The next morning, Westermann hit his alarm clock and lay in bed, eyes closed against the light, wishing he could summon up some self-loathing after his visit to Jane Morphy but finding it just wasn’t there. Guilt didn’t eat at him as he felt it should. Instead, he pondered the question that hung over this affair: why? There were so many other women in the City—he’d been involved with a number—but he was insistent upon this one woman, who was married to, of all the people he knew, the man most likely to kill him if their tryst was ever discovered.
Jane Morphy never asked him why. She had theories that she took a cruel plea sure in explaining to Westermann, knowing that her insights cut him. One night, she’d said, “You get bored with girls of your class—rich girls and college-educated girls. They’re not exciting to you. You can take them out and they make nice conversation. Some of them are probably even good fucks if they fuck at all.” Westermann had winced at this, not used to women who spoke like Jane. “But they don’t excite you. They don’t challenge you. You know their world, Piet. You don’t know mine. I’m a working-class girl and you sleep with me because it excites you and you know that you don’t have to marry me. You don’t even need to take me out.”
He’d looked at her, thinking there was a bit of truth in this, but trying to see if this was her way of expressing some kind of hurt. But she’d been amused; even happy. She didn’t mind it. He’d asked her once why she would cheat on her husband. She’d said, “How else is a girl going to get a little excitement?” For some reason Westermann hadn’t felt up to challenging her and let it go.
Westermann showered and soft-boiled two eggs that he ate with toast. His apartment was vast and elegant and nearly unfurnished. Westermann kept it to the minimum—dining room table and four chairs, a couple of easy chairs in the living room, a bed, bureau, a few bookcases, mostly filled. His father had given him the apartment as a graduation present, and while he couldn’t refuse the gift—nobody refused Big Rolf—the bare walls and near-empty rooms were his protest. He couldn’t confront his father head-on; he had to get in his jabs at the margins.
He stopped for his mail, found an invitation from his father to an event at the swank Helios Club, the day after tomorrow. Thanks for the notice. But for all he knew it had been sitting in his mail slot for days. He wished now that he hadn’t checked. He thought about sliding it back, but his father would know. Somehow he always knew.
Leaving his building, Westermann made the Negro kid by the time he’d hit the bottom stair. The kid—maybe ten or twelve, thin, loose-limbed, with funny symmetrical scars on each cheek—followed from a distance for half a block, probably nervous. Westermann took the walk slow, giving the kid a chance to find his courage and catch up. At the crosswalk, Westermann paused to let a truck rattle past and heard the kid’s soft voice.
“Mr. Westermann?”
“That’s right.”
“You dropped this.” The kid handed over a piece of paper folded in quarters. Westermann fished in his pocket, gave the boy a quarter, then crossed the street, leaving the boy staring at the coin in his hand. He read as he walked.
COMMUNITY AT 10 AM. WATER SIDE. WE NEED TO TALK.
Westermann tore it into eighths, carried it to the next public trash bin, and dumped it.
The streets were full and Westermann let the crowd pull him along. He was exhausted. The nights with Jane Morphy left him drained; part sleep deprivation, part carnal release, part anxiety. Jane seemed to thrive on the anxiety; it made her jittery, wild.
Morphy did not return early last night. Another bullet dodged. Could he dodge them forever?
Out gambling, she’d said. It was what she always said. Westermann didn’t know whether he believed it, or if he thought she believed it. Westermann couldn’t tell with Morphy. What the hell would a guy like that do for kicks?
Westermann took an unmarked car from the pool at Headquarters and drove to the Community. He had the windows down and hot air whirled wildly around the interior. His shirt clung to his back where it met the seat. Little puddle mirages preceded him in the streets, the asphalt soft under the tires.
Washington was waiting outside the shanties on the river side, maybe a hundred yards from where the girl’s body was originally found. He wore an untucked short-sleeve shirt and his black-framed glasses. Warren Eddings was with him, skullcap in place. Westermann caught their tight expressions as he approached. He shook hands with the two men. Downriver, he spotted two men in suits and hats, probably cops, walking around the area where the body had “officially” been discovered. One was taking photos—maybe forensics guys come back.
Eddings scowled at Westermann. “Things aren’t shaking out right.”
“What do you mean?” Westermann spoke loudly to be heard above the rush of the river.
“Detectives Grip and Morphy—they work for you?”
Westermann nodded. “Sure.”
“They paid a visit to Mel yesterday.”
Westermann turned to Washington. “They did?”
Washington nodded. “Wanted to let me know that we were in their sights.”
Shit. “You know I can’t keep you totally out of this, Mel. We have to run a legitimate investigation and that means giving the Community a look. I’m trying to keep those two away from this side of the investigation.”
Washington said, “Yeah, well, we weren’t surprised to see the other detectives—Plouffe and Souza, I think their names were—asking questions in the shanties. Normal cop stuff. But this visit from the other two, that was an attempt at intimidation. Let me emphasize that it was an attempt.”
Westermann thought for a minute, considering his words. Crows were making a racket, pulling at something in the weeds. “I’ll speak to them. Detectives Grip and Morphy are good investigators. Detective Grip, however, also has very strong political beliefs that were probably a factor in their decision to visit you. I’ll talk to him and make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”
Eddings said, “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
Washington held out a calming hand. “It’s not just the visit they paid me that’s concerning.”
Westermann raised his eyebrows.
Eddings said, “They were down by the water yesterday. The kids were watching them. A couple came and found us and told us what was going on, that we should come have a look.”
Behind Washington and Eddings, the men from downriver were ambling their way. Westermann kept half an eye on their approach.
Washington said, “They were taking boards and logs that they’d found and putting them in the water at various points on the riverbank and watching where the current took them.”
Westermann’s pulse pounded. “Did he—”
“Find the spot?” Washington finished the thought, shaking his head. “Close. He narrowed it down. All those sunken docks and debris under the water, they cause some funny patterns in the current. I think by the time they left, they had a pretty good idea of where we first found her.”
The two men in suits were twenty yards away, clearly coming over to talk. Westermann lifted his chin toward them and Washington and Eddings turned. The men stopped. The one without the camera was thin, a boyish face below his fedora. Smooth jaw—probably never had to shave.
“Lieutenant Westermann,” the man said.
“That’s right.”
With practiced speed, the man with the camera—unshaven, unkempt—snapped a photo of Westermann with Washington and Eddings.
“What’s—,” Westermann started.
The photographer wound and shot a second photo.
“What the hell?” Eddings made a move toward the cameraman, but Washington stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The cameraman walked back downstream in a hurry.
The other man stayed behind, fixing Westermann with a grin. “I left you a message, Lieutenant. You didn’t get back to me, but we do need to talk sometime. Sometime soon. Call me at the Gazette when you get a chance. Ask for Art Deyna.”