NO LATE NIGHT call from The Chatterbox yet I wake exhausted. With the window AC thrumming and Leonard Cohen barking in the background, I do thirty minutes on the treadmill. According to my physiotherapist, it’s the only way to regain full use of my busted right knee. Along with physio, I attended twice-weekly department mandated sessions with a police shrink. Following four weeks at home after the shooting on full pay, I was just getting used to the time off. Returning to The Chatterbox is like sticking a knife into an electrical outlet.
After the workout, I shower and shave. In the kitchen, I wash down buttered toast with two cups of brewed coffee. As part of my daily routine, I pop Zantac and painkillers. As a cop, I know the danger of addiction.
Recently, my twin sister did a stint in rehab, so there’s that to consider not to mention my drunken old man.
Outside, the air is hot, soggy as a damp washcloth. The rate of violent crime has spiked city-wide. If the heat persists, the Police Commissioner will have Borough commanders canceling vacation and personal time off. In two weeks, he’ll call in the National Guard. For proponents of Global Warming, a wet dream.
When my mobile phone rings, I know it’s not good news. Anticipating Gabby, I say, “I’m on my way in.”
Sounding cheery, The Chatterbox says, “Morning, sunshine.”
As casually as I can muster, I say, “Morning.”
“I trust you’ve been doing your homework?”
“How do you mean?”
“You’ve established my bona fides.”
It’s a reasonable assumption, but his certainty makes me wobble.
“Relax, Dex. It’s just a best guess. It’s not my intention to make things difficult for you. But I can’t make life easy, can I?”
“Is it why you keep calling me?”
“I love the sound of your voice.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Seriously. I can’t go on killing forever, can I?”
For a moment, I feel I will be sick.
“I could go for another thirty years, perhaps, maybe longer. By then, you’d be retired to Florida living alone in a double-wide on your shitty cop’s pension reclining in your Barcalounger getting drunk on domestic beer consumed by regret over having failed your duty to serve and to protect. Maybe you eat a bullet: I hear it happens. Gabby, on the other hand, will have moved on, gorgeous as ever, happily married to a banker and not living out her life in a Florida double-wide with you. Maybe a home in Nassau County, a mother, possibly with grandchildren on the way.”
The reference to Gabby jangles my nerves.
“Or maybe not,” he says deadpan, to make it worse.
“What do you want from me?”
“Do I need to start giving you clues about who comes next, instead of who I did last? Up the ante? I could talk to the media, put the entire City on edge. You wouldn’t be investigating a death, you’d be investigating a murder yet to be. How’s that for a Netflix Original? Don’t be a garbage-collector, Dex, cleaning up after my mess. You won’t be satisfied with that.”