Playing God (34 page)

"I have to go," he said.

"Of course
you
have to go. You can come here, push your way into my life and stir everything up. Then you can walk away, while I'll be up half the night, remembering. I wonder how you can do it?"

He reached out a hand to comfort her, then pulled back, wanting her to stew in this. Wanting her to decide to help him. To do the right thing. "I do it because a man is dead. I wish..." But he didn't know what he wished, so he left it there, not looking back as he went down the slippery stone path to the car.

Chapter 26

The motor was running, the radio on, and Aucoin was happily reading his book. He snapped it shut when Burgess got in. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but you look beat."

Beat? He felt flayed. Utterly drained. In the center of his exhaustion, the questions raised by Sarah Merchant pricked and irritated like a splinter. "Day's not over yet. Remember this when you think about being a detective. Digging up old hurts and tromping through people's private lives, it's not always a hell of a lot of fun. Nor is knowing people are holding out on you and you can't break them down. Anyone looking for me?"

"Stan Perry."

"See if you can find him." He got an evidence envelope, wrote on the outside, pulled the hair from his pocket, and slipped it in. He tilted the seat back and closed his eyes. His arm was a big hot ache going right to the bone. He had to deal with it before he could think. He swallowed a pill with the only liquid available—warm root beer. It was enough to gag a maggot.

"Here's Detective Perry," Aucoin said, handing him the phone and turning off the radio.

"Other than a couple people who wished they could claim credit, my day was a bust," Stan said. "How about yours?"

"Maybe not. I'm still figuring that out. You hear from Terry?"

"Yeah. His was a bust, too. Says he feels like scum, doing that to people."

"Ole Terry's getting soft, I guess."

"I feel like scum, too. Don't you?"

"I'll get over it. You let this get to you, you might as well go back to property crimes. Harder to feel sorry for a guy who's lost a jackhammer or a TV."

"You've got that right. Look, Terry wants to know can we go to the steak house? Run down the day and where we go from here over some decent food? I think he's feeling carnivorous."

Sounded like Kyle was feeling explosive, needed calming down. Right now, tearing into something rare and bloody sounded good. "Fine with me. Where are you?"

"Back at the shop."

"Can you go by Salerno's again, flash Pleasant's picture around, see if anyone on the night crew remembers him?"

"No problem. See you in... how long? Hour and a half?"

"Closer to an hour. Aucoin drives fast."

"Terry's gone over to that drug store. One the old lady told you about? Following up on prescription records. So he can fill you in on that."

"Back to the station," Burgess told Aucoin. "Feel free to speed."

He hadn't expected to sleep with so much on his mind, but the hum of the tires was like a lullaby. Not even the gaudy magnificence of a winter sunset could keep his eyes open. He dreamed about a quilting bee, sitting around his living room with Kyle and Perry, his cousin Sam, the Cape Elizabeth chief, and a few other cops. All of them in uniform, bristling with brass and badges, the flesh of their necks red against the tight collars. They had his mother's bone china tea cups beside them, his sister's quilting frame set up, big clumsy hands dragging needles in and out of some soft gray-green fabric the color of Sarah Merchant's eyes.

He woke because someone was shaking him. They were back at the station, Aucoin bent stork-like over him, looking anxious. "What's wrong?"

"I couldn't wake you, sir."

It was hard coming back, leaving the pleasing fantasy of a group of men with tattered spirits gathering to stitch them back together and returning to this mire of unanswered questions. "I'm okay," he said. "Sleep did me good."

Aucoin relaxed then. He gathered up his book and his trash, smiling shyly as he got out. "Thanks. I enjoyed it, sir."

"Don't call me sir."

Aucoin looked around, full of wonder at being part of the copshop. "Have to, sir."

How did they do it? How did they keep suckering them into this job, with its bad pay and lousy hours? When he was a baby cop, he'd just come back from Vietnam, full of bad memories and bad dreams, coming into a society not supportive of cops or vets. He'd bounced between wonder and cynicism like a yo-yo. Couldn't ever remember feeling the pure pleasure that Aucoin did. But he remembered the adrenaline rush. He'd been an adrenaline junkie. Still was.

"Right." He held out his hand for the keys.

"I could stick around," Aucoin offered. "Drive you to the steakhouse? I don't mind."

"You working tonight? Late out?" Aucoin nodded. Even if the kid got overtime, the schedule was brutal. "Give yourself a break. Go to the gym, work the kinks out before you have to get back behind the wheel. Or catch a few winks." Aucoin gave him the keys, then turned and walked away. Upright and jaunty. He'd just survived a whole day with the meanest cop in Portland and the old fart wasn't so bad. Burgess put the keys in his pocket and followed Aucoin inside. Not particularly upright—even with the pills, his arm hurt like a bastard—and not jaunty. He had too much on his mind.

Upstairs, he dumped himself into his chair and pulled the evidence envelope out of his pocket. He was thinking about getting up when Stan Perry strolled in. Another upright, jaunty soul. Goddamned kids. Much as he liked this young detective, he hated the way Stan made him feel his age. Wouldn't trade his experience—most of it, anyway—but he'd give anything for a second wind and working knees. He handed Perry the envelope. "Can you take this to the lab. Get someone to compare it to the ones in Dr. Pleasant's hand?"

Perry seized it eagerly. "So maybe your day wasn't unproductive. I'll call down. Maybe Wink's still around."

It was too soon to get excited. But just as the day had been set in motion by a gut instinct, this hair represented another. He expected a match. He started through his messages. Couple from his sister. Six from Cote. No information, just to please call. He tried Cote's office, car and home. Didn't find him anywhere. Left messages all three places, genuflecting to authority.

Stan was back before he'd looked through his IN box or finished the messages. "Wink's playing with his superglue right now. When he's done, he'll take a look. Oh, and something else. I ran down a hunch."

"Hunches. Gut feelings. Man, we are such pros."

"What have we done now?" Kyle asked, coming to join them.

"Stan's got a hunch."

Kyle touched his palms together in silent applause. "Let's hear it."

"To put you in the loop..." Perry began, in a perfect imitation of Cote's pompous voice. "What if O'Leary was the one who whacked Pleasant?"

"Why do the video if he's planning to whack the guy?" Kyle asked.

"Maybe our boy O'Leary liked two scoops? Whack Pleasant, then sell the tape to his grieving widow. Maybe he blackmailed the wife and her rich daddy and Pleasant didn't even know. And then I'm thinking, what would incentivize our boy to whack one of his best clients?"

"Money," Kyle said.

"Exactly. So I figure if he's got a bank account, it's probably at a bank near his house, right? I call over to that bank and sure enough, I find a sweet young thing who doesn't know she's not supposed to spill the beans just 'cause I say I'm a cop investigating a murder. I ask her to look at deposits in O'Leary's bank account, which she does, and lo and behold—the day Pleasant gets whacked, O'Leary deposits $6000."

"Can we trace it?" Burgess asked.

"Cash."

"Could be drug money," Burgess said, "but I'd love to know whether Dr. Ken Bailey or Ted Shaw made a cash withdrawal in that amount around that time."

"It's a thought," Kyle agreed. "But what about the widow or her stepdaddy?"

"Shaw probably keeps that kind of cash around as mad money," Perry said.

"Six thousand's not that much," Burgess said. "Have to be bigger money to kill a cash cow like Pleasant. Three blow jobs a week, plus all that Oxycontin. O'Leary's not that stupid."

"He is stupid. He's a thug, not a businessman," Kyle said, swaying wearily, but not sitting down. "Probably not thinking ahead. His kind don't."

"Then I wonder why we haven't found him," Burgess said. "Guys like that tend to stay close to home."

"That's what his momma said. I called her. She's worried. So maybe somebody's whacked him," Perry suggested. "But who?"

"Another scumbag for hire, or..." Kyle smiled diabolically. "Dr. Bailey kills him with a lethal injection of potassium, cuts him up in tiny pieces and feeds him to the fishes." His sunken eyes glittered wickedly. "Full fathom five O'Leary lies—"

"I think you've been working too hard, Terry," Burgess said. "We need to take you out for a nice dinner and send you to bed."

"All alone?" Kyle said forlornly. He looked pathetic, red eyes, lids at half-mast, clothes rumpled. He needed a shave. Any day after five he needed a shave. All that testosterone going to waste. If this didn't break soon, they'd have to take some time off or they'd be at each other's throats.

"Joe knows some nice hookers," Perry said. "There's bound to be one who'll take on an ugly mutt like you if you pay her enough."

"Who's up for steak?" Burgess said.

"Through Cote's heart? I am," Stan said. "He leaves me all these messages and when I call, all he wants to know is where we are. Like we're his kids or something. Like dispatch didn't know."

"The image is too unpleasant," Kyle said. "I'm not going there."

"It won't be any fun, dining without you."

"Put a sock in it, Stan, will ya?" Burgess said. "Who's driving?"

"If we got Aucoin to drive us, we could all drink ourselves into a stupor," Perry said. "How was it, today, Joe? Did he genuflect and kiss your feet?"

"He's not a bad kid."

"Oho!" Perry slapped Kyle on the shoulder. "Mad Dog Burgess likes the kid."

"Put a sock in it, Stan," he repeated. "I'll drive. But one of you has to cut my steak."

The steakhouse was all dim lights, dark wood, and ample, high-backed booths, country-western in the background. The hostess led them to a corner in the back, smiling at Perry as she lifted the amber glass shade and lit their candle. "Been a while, Stan."

He shrugged apologetically. "Got a promotion, Tina. Better title. Longer hours. Same money. Go figure, huh?"

"Yeah?" She let the question hang in the air a minute while she passed out menus. "I just figured you were a play-the-field kinda guy." She swept the table with a look, taking them in, weighing them like they'd weighed her. A woman who liked to know what she was up against. "You all cops?" When no one answered, she gave a lopsided grin. "Oh yeah. Like you'd tell me, right? Michelle will be your waitress tonight. Make Stan keep his hands off her. His hands go anywhere..." She gave just the faintest suggestion of a shimmy. "It's right here."

She strode away, leaving Perry staring admiringly after her. She wore a short, tight black dress and high heels. Nice rear view.

"Wipe your mouth, Stan," Kyle said. "You're drooling."

"I love redheads," Perry murmured, shaking his head at his folly. "Why haven't I called her? She never whined."

They were bent over their menus when a voice asked, "Can I get any of you gentlemen a drink?"

Perry and Kyle lit up. If the hostess was the appetizer, Michelle was the main dish. The costume for waitresses was conventional—short black skirt, white shirt, a little black bow tie, but she'd converted it into something distinct and unforgettable. A swishy black skirt with a visible white lace petticoat, and a tucked-front white blouse that gave new meaning to the expression "stuffed shirt." Lovely long legs. When she left to get their wine, a chorus of sighs went around.

"Anyone want to talk about the day?" Burgess asked. When no one answered, he said, "Yeah, like you'd tell me, right?"

"Not now, Joe," Kyle said. "I think I'm in love."