CHAPTER 7

Driving to Stevie’s funeral with Chief Roark, I was visited by the same thought I always had over the years whenever I did ride-alongs with cops, namely that it is so much nicer to sit in the front than in the back of a police car. Never liked the back, without door handles or even a way to roll down a window. And they all have that thickly-screened, or in this case Plexiglas, panel running across the top of the front seat, a clear demarcation of power. Of course, my feelings may have been influenced by the time, on my very first ride-along with the Boston cops, I was left in the car for hours after their shift--some sort of initiation I guess. They sat and drank in a cop bar while I endured stares from passer-byes and taunts from neighborhood kids.

Roark let the silence rest between us as she pulled out of the station parking lot and into traffic. She waved to a few pedestrians walking along on the sidewalk and they waved back.

I guess it was up to me to break the silence.

“I appreciate the ride to the service, Chief, but I could have just called a cab,” I said.

“Not a problem. I was going myself. Besides, this ain’t Boston where you just step out and hail a cab down,” she answered.

It had to be a coincidence that she mentioned my old city. “Have you been to Boston?”

“No, never have, but I know you used to work there, while ago,” she said.

No, not a coincidence, and I suddenly sensed her offer of ride wasn’t one either, though I had no idea why. I mean, I’d only been in town a few hours, and I was the victim here. I glanced quickly at my door. It did have a handle, but the door was locked and I didn’t see any button or switch to open it. “Danny, er, Officer Sullivan, tell you that?”

“No, just good old police work. We found one of your old business cards in Steve Darby’s wallet. I called the number. Wondering if it was a lead of any sort. They said you hadn’t worked there for a couple years,” she answered.

We were driving out to the cemetery on Route 5, a road I’d driven along a thousand times, as a kid with my mom and then as a teenager once I got my driver’s license. It struck me that, although the buildings hadn’t changed, the businesses they housed had. Hansen’s Hardware Store was now Emilia’s Vintage Boutique, and The Five Point Pharmacy was now The Five Points Kitchen and Bath Design Showroom.

The signs for the shopping center entrances along the road were cleaner, somehow brighter, cheerier, and the small islands of dirt and shrubbery were all neatly landscaped.

“Your card doesn’t say what you did at the paper--just your name and phone number. You didn’t happen to work in the accounting department or sales, by chance?” she asked, darting a quick, sort of knowing glance my way.

“No, I was a reporter,” I answered.

“Really? But you’re not a reporter anymore?” she asked, this time not taking her eyes off the road.

“Actually, most recently I was a columnist, at a couple different papers,” I said.

“Ah, well, a columnist. Funny that you keep saying ‘was.’ Does that mean you’re not one now?” she said.

“Well, no, I’m sorta between jobs at the moment. That’s why I hope I get my car back soon. Going to explore some possibilities a little farther south,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

“South is nice. I was stationed at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Nice country, great barbecue.” She was quiet again for a minute or two. “So you’ve become a bit of a drifter, huh?” she asked in an easy-going manner, although the way she said it made me sound like I had just jumped off a freight car and would be back on the rails as soon as I grubbed a few meals and earned a little stake sweeping floors or washing dishes.

“Wouldn’t say a drifter--like I said, just between jobs,” I answered, a bit defensively perhaps. “About my car--”

“Oh, we’ll sort that all out. You didn’t say where you’re staying while you’re in town?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t, but it’s in the police report,” I answered, turning to face her. “You know, I have a feeling there’s a question you want to ask. In my experience, the direct approach works best.”

“Is that experience as a columnist or a reporter?” she asked.

Again she became quiet. It seemed to be taking an awful long time to get to the service.

“No, nothing in particular,” she finally said. “It’s just that, well, I guess police and reporters are a little like bears and dogs, you know, where it’s something in their instinct to just not get along very well. The dog doesn’t seem to like the fact the bear is bigger, and the bear doesn’t like having a dog sniffing around it and nipping at its heels, trying to prove how tough it is.”

“Sounds like you have experience--with bears and dogs, that is,” I said, looking out the window, hoping to see a church spire or graveyard, any indication that we were almost at the service.

“I do,” she said with an emphatic nod. “See, I do some hunting--mostly small game--occasionally go bow hunting for deer. Well, one time I was out hunting with some other marines during leave and one of them had a dog. We turned a bend and there was a black bear, wasn’t a big one, maybe 350 pounds. It didn’t look happy to see us. You should have seen the hackles on its back raise up--like happens when they sense danger. The dog, well, it went nuts at the sight of the bear, tore at the leash, and got free, went right after that bear--no regard for its safety.”

I turned back to look at Roark. “Dog sounds kind of stupid.”

“That’s what I’ve always thought. Better to just turn tail and get on out of the bear’s way, but it’s that bear and dog thing I guess. Dogs just don’t seem to know better,” the chief said. “So anyway, we can’t get a shot at the bear, what with the dog nipping and jumping at it. Besides, we were only carrying for small game. We had nothing to bring it down, probably just get it madder.”

“And let me guess, the dog didn’t win.” I said.

Roark shook her head. “No, it didn’t. At some point, the bear seemed to just get fed up and swatted the dog away with one of its big old paws. Sent the dog flying. It didn’t die though, just knocked silly.”

At last, I saw the large field stone columns at the entranceway to the church. I didn’t know what was going on here, but I was glad the ride was finally ending. “That’s a fascinating story. I guess it had a happy ending, with the dog living, and all,” I said.

“Yeah, we actually took it hunting again, but it wasn’t the same. Seemed to only want to get the scent of that bear again. Didn’t learn a thing. But I guess that’s the way dogs are.”

“I guess so. I don’t know much about dogs, to tell you the truth,” I answered.

“You didn’t ask about what happened to the bear,” Roark said.

“Well, what happened?” I asked.

“It just went on about its business, marking out its territory. Way I imagine it, bear never gave that dog another moment’s thought. More important things to do, probably.”

We pulled into the drive, between the two columns, and along the road that led to the entrance of the church. There was a hearse at the base of the steps that led to the church doors and a few people, dressed solemnly, most smoking cigarettes, milled about. The chief pulled the police cruiser in behind the hearse and turned off the engine. I noticed she didn’t unlock the doors, though.

“I’m glad we had this chance to talk,” she said, turning her body to face me. “See, it’s nothing personal, but when I find a reporter’s business card in a murder victim’s wallet and then suddenly that reporter shows up in my town...well, let’s just say it tends to get my hackles up a bit, speaking metaphorically. Could be nothing--hope it is nothing,” she said, looking me directly in the eyes.

“I’m just here for Stevie. Paying my last respects--and once I get my car back, I’m gone,” I said.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Sure you’ll be off to bigger and better things. I do promise you we’ll do everything to get your car back. In the meantime, don’t you go chasing off after any scents, if you know what I mean. You leave the police work to the police.”

With that she touched a switch on the driver’s side armrest and the door locks popped up.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I said, opening the door. “This dog’s got no more hunt left in him, speaking metaphorically.”

I quickly climbed out of the car. Seemed a ride in the front of a police car wasn’t that much fun either.