he has to run home and finish painting the room.”

Cavallo gives Dean a few meaningful looks during the baby talk, which he either doesn’t pick up on or chooses to ignore. According to Charlotte, Theresa’s gone a little baby crazy: “She’s tired of snoozing the biological alarm clock.” A hard image for me to square with her flinty work persona. It would be strange if she rode Wanda’s coattails into Homicide only to take a time-out for maternity leave.

“So how are you settling in at the new job?” I ask.

Charlotte makes a threatening motion with her steak knife. “No work at the table!”

“I’m just asking.”

“It’s fine,” Cavallo says. “They think you’re some kind of legend, the other detectives. They ask a lot of questions about . . .” She pauses, glancing over at the Robbs. They actually knew Hannah Mayhew, the subject of my recent comeback case, whereas for us she was just another victim, albeit an all-important one. “About the task force,” she finishes.

Dean jumps in. “I’ll bet you’re a legend now, the way you put that shooter down. Terry told me all about that, man. That was righteous.”

Cavallo gives him an elbow. The rest of them ignore the remark.

Yet I find his approbation strangely satisfying. Dean strikes me as the type who’s a boor on principle, the kind of guy who tramples social conventions like he wouldn’t know what else to do with them, but would carry a wounded buddy out of enemy territory, humping fifty miles if he had to. When he met Cavallo, he was a cop and an Army reservist, and he’ll probably end up working on one of the city or county tactical response teams once he’s considered all the options. I like him, but I’ve never quite figured out the attraction between the two of them. I have a theory it was mainly physical, intensified by Dean’s long absences, and now that they’re together things aren’t going particularly smooth.

Trying to segue, Cavallo produces her new business cards and starts showing them off. I take one, turning it over in my hand, remembering the first time I’d seen my own name and the word
HOMICIDE
on the same card. I gave those cards out to everyone.

“So you’re keeping your maiden name?” Robb asks.

Next to me, Charlotte deflates. Doesn’t anyone besides her know anymore what questions are appropriate to ask? I try not to smile. Dean makes a show of turning in his chair to face his wife, like it’s a question he’s wondered himself and he can’t wait to hear the answer.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” Cavallo says, not looking at Dean. “For me, it’s sort of like how celebrities, once people know them by a certain name—”

“But it’s not like you’re famous or anything,” Dean says.

“I know that.”

“Is it maybe a
feminist
thing?” He grins at the dig. “Now, Charlotte, you’re a professional woman. Did you change your name when you two got married?”

Charlotte sputters, caught on the horns of a dilemma. She doesn’t want to side with Dean against Theresa, but on the other hand she’s about as traditional as they come. Her father was a conservative kingmaker in Texas politics back in the day, and as the elder daughter, Charlotte took after him, leaving her wayward sister to drift toward the other extreme.

“I did,” she finally admits, “but I can understand what Terry’s saying. Anyway, what’s in a name? The important thing is that this girl right here waited for you a long, long time, and now that she’s got you, I’ve never seen her happier.”

“And
that’s
the truth,” Cavallo says, raising her glass.

Satisfied, Dean puts his arm over her shoulder, squeezing her tight.

Dean and Theresa leave midafternoon with thanks and promises to do it again soon. Charlotte walks them out with Carter in tow, leaving Gina to rest in her chair. I scoot around to the one beside her, asking how she’s been.

“I was really sorry,” she says, “hearing about your partner. That must have been terrible.”

I nod without replying.

“I just kept thinking about the last time I saw you, and all that stuff I said about Roland and chivalry and Francis Drake or whoever. That was stupid of me. It’s just an abstraction for people like us—the danger, I mean—but you live it, don’t you? I’m very sorry.”

“You weren’t being stupid at all,” I say, patting her hand, which is warm to the touch and swollen. “That Roland guy really was an idiot. Besides, I thought you’d moved on from him to Dante now.”

“I finished him, too.”

“What did you think?”

“Well, this wasn’t my first time, you know. I was surprised by some of the things I never picked up on before.”

“Like what?”

“It turns out that to exit hell, you actually have to climb over the devil’s back.”

“For real?”

She nods.

“That sounds about right.”

Charlotte returns, decides the sun is too warm and takes Gina into the air-conditioned house to show her sightseeing photos from England, having just discovered that the data card from her camera will plug straight into the flat-screen television. Left to ourselves, Carter and I start cleaning up.

“What’s your take on Dean?” he asks. “One-on-one I find him kind of aggressive.”

“I guess you shouldn’t have said anything about Cavallo’s name.”

“Before that even. Did you hear some of the stuff he was saying?”

“Honestly? I think he was sizing you up. He wanted to get the pecking order out of the way, trying to get a rise out of you. Don’t you get a lot of that in your line of work?”

“A little, I guess.”

“Don’t take it personally. I’m sure Cavallo’s talked you up a lot. He was probably jealous.”

“Do they seem . . .
happy
to you?”

I shrug. “You gotta remember, they were engaged all that time long-distance; then after the wedding he went back to Afghanistan. They’ve been together a long time, but they’ve really only been living together since he got back. It’s a different dynamic.”

While he ruminates on this, I’m struck by how much Carter has grown up since the specter of fatherhood reared its head. He’s retired the ironic tees in favor of shirts that actually button down the front. Instead of flip-flops, he wears canvas lace-ups. He’s been through a lot, this young man, but life hasn’t marked him. I feel a quasi-paternal pride, though I’ve never been anything like a mentor to him, let alone a father.

“You’re gonna be a dad,” I say, stating the obvious.

He smiles.

The outreach center where he works is undergoing a transformation, he tells me. The man behind it, Murray Abernathy, bought a building in Montrose and spent a pretty penny doing renovations. That was a couple of years ago, and until now the facility has remained mostly empty. Originally, Abernathy envisioned sharing the space with charity and social justice organizations, but the partnerships never materialized. “It’s the way Murray embraces things,” Carter says. “He gets so excited that people are afraid he’s going to take them over.”

Now that’s starting to change. Thanks to the recession, there are plenty of nonprofits looking to economize. In addition, the need for shared infrastructure and coordination has increased. “There are more people in crisis, so why not create a single place where they can go for whatever kind of help they need?” Robb’s time has been increasingly devoted to cultivating these partnerships, keeping Abernathy’s intimidating enthusiasm at bay.

“It may sound shallow,” he says, “but I finally feel like I’m doing something. You can only have so many open-ended theological arguments with people before you start feeling it hasn’t amounted to much.”

“Is that right?” I’ve been on the receiving end of those arguments before, so I can relate to what he’s saying. “I’m glad you’re finding your feet there. I know you had your doubts for a while.”

When I’d first met him, Carter had a comfortable job at a suburban church shepherding affluent teens. Then one of his charges, Hannah Mayhew, disappeared and suddenly the bubble he’d been living in burst. Since then, he’s been on a kind of journey, looking for a simpler, more authentic way to minister. Living in Houston, I’ve run into all kinds of religious leaders, from the staid and respectable to the firebrand nut jobs, and I try to respect other people’s callings even when I do not share them. With Carter that has never been hard. The authenticity he claims to seek is something that, to my mind, he already possesses, though for some reason he cannot see it for himself.

“I want you to know,” he says, “you’ve been a big help to me. You probably won’t even remember the conversation, but last year, when I’d just found out about Gina being pregnant, we got into an argument in the car. Do you remember?”

In the middle of the Simone Walker case. I remember it well. My mind was on other things at the moment. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We got to talking about evil, and you said God wouldn’t stand by and do nothing if he had the power to stop it. Because if you had the power, you’d stop it, and isn’t God better than you?”

I don’t recall my exact words, though I remember the gist of the argument. Something about free will.

“Dean made me think of it. That thing he said about the conspiracy nut he met at our church. I think I know the guy he’s talking about.” He shakes his head. “People need to put a face on what happens. That face used to be God’s. Christians called it providence, the idea that God was behind everything that happened, working it all out according to his will. I grew up in church, though, and that’s not what I was taught.”

“Really?” I say, thinking of my Presbyterian aunt. “Because I’m pretty sure I was.”

“No, what I was taught was that line I tried to feed you. God wants to do the right thing, but his hands are tied. Anyway, Dean’s right. Since God isn’t in charge anymore, we invent conspiracy theories to replace him. We know there’s some kind of driving force—”

“There’s always chance.”

“Is there?” He’s on the verge of taking the bait, then pulls up with a grin. “I won’t rehash an old argument. I just wanted to show you I’m willing to admit when I’m wrong.”

I pat him on the back. “I knew that already, Carter.”

When the dishes are squared away and the grill looks spotless, we head inside to rejoin Charlotte and Gina. There’s some truth in what he said about people inventing conspiracies. But the fact is, sometimes the powerful do conspire. Lorenz said I was showing him my own psycho wall. Bascombe thought I was crazy even to suggest something sinister’s going on with Brandon Ford’s supposed death. Everybody knows that conspiracy theorists are idiots. So what can you do when confronted with evidence of a conspiracy? All this is jumbling around in my head, along with what Gina said about crawling over the devil’s back.