The Blue Journal (3 page)

Kyle hesitated, then said, “I'm in a lot of trouble, huh?”

Walker pursed his lips as if he was thinking it over, then shrugged. “Not as far as I'm concerned. You came into the building, it's a free country, right? You decided to have a look at the roof. Okay, not a great idea, but not the end of the world either. Then everyone down there got excited when they saw you, so you started watching them, they got to watching you, and next thing you know everyone is watching everyone else and trying to figure out what all the excitement is about. That about right?”

Kyle responded with a shy smile.

Then he took a step closer to the ledge.

When the boy saw Walker tense, he said, “I'm just going to sit down.”

Walker let out a breath. Then he watched as the boy sat, his back to the street, just as Walker had positioned himself. They were about eight feet apart now.

“Things get so complicated,” Kyle said.

Walker nodded. “You're telling me.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I really screwed up.”

“Not yet you haven't.”

“Yeah, I have.”

Walker sighed. “We all screw up.”

The boy said nothing.

“You've got a lot of people worried about you.”

Kyle nodded.

“I think they'll all be glad if you come down with me.”

“Sure they will,” Kyle said, “at first. Then they'll just be pissed off.” He paused, then added, “
As usual
,” in that way young people have of making things clear with just a couple of words.

“Maybe so, but not for long, right? They'll be a lot more upset if you jump off this roof, I can promise you that.”

Kyle thought it over. “I guess so.”

Walker laughed. “You guess so?”

“All my parents do is argue anyway. This'll just be something else for them to fight about.”

Walker watched as the boy took another gulp from the can, then said, “I figure their problems are their problems, even if they are your parents. No reason to make their problems yours.”

Kyle shook his head. “Some of their problems
are
mine,” he said.

“That could be so, but whatever they are you're not going to solve them up here.”

“I guess not.”

Walker eyed him seriously for a moment. “Big problems?”

“I think so.”

For the first time, Kyle looked him directly in the eyes, and it struck Walker how young the boy really was—and how pivotal these next few moments would be. “Anything you want to tell me about?”

Kyle was quiet for a few seconds, just staring at Walker. Then he said, “Maybe. But not now.”

“These problems with your family, they what brought you up here?”

Kyle nodded.

“That's lousy.”

“Yeah.” A sad look crossed his young face.

“Whatever these troubles are, trust me, things have a way of working out.”

Kyle managed a sad smile. “That's something adults always say.”

Walker could not help suppress a genuine laugh. “Damn, and I thought I was doing so well up till then.”

The boy laughed too.

“Look Kyle, just cause we say it a lot doesn't mean it's not true. Big troubles today become ancient history in no time.”

“You think so?”

Walker responded with a serious look and said, “I know so.”

Kyle took a long gulp of the beer. “Adults can really be fucked up.”

“Tell me about it. I'm a cop.”

The boy looked at him again. “I mean it. They can do some rotten things.”

“You mean, like parents?”

“Sure. But not just them. Other people too. Really bad, you know?”

Walker gave him a serious look. “I do.”

Kyle nodded to himself, as if confirming a thought. “I guess I've got some stuff to figure out.”

“Everybody does. You ever want to talk about it, I'll be around.”

“Thanks.”

Walker stood. “So, you ready to go?”

Kyle looked up, then held out the can. “Okay if I finish this first?”

CHAPTER 3

An hour later the crowd in front of the building had dispersed, Kyle Avery was in the care of the psychiatric staff at Norwalk Hospital, and Anthony Walker was preparing to spend another night alone in what he referred to as his comfortable townhouse apartment.

He described the place as “comfortable” only because the alternative was to admit that it was small.

Walker was thirty-nine, New York City born and bred, son of a tough Irish American father and a doting Italian American mother. His destiny, as a second-generation police officer, was written the day he first saw his dad in uniform. He attended public schools in the Bronx, graduated with honors from John Jay College, then joined the NYPD. He served with distinction for ten years, fighting the good fight and getting a practical education in the realities of the American criminal justice system.

He dealt with junkies who would slit an old lady's throat for the price of a dime bag; inner-city scum who acted as if raping a child was an acceptable way of life; violent thugs who preyed on their own people; and a court system that kept spitting these vermin back out onto the street. He became sick of risking his life without ever making a real difference. More than anything, he grew tired of worrying about the life he was providing for his wife and daughters.

After ten years of wrestling with all that, he decided it was time to get out.

That was just over five years ago. He left New York and accepted a position as a detective with the Darien Police Department. Moving his family to the suburbs of Connecticut meant a substantial pay cut and an increase in his cost of living. But Walker felt it was the right thing to do for his wife and daughters.

Then he discovered that financial concerns were the least of his problems.

There was the cultural change, of course, like going from a rock concert to a library reading room. Darien was not a hotbed of crime, and there was not much of consequence to detect, not for a cop of his experience and ability. Taken together, all of the incidents of vandalism and burglary he had handled over the past five years were considerably less dangerous than a single midnight-to-eight tour in his old Manhattan precinct.

But those changes were nothing compared to the personal issues that turned his life upside down—and the worst of it was that he never saw any of it coming.

He beat himself up over that last part during many a lonely night.
What a lousy detective I turned out to be
, he kept telling himself.

It began in subtle ways. His contact with old friends in New York became less frequent. He was in the prosperous suburbs now and, although Walker was the same person he had always been, there was a change in the calculus of those relationships.

New friends were tough to find in this affluent area, where he was regarded as little more than the hired help. He never really clocked his wife's growing disenchantment with their limited means, never saw her increasing fascination with the wealth around them. When she walked out on him she told him there was nothing to discuss. It was over. She took their two girls and moved in with the guy she had been sleeping with while Walker was working at keeping their lives together. The divorce was cut and dry—as Walker knew, fighting anything in court is a rich man's game—and so now she was married to someone else and living in a fancy house up the coast in Westport.

Walker was alone.

He was not big on regrets, never saw the point in that. His decision to move from New York had been a personal disaster, but it was what it was. He wasn't about to head back to the city, not with his two daughters up here. All he could do was keep his head down and continue moving forward.

Tonight, for instance, he did what he was accustomed to doing on most evenings in his comfortable townhouse apartment—he changed into sweats, switched on the TV in the kitchen, and got ready to pour himself a bourbon. Then the telephone rang, the sound telling him that his plans were about to be undone.

“Walker? It's Gill.”

“Hello Chief.”

“This Avery matter. The hospital tells me they'll be releasing the boy after twenty-four hours of observation.”

Walker stared at the television. The Yankees were playing the Blue Jays. “That's good news, Chief.”

“Yeah. The kid's a minor and they won't hold him under these circumstances, not with the family insisting there was no overt action toward a suicide. But we've got to get a statement from the parents. Just routine, you know. Best if you get over there tonight and get it done before the boy comes home.”

Walker felt his jaw tighten. “All we need is a statement. Can't you send Kovacevic? He was there with me, and I was just about to eat.” He stared at the bottle of Woodford Reserve that seemed to be beckoning to him.

“Kovie's too green,” Gill said, making no apology for disturbing Walker's evening. “You were in charge, and I don't want any more flak about how this was handled.”

“Flak about how it was handled? The kid was on the roof and I brought him down.”

“I know, but it seems everyone in town has already heard about the beer. He's under age and was a possible suicide attempt. You can imagine how that might be viewed.”

“How about with gratitude?” Walker shook his head. “Jesus, I would've given the kid the six-pack if I thought it would help.”

“I know, I know.”

“Who complained? Not the parents, I'll bet.”

“Not so far.”

“The shrink?”

“No. Heard you were a little rough on her, but she gave you high marks.” Gill hesitated. “You know this town, bunch of magpies, but we've got to keep the natives happy.” He paused. “You still don't get that.”

“I suppose not.”

Gill exhaled into the phone, as if to say that Walker would never get it. “Look, we've got a job to do, and around here we do it by the book.”

Walker figured that was about the eleven-thousandth time he'd heard that line from the chief. “Right.”

“So, when you're there, if you've got to say you're sorry about the beer, just say it.”

“That I'm
sorry
?”

“This whole episode is upsetting enough for the parents,” Gill reminded him, then recited the Averys' address. “Get on over there and finish this, you copy?”

“I copy,” Walker agreed, then listened as the chief hung up. He placed the phone down, said, “Shithead,” plugged the cork back into the bottle of bourbon, and trudged to the bedroom to change back into his street clothes.

Randi Conway pulled into the driveway of her small home, which was set on a tree-lined street just south of the Merritt Parkway. She turned off the car and dropped the key in the ashtray. Stepping into the cool night air, she reached into the mailbox and pulled out a handful of bills, notices, and catalogs, then strolled toward her front door.

She did not notice the sedan, parked across the street, or the driver sitting in the dark, watching her.

Randi's house was a traditional Cape Cod, but the interior featured her own style, an incongruous mix of modern and traditional pieces. This was no designer showcase, and it mattered not at all to her that chrome and glass tables should not be mixed with Queen Anne armchairs or bead board walls and crown moldings. It was hers and it worked for her.

She shut the door and made her way past the living room, straight ahead to the kitchen.

The house was silent.

She opened the refrigerator. It was empty but for fat-free milk, ketchup, an assortment of mustards, a variety of other condiments, and several bottles of spring water. She settled on water, picked up the mail again, and went to the dining room.

Randi had never been married. She had been engaged once, but that fell apart three years ago when her former fiancé—whom she had come to affectionately refer to as “that miserable sonuvabitch”—walked out on her and moved to California. That was when she began using the dining room as an office, since she figured dinner parties were not in her immediate future. The table held a telephone and a pile of papers to which she now added this latest stack of envelopes. She fell wearily into a chair, reached for the phone, and retrieved her voice mail.

“Hi Randi, it's Sharon,” the first voice announced. “Talked to a great guy at our sales meeting today. Single, or I think he's almost single. Anyway, I told him about you and he asked for your number. Should I give it? He's a good-looking guy . . .”

Randi groaned, then deleted the message before it was finished. A beeping sound gave way to the next voice.

“Hello sweetheart, it's your mother. You haven't called me this week. Are you all right? I'm fine, if you care to know. I was just worried about you, that's all. Are you busy this weekend? Give me a call if you have a minute.”