Reversible Errors (7 page)

"They should be dead, I want them dead," she said, "the filth who did this my Gus. Dead. With my own eyes. I wall not sleep till I see." She dissolved again and fell upon her son, who, over his mother's shoulder, cast Muriel another bleak look.

But she understood Mrs. Leonidis. Muriel, too, believed in punishment. Her mother, the teacher, was the touchy-feely type, turn the other cheek, but Muriel had always agreed with her father, who defended some of the bare-knuckles maneuvers of life in the union by saying that humans were not going to be good on their own, they needed some encouragement. In an ideal world, you'd give everybody who lived right a medal. Yet there was neither tin nor time enough to do that in this life. Thus, another kind of object lesson was required - so that the good got something for their efforts. Pain had to be wrought upon the body of the bad. Not because there was any special delight in their suffering. But because there was pain in goodness- the pangs of denial, the blistering under the hand of restraint. The good deserved an even trade. Murder required death. It was part of the fundamental reciprocity that was the law.

The Detective Commander, Harold Greer, appeared. He encouraged Mrs. Leonidis to go home, but it was Muriel he wanted. Greer introduced himself back in Guss small office.

"I've been waiting for somebody from the P
. A
.'s Office for two hours. Tommy Molto's nowhere to be found." Molto, the head of Homicide, had recently regained his job in a civil suit, after being fired for supposedly framing a defendant. No one yet knew quite what to make of Tommy. "Larry says you're smart."

Muriel hitched a shoulder. "Consider the source."

Sober by nature, Greer nonetheless managed a spirited laugh. Larry probably never had a boss he didn't turn into a rival.

"Well, if you're smart enough to get a search warrant on a holiday weekend, you're smart enough for me," said Greer.

She ended up making notes on the back of one of the green tablets of order tickets the waitstaff used. Harold needed warrants for the cars in the parking lot, and, as a double-check, the houses of Gus's staff. Before they parted, Muriel felt obliged to repeat John Leonidis's remarks about wanting to kill his father.

"Hell," said Harold and frowned. Nobody liked having to beat up on the bereaved.

"It's just the shock," said Muriel. "You know how it is. Families?"

"Right," said Greer. He had a family, too. "Get me those warrants, huh? And give me your phone numbers in case I need something else."

She had no clue where she'd find a judge to sign a warrant at 4 p
. M
. Friday on a holiday weekend. When Harold left, she remained in the tiny office, feeling saddened by the proximity of Gus's personal things, while she phoned felony judges at home. Gillian Sullivan
,
Muriels last choice, sounded, as usual, well sauced and sleepy, but she was available. Muriel headed for the office in the County Building, where she'd have to type up the warrants herself.

She was excited. In the P
. A
.'s Office, there was a standing rule: once you touched a case it was yours. The maxim kept deputies from dumping their dogs, and political heavyweights from clouting their way onto plum assignments. Even so, she'd probably be stuck as third chair, because it would be a capital prosecution. Only if John and Athena were the kind to say no more killing would the P
. A
. hesitate to seek execution, and the Leonidis family clearly was not in that frame of mind. So it would be a trial -no one pled to capital murder-a big one. Muriel would see her name on the front page of the Tribune before this was over. The prospect sparked the nerves all over her body.

As a child, she'd had a prolonged fear of dying. She would lie in bed trembling, realizing that the whole long journey to grow up would only bring her closer to that point of terrifying blackness at the end. In time, though, she accepted her mother's counsel. There was only one way out-to make your mark, to leave some trace behind that would not be vaporized by eternity: A hundred years from now, she wanted somebody to look up and say, 'Muriel Wynn, she did good things, we're all better off now.' She never thought that would be easy. Hard work and risk were part of the picture. But obtaining justice for Gus, for all these people, was important, part of the never-ending task of setting her shoulder to the bulwark and holding back the grisly impulses that would otherwise engulf the world.

Leaving, she found Larry on the pavement in front of the restaurant, holding off Stanley Rosenberg, the rodent-faced investigative reporter from Channel 5. Stanley kept wheedling, no matter how many times Larry told him to talk to Greer, and finally Starczek, who generally had little use for journalists, simply turned away.

"Fucking vulture," he said to Muriel, who walked beside him. Their cars were in the same direction. She could feel the grimness they'd left back there lingering with her on the gray streets, like an odor that stayed in your clothing.

"So Harold hired you?"

"You do good work," she said. They'd reached her Honda. She thanked Larry circumspectly and said "See ya," but he reached for her arm.

He said, "So who is it?"

When she finally caught the drift, she told him to forget it.

"Hey, you think I'm not gonna hear?"

They went a few more rounds before she gave in.

"Talmadge," she finally said.

"Talmadge Lor-man?"

"Really, Larry. In your whole entire life, how many other people named Talmadge have you met?"

Talmadge, a former Congressman and now a renowned business lawyer and lobbyist, had been their Contracts professor when Larry and Muriel were in law school. Three years ago, Talmadge's wife had died at forty-one of breast cancer. Having shared a spouse's untimely death had drawn Muriel and him together. The relationship sparked, but it was off-and-on, which was how it always seemed to go with Muriel and men. Lately, though, they'd been gathering momentum. With both daughters in college now, Talmadge was tired of being alone. And she enjoyed the force field around him -epical events always seemed to be at hand when you were with Talmadge.

"You're really going to marry Talmadge Lorman?"

"We're not getting married. I told you I had a feeling this might, maybe, could, perhaps, probably-not lead to something. It's a million miles from that right now. I just wanted to give you the heads-up about why I won't come running when you whistle."

"Whistle?"

Perhaps it was the conversation, which seemed weird on both ends, but she felt a fugue state grip her, as if she were hovering over the scene, outside the person of Muriel. Often in the last few years she'd had moments like this, where the real and true Muriel seemed to be there but undetectable, a tiny kernel of something that existed but had no visible form. She'd been the usual pain-in-the-rear teenager, who thought the entire world was a fraud, and in some ways she'd never gotten over that. She knew that everybody was in it for themselves. That's what had drawn her to the law-she relished the aspect of the advocate's role that required her to rip though everyone's poses. Yet the same convictions made it hard to cross the breach with anybody else.

That was what seemed to bring Larry back time and again on the merry-go-round-she knew him. He was smart-smarter than nice - and she enjoyed his jaundiced humor, and his equally sure sense of her. He was a big man, Polish and German in terms of his background, with innocent blue eyes, a big, round face, and blondish hair he was starting to lose. Masculine, you'd say, rather than handsome, but full of primal appeal. Playing around with him was the kind of screwball whim that marked her earlier years, when she thought it was a riot to be the wild child. But he was married-and a cop to the core. Now she told herself again what she'd told him-she had to move on.

She looked down the street to be certain they were unobserved, and took hold of one button on his shirt, a loose acetate number he wore under a poplin sport coat. She gave it a final familiar tug, a request, at close quarters, for mercy. Then she started her car. The engine turned over, and her heart picked up when she remembered the case.

Chapter
5

october 3, 1991

Running Lead
s o
n his way to DuSable Field to ask more questions about Luisa Re- mardi, Larry stopped off in the Point to see a house. About ten years ago, right after he'd worked the murder of a real estate broker, Larry got into rehabbing, turning over a property every eighteen months or so for a pretty good dollar. When he was younger, he'd regarded law enforcement as a way station. He loved the work, but until he dropped out of law school and accepted the Force as Kismet, he'd envisioned some higher destiny for himself among the power elite. These days, whatever visions of stature he retained rested on real estate.

On a mild fall afternoon, Larry pondered the house, which a broker had tipped him would be listed later this week. The Point, long a sanctuary for Kindle County's small African-American middle class, had begun attracting singles and young families of all races looking for better deals on houses close to Center City. This place, a big Victorian, was a Yuppie magnet if ever there was one. It had been split into apartments, but many of the original features remained intact, including the square widow's walks surrounding the belfries on each end, and the original spear-topped cast-iron fence in which yellow leaves were now trapped in soft heaps.

There was also a great sunny corner out front where he could bed zinnias, nasturtiums, dahlias, gladioli, marigolds, and mums, so there'd be blooms from May to October. Over time, he'd discovered that money invested in planting returned three-to-one in enhanced curb appeal. Oddly, the gardening had slowly become perhaps his favorite side of the endeavor. His father's father was a farmer in Poland. And now Larry was back there. What he loved was that it dialed him in on stuff that never mattered before. In the middle of the winter, he'd think about the frost in the soil, the microbes that were dying, and the nurturing snow. He kept track of the angle of the sun, and changed his mind each day about whether he wanted rain. The earth was beneath the street-that was how he always thought about it.

It was well past 4 p
. M
. when he approached the airport. The Task Force that Harold Greer had assembled at Paradise had stormed through the Tri-Cities for about five weeks, but as Larry had anticipated, Greer had no luck running an investigation out of police headquarters in the great, stone edifice of McGrath Hall. That was nothing but a medieval palace, full of rumors about who was humping who and which undeserving jerk the Chief and the commanders were favoring. No serious police work went on there, except the persistent cop pastimes of politicking and grousing. In August, the FBI thought they had grabbed the right guy in Iowa. It didn't prove out, but by then most of the detectives had headed back to their old stuff. So far as Larry could tell, he was the only dick on the Task Force still generating reports more often than every couple of weeks.

Luisa had proved enigmatic enough to maintain his interest. Even the autopsy had raised questions about the precise circumstances of her death. Around her anus, Painless had identified a number of superficial linear tears marked by faint streaks of blood. Dead people didn't bleed. Larry's current theory was that she'd succumbed to a first sexual violation, hoping to save her life. But what did Judson, the third victim who eventually dragged her body downstairs, do while Luisa was being assaulted? Had an accomplice held a gun on him?

By now, Larry had parked in front of the huge Administrative Center TN Air had recently completed. With the advent of shorter- stopping jets, Trans-National had reinitiated service at DuSable, sewing a distinctive target market, namely businessmen and gamblers. The airline offered no-frills fares to other Midwestern cities, and to Las Vegas and Atlantic City, where planes flew twenty-four hours a day. The program had been an astonishing success. Three other national carriers had bought gates, and the county airport authority had authorized a huge expansion, hoping to relieve the round-the-clock mess at the massive Tri-Cities Airport. The major hotel and restaurant chains were breaking ground nearby and TN, to much fanfare, had recently opened this new Administrative Center, where, five years ago, a deserted housing project had stood. The concrete structure had a glass atrium attached to the front in the shape of a rolling pin. It was typical new construction -thin walls and bright lights. Larry didn't go much for modern.

He had asked TN Security to arrange another interview of Genevieve Carriere, a ticket agent whom everyone referred to as Luisa's best friend. Nancy Diaz, a former Kindle County copper, like most of the Security staff, had Genevieve in her office when Larry arrived, and Nancy left Larry alone with her while Nancy headed off to cover something else.

"Erno wants to talk to you when you're done," Nancy told him from the door. Erno Erdai was the Deputy Head of Security at the airline, and ran the show out here. Larry had known Erno for years - they had started in the Academy together-but Erno hadn't bothered to greet him the first couple of times Larry had come snooping around. Erno always wanted Larry to know how big he'd gotten.

Nancy's interior office had a desk with wood-grained laminate and intense fluorescent glow to make up for the lack of windows. In her persimmon uniform, Genevieve sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, demure as a schoolteacher, which she had formerly been. She was putting her husband through med school, and had found it easier, and better paying, to work the graveyard shift out here, so she could be home during the day with their one-year-old. A trifle plump, with a small silver cross at her throat, Genevieve had a round-cheeked look, accentuated by a bit of an overbite. She'd been raised to lift her chin and look folks in the eye when she spoke to them, and Larry thought he'd detected the quiver of something unspoken when he'd interviewed her two and a half months ago.