CHAPTER 35

Mooney dropped by about eight that evening, in time to catch the Twin Brothers on their way out. I was actually shaking their hands, congratulating them on a job well done—uttering words of praise I thought would never pass from my lips to their ears. Roz, her hair a strange new shade of orange, was beaming.

“Great job,” I said to Rodney. “Really.”

“Sorry about the, uh, water damage—” George said.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “no sweat. Get your truck fixed.”

That’s when Mooney pounded up the walk and rang the bell and put an end to our fond farewells. He was wearing full-dress uniform and it took Roz and the boys by surprise.

“Hi,” he said. “You busy?”

Roz went out to the truck with the Brothers, who suddenly remembered an urgent need to depart. Cop uniforms affect a lot of people that way. Roz was murmuring something about throwing an “opening” for the bathroom. I’d already vetoed the idea.

“Come on in,” I said to Mooney. “How’d the hearing go?”

“Not bad,” he said.

“Yeah?” I smiled with real pleasure. Mooney’s voice was back to its normal growl, the tightness gone. He looked as if he’d lost ten pounds and five years.

“That Janine was some witness,” he said.

“Talkative?”

Mooney said, “Seems like Manelli and Janine had a thing going. She knew he was on the outs with me, because of the bar scam and all, and when she saw the fight, she thought of a way to make Manelli happy. Thought he’d be grateful.”

“And he was,” I said.

“Yeah. He was protecting the Blue Note so he didn’t have any trouble shutting up the regulars there. But Janine figured she’d done enough. She didn’t want to stay incommunicado for months while the cops searched for her. She wanted to work. Manelli wouldn’t let her and she was pissed. And an angry witness—”

“Is a good witness,” I finished. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure,” he said. “You had dinner?”

“I think so,” I said. “Tell the truth, I’m not sure.”

I sank into Aunt Bea’s rocker for the second time in a week. Maybe I was getting used to the fact that she wasn’t going to need it again. Mooney tried the couch and T.C. came over and sniffed his well-polished shoe with some disdain. T.C. is not crazy about Mooney. It’s that competitive thing he has with other males.

“How’s the girl doing?” Mooney asked.

I shrugged.

“Does she know about Reardon?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “yes and no. She knows he’s dead. She knows her dad probably killed him. The Lincoln police sent some fibers and hairs and stuff to the State Lab, evidence that proves Haslam was in Reardon’s car. She doesn’t know that Reardon tried to help her by blackmailing her dad. I mean, she may have to know someday, but not now. As far as I’m concerned, she needs to believe that somebody stood up for her—”

“Yeah,” Mooney said. “The truth will set you free.”

“How free?” I said.

“Speaking of free.” He reached over and scratched behind T.C.’s ears. “I’ll bet you didn’t deposit my check.”

“Ah, Mooney,” I said. “Do we have to start this again?”

T.C. rumbled, his version of a purr.

“Look,” Mooney said, “you found her. I owe you.”

“Forget it, Mooney.”

“Did you get paid for finding Valerie?”

“Two checks in the mail this morning,” I said. “And guess who wrote one?”

“The father?”

“Nope. No hands from the grave on this one. The mother. Mathilde Haslam.”

“Good for her,” Mooney said. “At least she did something. She send a note or anything?”

“Nope,” I said. “I mean, what could she say?”

“Yeah,” Mooney said. “Well, money talks.”

“Agreed.”

“She pay well?”

“Very, and then I got a check from Jerry, the kid who hired me in the first place. His family’s taking care of Valerie’s little sister. Just when I think I’ve got it straight—all people are rotten—somebody comes along and proves me wrong.”

“Keeps you off balance,” Mooney said.

“Yeah, well, between the two checks, I ought to be able to add a little to Paolina’s college fund. And since I found Janine while I was looking for Valerie, consider me paid.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” he said. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, and I tried to get him to join me in a smile.

“The Vietnamese guy?” I guessed when he didn’t respond.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was just over there, at the hospital.”

“And?”

“The wife doesn’t blame me. Poor kid. She blames herself.”

“And the doctors?”

“Doctors,” Mooney said, the way he might say “bookies” or “thieves.” “What the hell do they really know?”

“The guy’s alive, Mooney,” I said. “Alive is a good sign.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess.” He loosened his regulation tie, yanked the knot down about five inches, and opened the top button of his uniform shirt.

“Beer?” I asked.

“In a minute.”

“Thought much about staying on the force?” I asked.

“It’s all I think about,” he said.

“Give it a chance, Moon,” I said. “Who knows? You might like it.”

“And besides,” he said, poker-faced, “I have so many other marketable skills.”

“Mooney,” I said after a while. “You ever shoot anybody and not feel bad about it?”

“I haven’t shot a lot of people,” he said. “Thank God.”

“I keep thinking about Haslam. The man was sick, to do that to his own child, but—”

“Yeah,” Mooney said, “but.”

“I hate thinking I killed some guy who couldn’t help doing what he did. But dammit, what he did was so wrong—and Valerie was so goddamned defenseless—”

“Carlotta,” Mooney said. “At least for the girl’s sake, it’s probably better he’s dead.”

“You think so?”

“Think about the trial,” he said. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I hadn’t told Mooney about firing Haslam’s gun. The Lincoln cops hadn’t questioned the shootout story.

“Hey,” I said. “You want that drink now?”

“Sure,” he said, tailing me into the kitchen.

“What the hell happened?” he said, as soon as he looked around.

“Oh, you mean the ceiling?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“The plumbers,” I said.

“The guys who left when I came in?”

“Yeah.”

“They looked familiar.”

“Friends of Roz,” I said.

“Looks pretty bad.” He stared up at the peeling paint.

“Well, yes and no,” I said. “It’s all fixed. I’ve just gotta scrape it and paint it. Roz volunteered to do it, except I’m afraid she’ll paint the ceiling black or something. I was pretty upset when it happened, but they did an absolutely terrific job upstairs. New tub, new sink. Roz designed it, and damn if it isn’t gorgeous.”

“This I have to see,” Mooney said.

“Okay,” I said. “Bring your beer.”

Mooney’s never been upstairs in my house before. I wasn’t sure if it was a good precedent, but, really, I was so damned pleased about the bathroom I only gave it a passing thought.

Roz had been right. The chocolate tile was perfect. The Day-Glo orange sink, the one with the busted faucet, had disappeared to my delight, and been replaced with a beige pedestal sink, sleek and modern. All the fixtures were shades of beige—“almond,” “toast,” and “wheat” if memory served—and none of them quite matched. But Roz had brought them all together with paint. She’d done this thing with the walls—she called it a stippled faux-marble effect—with different shades of beige and pink and gold, that made all the different fixtures look like they’d been planned just the way they were.

And the tub was great. Not a Jacuzzi or anything fancy, but a tub big enough to stretch out in. I had a bottle of Caswell-Massey Lily of the Valley Bubble Bath perched on its side, and plans to dedicate the tub that night. I hadn’t quite decided whether to christen it alone or call Sam to help me. I was tired, but maybe not that tired.

“Pretty snazzy,” Mooney said.

Roz had painted the ceiling pink. Pink is not my favorite color, but it gave the room a cheerful glow.

I guess I’d just expected Mooney to give the room a perfunctory glance and an approving noise, but he pushed over to the sink and inspected it in a professional way. Then he checked the toilet, eyeing the label. And then he sat down on the edge of the tub, started to say something, and wound up laughing.

“Well, I don’t think it’s so funny,” I said.

“Oh, yes you will,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

“Come on downstairs,” I figured the strain of the hearing had finally gotten to him. “Drink your beer.”

“You’d better drink yours,” he said, chuckling madly and hanging onto the banister on the way down.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got more trouble than you think,” he said.

We sat at the kitchen table. I took a deep breath and said, “What’s wrong? Did they do something to the main drain?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Then what? Why are you giggling like a moron?”

“Is one of the guys named Rodney?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied slowly.

He took a big gulp of beer. “Carlotta, listen. I don’t know a good way to tell you this. You got a bathroom full of stolen appliances up there.”

“No.”

“Yeah, Carlotta. Honest. All that stuff fell off the back of truck, you know what I mean?”

“I’ll kill them,” I said.

“Shit, Carlotta. I just saw the report.”

“Oh my God, Mooney. You’re kidding.”

“I swear I’m not.”

I drank some beer. I couldn’t taste it. “Is this receiving stolen property or what?”

“It could be,” he said through another fit of giggles. I’ve never known Mooney to giggle.

“Could be,” I repeated.

“I don’t have to say anything,” he said. “You could pretend I never went upstairs.”

“Mooney, let me get this straight. You mean for the rest of my life I’ll have to worry about who uses my bathroom? Maybe put up a sign: No cops in the bathroom.”

“It’d be easy to let it go,” he said. “Except—”

“Oh, Mooney,” I said. “You don’t tell on me. I don’t tell on you, and pretty soon we’re like Manelli, right?”

“Well,” he said. “Not that bad.”

I drank my beer. I could feel a fit of the giggles coming on. Or maybe tears. “But that’s what it would be, Mooney. I’d have to live with it. This would be your favor to me—and then I’d owe you one—and then—hell.”

“It’s not a capital crime,” Mooney said.

“What is? Getting a little kickback from a bar? Being afraid to tell your mom or your teacher what your dad did to you after school? Looking the other way when your husband and your daughter spend a little too much time together? How does it start, Mooney? With somebody shutting his eyes, shutting her eyes, letting it go this one time. Once you start letting things go—”

“Come on, Carlotta, aren’t you getting a little overwrought about this?”

“Yeah,” I said, teeth clenched, “I am.”

“I’m really sorry, Carlotta,” he said. But he couldn’t quite keep a straight face.

“Dammit,” I said.

“It’d look better if you called it in,” Mooney said. “Good defense against receiving.”

“Christ, Mooney, they’ll take the stuff as evidence, right? They’ll take my bathtub. I have got to have a bath, Mooney. I mean I’m desperate.”

“Well, I’ve got a solution,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll bet you do.”

“Look, you’re probably hungry, right? We could go out and get something to eat. Ice cream, if that’s all you want. Herrell’s or anyplace you want. And my mom’s visiting her cousin. I have a tub. Nothing real special, but a tub.”

“Mooney,” I said warily, “you didn’t know about this before?”

“Huh? What do you mean? I just thought I recognized the guy on the way out. Rodney what’s-his-name.”

“And you’re not pulling my leg?”

“I wouldn’t do that. The stuff is hot, Carlotta. I’m not saying you knew about it. I’m not saying Roz knew about it, but she’s got rotten taste in friends.”

All the time Mooney was talking I had the image of cops dancing in my head, cops ripping my brand-new bathroom apart. It was practically unbearable so I switched channels.

I thought about Sam Gianelli and his dark wavy hair and his Charles River Park apartment and his wonderful sunken bathtub. Then I looked over at Mooney—solid, substantial Mooney. Maybe if he hadn’t been wearing the uniform.…

“Sorry, Mooney,” I said. “I’ve got other plans for tonight.”