Playing God (31 page)

He'd barely started his coffee when Kyle pounded on the door, handed over his gun and his bourbon, and assessed him with tired eyes.

"You get some sleep?" Kyle asked.

"A lot. You?" Kyle looked exhausted.

"One of the kids got sick. Wanda gave me a choice—baby-sit the one at home, or take the other to the doctor. I chose baby-sit, figuring I'd get some rest, but she got sick, too. I must have changed her clothes four times and the bed three, and I had to wash all the sheets and blankets and clothes. After about three hours of that, I was dead on my feet. Then Wanda came back with the other kid and she needed a story, too. That took up most of the night. At least she called. Half the time, she deliberately screws things up so I don't get to see them, but God forbid I'm a day late with the support check."

"You want a bagel and coffee? Left-over Chinese?"

"Bagel and coffee sounds good. I didn't have time to eat. Your driver's bringing the car," he said. "You hear the news? Video store got firebombed last night. Total loss."

Burgess put another bagel in the toaster, poured coffee, and pushed it across the table. "Wasn't that one of Stan's psychic predictions? Anybody hurt?"

"It was after midnight."

"Crime lab get their stuff?"

"Yeah. We ever find O'Leary, we've got all we need to put him away. Turns out Mr. Sam Sun had a surveillance camera. Funny how he didn't mention that, isn't it?"

"So how did we know?"

"The divine Andrea learned about it from Mai Phung. Sent someone right over to get the tape. Didn't give Sun a chance to argue."

"She's a good cop."

"She'd be great for Stan. Wonder if he's ever thought of it," Kyle said.

"Can't be many women Stan's missed. Why not for you?"

"Bad luck with women."

"You've got the wrong attitude," Burgess said. "You'll never meet anybody if you put yourself in that box—ugly old guy whose child support keeps him broke."

"You're a fine one to talk. You got a social life?"

He shook his head. "My work is my life." Kyle made a face. "What did you want to be when you grew up?" Burgess asked, opening the refrigerator.

"A keen-eyed, sharp-witted, ruthless detective. You?"

"A priest. It didn't last. I discovered girls. Butter or cream cheese?"

"I like my girls without butter or cream cheese. At least, I think I do. Been a long time since I've had one, with or without. I've got enough trouble with Wanda. Sometimes she's fine, other times she's sharpening her stiletto and trying to decide which ribs to stick it between. Doesn't have anything to do with my behavior."

"Know what you mean. With me, it's my sisters. Where you off to today?"

"The Lewiston/Auburn area. Stan's here in Portland and points south."

"When shall we three meet again?"

"Haven't I heard those words somewhere before?"

"Sister Philomena. The room where the wind always rattled the windows. I could see those witches when she had us reading this stuff."

"Yeah. They looked just like her. So, back at the station, end of the day, unless somebody gets stuck?" Burgess nodded. "You clear this frolic with Vince?"

"He said gut instinct was as good as anything else at this point, only would we please, for God's sake, bring him something. He's got Cote nipping at his heels like a border collie. Add the Chief on top of that, and he's feeling like the guy on the bottom of the clown pyramid."

"Clown pyramid. I like that." Kyle rubbed his weary eyes. "Not like we aren't trying." Doorbell rang. "That'll be your driver. Want me to get it?"

"That's okay." Burgess went downstairs, found a nervous-looking Remy Aucoin on the mat, his hand resting on his gun. "Thought you came to drive, not shoot me." The hand lifted and dropped. "Come on in. Want coffee?"

Aucoin looked like it was a hard decision. "If we've got time, sir. Yes. I would."

"Bagel?"

"No. Thank you, sir. I ate."

"Gonna be an awfully long day if you keep calling me 'sir.' Try Joe. I don't bite, you know."

Aucoin looked doubtful. He greeted Kyle with deference, sat at the table, and accepted the coffee, refusing cream and sugar, keeping his eyes on the cup. It looked like, sir or not, it was going to be a long day. Maybe the kid would get over this. And there were virtues to a quiet companion.

Burgess shoved his pills into his coat pocket and pulled it on. Life was damned hard with only one good arm. Not the first time he'd learned that lesson. Once in Nam, with some shrapnel. Once in a domestic, getting a knife from a guy determined to kill his wife. He checked his pocket for gloves and gathered up the letters. "Ready?"

They trooped downstairs and out into a mild morning. It felt good after the cold of the last few days, but the streets and sidewalks were turning into mushy soup that backed up storm drains and turned intersections and low spots into vast black lakes the consistency of blender-margaritas. Passing cars threw bucketfuls onto each other's windshields. It got better once they were on the highway, and there were great views of mudflats trimmed with patches of snow and heaped up slabs of blue ice, streams meandering through them like languid brown snakes.

"Brunswick, Bath, Wiscasset and Boothbay Harbor," Burgess said. "And we're in no rush."

It was odd not driving. He'd traveled this route often, usually in a hurry, his mind on other things, where he'd just been, where he was going. Today he could just take in the light glistening on the tide flats, the pale gold of cattails and marsh grass, the idiocy of other drivers. Between Falmouth and Brunswick, he could have written thirty tickets.

"May I ask you something?" Aucoin said.

"Sure."

"Why'd you become a cop?"

So much for the quiet ride. Except for the shrink, and women in bars, no one had asked that in a long time. He'd been a cop longer than Aucoin had been alive. "I was just back from Vietnam. Wasn't ready to go to college. Thought it would be good to do something that made people safe. I was a big, strong guy whose major skills were using a gun and getting along with other guys. Police department's a lot like the military. It felt comfortable."

"You still like it?"

"Most days."

"Does it get boring?"

"Not for me."

"You always want to be a detective?"

"Thought I wanted to be on patrol, early out, forever. Got an adrenaline rush every shift, watching night fall on the city. My city. The crazy Russian Roulette of traffic stops. Never knowing what was coming." He considered. "Detective stuff found me. I was good with people. Knew the streets and the players. They kept pressuring me to try it. I did and I got hooked. Why? You want to be a detective?"

"I think so." Aucoin cleared his throat. "No second thoughts?"

Burgess wasn't big on sharing his private thoughts, but the kid was sincere. "Everyone has second thoughts, Remy. We're not machines. You just have to believe in what you do and keep trying to do your best. Try to keep the bad stuff in perspective. Don't kid yourself. There will be bad stuff. Sometimes..." But today he wanted to be looking ahead. And the kid would learn this soon enough.

Aucoin had the good sense not to press him. They rode in silence until they got to Brunswick, and Burgess read off his directions. Aucoin stopped in front of a small, well-tended white house with a screened porch and a touch of gingerbread around the eaves. Burgess walked up the neatly shoveled walk, crossed the porch, and rang the bell. A bird-like old man opened the door. He wore corduroy slacks, a dull brown cardigan with leather elbow patches over a blue shirt, and felt slippers. Retired Bowdoin professor, Burgess guessed.

"Detective Burgess? Please come in." Burgess followed him into a hot, airless house that smelled of menthol and frying. There were piles of books and papers everywhere, the books bristling with page markers. "The other officer isn't coming in?" the man said. "I suppose you brought him along in case you had to arrest me." His laugh was mirthless and forced. He had papery white skin and looked tired and cranky. He sat in a sagging chair that was covered by a garish afghan and waved his hand toward the couch. "Please sit down. Careful! Watch the cat."

A black cat curled in a corner of the dark sofa gave a meow of protest as it jumped to the floor and stalked away, head and tail high. Burgess checked for more animals before sitting, then held out the letter. "Did you write this, Mr. Merrifield?"

The hand that took the letter was age-spotted and unsteady. Merrifield pulled glasses from his sweater pocket and read the letter. He sighed, read it again, then handed it back. "Yes. I wrote it. After Aggie... my wife, Agatha, died. Why do you ask?"

"You were complaining about the way Dr. Pleasant treated your wife."

"Yes," Merrifield said impatiently. "So?"

"Earlier this week, Dr. Pleasant was killed. We're exploring all the possibilities, including people who didn't like him."

"Well, I'm certainly in that category. My wife, Aggie..." He rose, slowly, ungracefully, crossed the room, and picked up a framed picture from the bookcase.

Burgess studied the picture. Agatha Merrifield was holding a baby in her arms. She was smiling. The baby was smiling. They were surrounded by blooming flowers. She was a short, blocky woman with no-nonsense hair, a firm jaw, and a face that had smiled more than it had frowned.

"She was the light of my life," Merrifield said. "That's my granddaughter. Also Aggie. Possibly the only Agatha in her generation." He took the picture and sank down into his chair, the frame in his lap. "All I wanted for her was that the process be conducted with dignity. With respect for who she was. She was a woman who graced life, Detective. She was entitled to be granted grace in return."

He turned the picture face down. "It's not whether he could or couldn't save her. That's not why I disliked... no, let's not blunt the truth... why I hated Dr. Pleasant. It's that he never acknowledged her existence as a human being. It hurt her terribly. Under his care—and I use the word ironically—she wasn't Agatha Merrifield, who had lived and loved and taught for forty years. Who had changed lives and written beautiful poetry. She was the 9:40. Not a person. A time slot. He rang up patients like the counter girl in a busy diner. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. Next. He didn't see them. Just drew pictures on their bodies, cooked their cells, and took their money, always looking down the line for the next dollar."

He sighed. "I'm an old man. I don't drive at night. I hardly drive at all any more. Without Aggie around to remind me of who I am, I'm becoming someone who was. A faded old duffer spinning in a slow circle with my papers and my books. Living alone with a cat. She would have said, 'Remember the time...' and the past and present would have connected. Come alive. Without her, I move through these rooms and all I can stir up is the dust." He bent his head.

"I'm sorry to have done this to you, Mr. Merrifield. But I had to ask."

"It's all right. I understand."

"You have a child? Children?" Merrifield nodded. "Are they nearby?"

"Nice try, Detective. They didn't kill him either, though they won't be saddened by the news. Leland is in Switzerland. He's in the foreign service. Mallory's an attorney in Japan. Neither of them has been back in the States in months. Not since the memorial service. And Aggie is only a baby."

The interview was over. Merrifield followed Burgess to the door. "I appreciate your visit," he said. "Perhaps it's petty and hateful of me, but I take pleasure in knowing that someone had the courage to do what I so badly wanted to do. Aggie wouldn't approve. But I think we men understand more about vengeance."

The door closed behind him, and Burgess, relieved to be out of that bad-smelling, overheated house, sucked in a great lungful of cool air. Yes, he thought, we men understand a lot about vengeance, or at least the desire for it. He tucked the letter away, closed his notebook, and headed toward the car. Then, reconsidering, walked to the garage and looked in the window. Professor Merrifield drove a stodgy white Volvo.

He got in the car and nodded at Aucoin, dozing behind the wheel. "Bath," he said.

The sign hanging from the lamppost read: "Wee Folks Day Care." The well-plowed driveway, crowded with small, colorful plastic vehicles, looked like a Lilliputian parking lot. One car was half on top of another in a manner suggesting a collision. Aucoin looked sullen in a way that suggested he resented being left behind. Burgess wasn't up to coping with any extraneous emotions—seeing all these sad, bruised people would be enough. If what the kid wanted was to become a better cop, why not let him watch?

"You want to come with me?"

"Sure." Aucoin unfastened his seatbelt eagerly.

Together they went up the walk and Burgess rang the bell. The woman who answered had a baby on her hip, two slightly larger children clinging to her legs. "Sergeant Burgess and Officer Aucoin, Portland Police," he said.

"Come on in," she said, stepping back. "And I'm not apologizing for how the place looks. Always looks like this. Probably always will. Kitchen's this way. You want some coffee? I've got coffee cake and it's homemade, too."

They followed her into the kitchen, stepping carefully over scattered toys and books. It was a big room with brownish paneling and yellow Formica countertops. One wall was glass and sliders, opening to a deck. Below, a yard sloped steeply away. There was a round oak table in the center, a row of four high chairs along one wall, one corner given over to a miniature kitchen, with a sink, stove, refrigerator, cupboard and table. Three small girls were busy preparing an imaginary meal.