Even if he hadn’t been indicted, Tracy Mack was still retired, and at home. Before I went down to the underground parking garage I called his number, and when a raspy voice answered, I hung up. I looked at my watch. It was a long shot, and I knew what my priority was that day, but this wouldn’t take that much time, and you never know if you don’t try. I went to the Imperial Point housing development, which was considered imperial when it was developed fifty years ago. Now not so much. While the entrance still sported a straight line of royal palms that had been impressive in their day, the houses were all single story and modest by today’s bigger and better standards. Luckily they didn’t have gated communities in the sixties, so I was able to drive right up to Tracy Mack’s house without warning him.
I went up to the door and rang the bell.
Nobody came. I supposed he could have left the house since my call. I walked around to the garage and peeked through a window in the door. Car in there, and parked in the middle, which meant he only had one. Lived alone.
I called his number again, and this time when he answered I said, “My name is Brigid Quinn. We haven’t met. I’m not here to hurt you. Look through your peephole and tell me if I look dangerous.”
I stood back from the door to reveal my short stature, my prematurely white hair, and my most winning smile. I even held my arms out and tried to let my triceps sag a little.
There was a long pause during which I felt observed, and then he opened the door.
I got a whiff of closed-up house, a combination of cigar smoke, onions that had been fried long ago, and flatus. Tracy Mack stood there in a T-shirt and workout pants with elastic at the ankles. White socks.
“You don’t look like a reporter,” he said.
“I’m not.” I had a business card ready and handed it to him. “I need your help,” I said.
He took the card with one hand, and with the other extracted the very soggy, tooth-chomped end of his cigar out of his mouth. The thought of anyone touching that with their lips turned my stomach a little, and I have a very strong stomach. After taking a deep breath I stepped inside the door while he was studying my card.
“I recognize your name from somewhere,” he said.
“I used to be in law enforcement, and worked a lot of cases in South Florida.”
A memory slipped across his face. “Brigid Quinn. Now I remember. FBI.” He plugged his cigar back in his mouth.
He didn’t invite me further into the house, and I was just as happy to stand in the foyer with the door open, letting in some fresh air. I took shallow breaths while I scanned the living room and saw a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on a card table and a laptop on a small desk. All his play and work right there. Maybe his whole world.
“You’re retired?” I asked, to put him at ease until I could get to the good part.
He talked around the cigar out one side of his mouth and couldn’t seem to resist engaging in the human contact. “You could say that. I’m working on a book.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a history of forensic science.”
“Let me know when it’s done. I have some contacts.”
That’s not true, but it always works. He unplugged the cigar, an indication that he was more interested in whatever I had to say now that I might be of use to him. But enough beating around the bush.
“Right now I’m here because of Marcus Creighton,” I said.
“Who’s Marcus Creighton?” he asked.
“A man you testified against. He was convicted of killing his family based partly on your testimony.”
He might not have remembered the name of one of the many thousands he had put away, but you could tell he knew where I was going and that he’d been had.
“I’m not talking to anyone,” he said, and plugged the cigar back in. He started to push me out the door, but I had seen the muscles tighten in his right arm and knew it was coming. I blocked the door with my body.
“I’ll call the cops,” he said as he pressed the door against me, his cigar threatening.
I turned my face to avoid it. “That won’t do you any good,” I said. “I used to be one, remember? Look, Mr. Mack, Creighton has been scheduled for execution. He’s going to die in four days, for God’s sake. Do you realize if you reverse your testimony even now you can save his life?”
Appealing to his sense of decency didn’t help. Maybe he was low on that particular sense. He looked at me with a tired hate, though he eased up on the door some. “I would have thought we’d be on the same side,” he said.
“I was never on a side. And if I was, it wouldn’t be yours,” I said, losing my patience as I recognized he didn’t have the heart I was hoping to find.
Mack said, “I know, I know, the business about calling me Dick Tracy. Well, maybe I’m not so different. It’s not my fault. They pressure you.”
“About Creighton, you mean? About that fingerprint being his? Who pressured you?”
“I’m not saying anybody pressured me. Maybe I’m just admiting to myself that when you’re in doubt, you give the prosecution what it wants. And after thirty years of rendering that service, I get repaid with an indictment. Go talk to my lawyer.”
This time he caught me off guard, pushing me off balance and out the door. Before he slammed it I managed to say, “Do you think it’ll be easier or harder to find a publisher now that you’re indicted?” Then I left, with nothing accomplished except having the last word.