I fight the church crowd and too many Sunday drivers to arrive at the station past noon. A cold front is pressing up against the lake, and it’s starting to snow again. It’s usually quiet on weekend days; today the ward’s lot is full of cars. Must be people attempting to clarify misdemeanors or tickets on their day off. I park my Mustang in a No Parking zone and go inside.
I pass the front desk and the line leading up to it. I’m glad they’re busy, so I don’t have to stop and explain why I’m there. I make it past the locker room without running into anyone, but on my way to Records I see William Wade through the break room window. I haven’t seen him since before the accident. I didn’t expect to see him smiling, let alone laughing his ass off. Paul Flanigan, the rookie last seen in his boxers, is standing at the coffee machine saying something that must be hilarious. Normally I would pass up this chance to socialize, especially since Paul has asked me out every single time I’ve ever talked to him, but that’s exactly why I stop. He’s too young for me, but he’s the perfect recruit to get me those records. And who knows? Maybe it’s a good joke.
When Wade sees me in the doorway, he stops laughing. Paul straightens up like I’m the chief. I wonder if the joke is on me.
“Hi, darlin’,” Wade says, his voice from deep in his throat, like a blues singer. He is by far the largest cop in our ward, but he’s not fat or muscular or strong. He has big, aching bones that used to be intimidating. Lately, they only slow him down. Today, he looks more tired than usual. He looks like an old man. He probably looks better than I do.
“Thanks for going in for me the other night, Smack,” Wade says, like the other night was ordinary. He’s got to be kidding.
“No problem,” I say. “You were sick.”
“I should have been there,” Wade says.
“Well, you weren’t and I agreed to cover. So drop it.” Wade is known for using his conscience like a doctor’s note. Like he’s allowed to feel bad and therefore get off the hook. I have to admit, he’s grown on me since I’ve worked with him, but I’m not in the mood for his routine now.
“I couldn’t go to the funeral,” he continues. “He was my friend.”
“He was my partner,” I shoot back. I’m not going to let him feel sorry for himself.
Wade pushes on his stomach like he’s feeling around for a specific pain. I’m surprised he’s not checking his pulse.
“Excuse me, I’m still not quite right,” he says, and with that, he ducks out of the room.
“Go right ahead,” I say. I couldn’t have shown up at a better time. I set my sights on Paul.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Oh, you know. You, I mean, you’re okay?” He’s trying to be polite about staring at my head.
“Looks worse than it feels,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s true. The stitches itch like hell and the bruising has spread over my right eye and turned my cheek a mustard yellow. I can’t imagine the fluorescent lights in here do me justice.
Paul checks his watch. He doesn’t know what else to say, and I don’t want to scare him away, so I get right to it. “Paul, I need a favor. I need Fred’s phone records.”
“You need a subpoena or a warrant for that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Paul. That’s where the favor comes in.” I step toward him, ready to elaborate; he backs away like I asked him to hold a tarantula.
“Oh, you, I mean, I couldn’t . . . I’d be . . . you want me to steal them?”
Genius. “No, not exactly. You know how to work the copy machine, don’t you?”
Blake walks by the window and I’m afraid he’ll pick up on our conversation. I try to act casual, but Paul catches on when I look over my shoulder to make sure Blake kept walking.
“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” Paul grins and I think he’s enjoying outranking me.
“You are a smart one,” I say. “You’ll make detective in no time.”
His lower lip quivers just a little. Did I hurt his feelings? I may have misinterpreted the grin; it could have been because I actually paid attention to him. I might have approached this entirely backward.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m under a lot of . . .” I look over my shoulder again and see Wade through the window, so I wrap it up. “I’m an asshole. Could you just do it? For Fred’s sake?”
Paul doesn’t answer. I keep my eyes on him as Wade returns with a bottle of Pepto.
“Coffee’s ready,” Wade says, and pours himself some.
“Coffee doesn’t bug your guts?” I ask.
“Everything bugs my guts,” he says. “I choose my battles.”
I keep looking at Paul to see if he’s gonna come around. He definitely doesn’t know what to do with my attention.
“Coffee, Smack?” Wade asks, stirring milk into his mug. “Paul, get her a cup, she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. You feeling okay?”
Wade knows I don’t answer obvious questions. He pulls out a chair and encourages me to sit as Paul offers me a mug. I take both, even though I don’t want either.
“Cream?” Paul asks.
“Black is fine,” I say, and I smile at him. Wade watches Paul fumble around with some sugar packets.
“Black, Flanigan,” Wade says, taking the packets from Paul and tossing them back on the counter. Then Wade comes over and sits on the edge of the table, shutting Paul out like a kid in the way of an adult conversation.
“Give me a break, Wade,” I say. He wasn’t the one I wanted to talk to, and I’m not interested in niceties.
“Wait, Sam. There’s something I need to tell you.” He leans toward me to be sincere, but he looks at my mouth instead of my eyes. I don’t like it. He’s too close. “I feel responsible,” he says. “I feel horrible.”
“Don’t breathe on me,” I say, “and don’t feel guilty.”
“At least let me say I’m sorry.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. I promptly remove it.
“You just did,” I say. I am unable to share a Hallmark moment. This meeting isn’t going as planned. I stand up so I can see Paul and say, “Thanks for the coffee.” I start for the door.
“Have you considered counseling?”
I almost don’t turn around, because I don’t think Wade’s talking to me. But I do turn around. And he is talking to me. I wait for him to say he’s kidding. He doesn’t.
“Has everyone around here lost it?” I ask.
“It was just a thought.” That he said out loud, to make himself look good in front of a rookie.
“I don’t want to know what you think, Wade. You don’t come into work when you think you might be sick, and you’re telling me to see a shrink? You think I should waste my time getting mind-fucked by some tight-ass smart guy who’s never held a gun? Is that what you’d do? Or would you be out on the street finding the guy who made this mess in the first place?”
Wade answers me with a swig from the bottle of Pepto.
“Sergeant MacInerny—” Paul starts, but I cut him off.
“Sergeant MacInerny. Don’t you have an opinion of your own? Or are you just jumping on the bandwagon, hoping to get Fred’s seat?” I’m trying not to yell, but he’s obviously not going to help me, so I don’t need his input.
Paul looks at Wade, who stands there with this fake overblown horrified look. He still has the bottle of Pepto in his hand. Neither one of them says a word. They’re acting like I caught them with their pants down.
Or they’re acting like the Sarge is standing right behind me.
“My office,” Sarge says.
I never did know when to take a hint.
“Shut the door,” Sarge says. I feel like I’m in the principal’s office. “What do you think you’re doing, Smack?” he asks.
I don’t have a cheeky response. He’d see right through it anyway.
I sit down and he parks his ass on the desk, assuming his “off the record” position. I can tell by his lack of anger, or any emotion, for that matter, that we’ve been here too many times. He flips through some papers. I don’t know if he’s giving me a minute to answer or trying to make me squirm.
“I don’t claim to know the right way to grieve,” he finally says, “nor do I want to know your method. But you can’t run around the city with a death wish.”
“I don’t have a death wish.” I don’t think.
“I had a guy at Trovic’s place who saw you.” Oops. He tosses his papers on the desk like they’re adding to his trouble. He goes on: “We are looking for him, Sam. You are on leave. I told you, if you want to know about the investigation, you come talk to me. You don’t take matters into your own hands. This thing is enough of a mess. The captain wants me to shut it down. The goddamned lead investigator is wasting his time and taxpayers’ dollars questioning your sanity instead of the guy you claim is responsible—”
“Mason Imes? I thought he wanted to help. For Fred’s sake,” I clarify.
“Sam, I think Imes wants this case about as much as I want a colonoscopy.” Sarge slides his ass off the desk and extracts a ticket book from his back pocket. “The last thing I need to worry about is you acting like Nancy Drew with a drinking problem.”
He opens the book, rips off a ticket, and hands it to me: a fucking parking ticket.
“Seriously?” I can’t believe it. Any of it.
“I don’t even want to know how your front bumper got that way,” he says. “Or your passenger door.”
I stare at the ticket. This just became a hundred-and-fifty-dollar conversation.
“I assumed you understood procedure,” he continues, “but since that’s apparently none of your concern, I’ll give it to you plain. I can’t let you enforce the law any more than I can let you break it. Either you do what counsel advised and make an appointment with Dr. Atkin down at headquarters to get your head taken care of, or you go home and ponder your next career move. Either way, you’d better not show your face at this station again until you get your act together. I will take your badge before I let you make a mess of this district.”
There’s really nothing I can say, because he’s not going to let me argue. I’m pretty sure he’s heard enough out of me.
“Okay” is my smartest response. I wait to be excused. Sarge gives me a disappointed nod and I stay on my best behavior until I get out of the station.
As soon as I’m outside, I wish I had put up a fight. Like Sarge would go see a shrink if he were in my shoes. Like any cop would. I want to spit on the squad next to my car that’s sitting in the same No Parking zone. I rip up the ticket.
Mason’s got some explaining to do. Why in the hell would he tell my boss he thinks I’m nuts? He must have been doing it for show, since he’s paranoid someone will think we’re together. God, this has been a shitty day. I’m ready for a hot shower and a stiff drink. I shouldn’t have thrown out all my booze.
I get in my car, rev the engine, and turn up the heat. I’m just about to peel out of the lot when Paul taps on my window. I should have known I wouldn’t get out of here without his usual dinner proposal. Doesn’t matter what I said to him earlier. Talk about not taking a hint. I roll down my window.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
“I was thinking a short pier somewhere.”
“You wanna get a drink?” he asks. He has to be freezing. He can hardly talk because he’s trying to keep his teeth from chattering.
“Paul, I’ve told you. I have a boyfriend.”
“I didn’t ask to be your boyfriend.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t, or don’t want to?” he asks. Normally I’d have driven away already, but there’s something about the way he’s standing there, fidgeting, persisting. In a strange way it makes him look confident.
“I’m laying off the alcohol,” I tell him. “I have to get my head straight, among other things.”
“Good,” Paul says, “I’ll take that excuse.” Then he puts his hands on my window frame and leans in.
I back away, unsure of what he thinks he’s doing. I hope he didn’t interpret my response as an invitation to ask me out for an O’Doul’s. He’s quickly losing all the cool he’d been building up as he just hangs there, looking at me in this weird, expectant way. I think he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m afraid he’s going to put the moves on me through the window. I can feel my mouth hanging open just a little, anticipating a “no.” I hope he doesn’t think I want a kiss.
“I don’t want you to underestimate me,” he says. He leans in just a little more, and I have to stop him.
“Don’t—”
Then I spot some papers sticking out of the sleeve of his coat, and I realize this isn’t a come-on.
“I do know how to photocopy.” He drops the papers into my lap.
I stuff them between the seat and the center console and get ready for an awkward moment, but Paul plays it off.
“Guess I’ll go see if Wade wants to battle a Budweiser,” he says and rubs his hands together.
My eyes dart around to avoid his. He takes the hint.
“Well, good luck.” He starts for the station.
“Paul?” I call after him.
He stops and looks back at me, his cool kept in check by the cold wind.
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Next time you’re drinking,” he says, and winks at me before he hustles back to the station. Maybe he’s not so young.
I wait until I get home to look at the records. Most of the numbers are the same: to and from Fred’s house. Checking in with Deborah. Ugh.
I recognize a lot of the other numbers: the station, Wade, Mason, Sarge. There are a few out-of-state, and some anonymous numbers with area codes in the suburbs.
I pause at two outgoing calls to the same number placed on the night of Fred’s death. I pick up the phone and dial it.
A bitchy-sounding woman answers. “Fireside.” The background noise nearly drowns her out. It sounds like I called backstage at a rock concert. “Hello, Fireside,” she says again. As she hangs up, I remember: That’s where we met the snitch, across from the Fireside Tap. I just called the bar. I mark the number.
I see another phone number repeated a few times, but not on the night Fred and I went out. I call the number anyway and an operator’s recording tells me the line is being checked for trouble, which is the phone company’s polite way of saying the bill hasn’t been paid. If this is the snitch, I doubt an overdue phone bill will make his list of priorities at this point.
If I could just remember his name. What did Fred call him? Something cute like Tweety. Buddy? Damn. I can see his face, I could pick him out of a lineup, but I have a mental block about his name. I can’t think of it.
I call the phone company.
“Hi, I’d like to make a payment on my bill.”
“What’s the number, please?” a woman asks.
“773-929-4013.” I hear her type it into her computer.
“And the name on the account?” she asks. She sounds like she’s done this at least a hundred times tonight, and at this point she’s either on the verge of falling asleep or into a boredom-induced coma. I hope she wants to make this easy.
“Actually, I’m not sure . . .” I say, “I think it’s in my husband’s name . . . but maybe it’s mine, oh, I don’t know . . . Can I just give you my credit card number?”
Silence from the other end. I think she’s yawning.
“Hello?” I ask. I hear her typing again.
“Is this Mrs. Burdsell?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It’s in your husband’s name, Edward. Go ahead with your credit card number . . .”
I hate to cut her off, but every second that passes is another that puts my case to rest. I hang up and look for a warmer pair of socks.
Then I dig out my old .22 from behind the coatrack. I secure it inside the leg of my boot, pull on some ear-muffs, and trudge back out in the snow to find Birdie.