I watch Deborah pull out of the alley, and then I pull in. I park next to a row of trash cans between her house and the neighbor’s.
My promises to Mason and Sarge to stay out of the investigation went out the door with me, at Deb’s request. I have a hunch she’s getting over Fred pretty quickly, the way she spoke so assuredly about her “relationship” with Mason. With Fred gone, she gets what I think she’s wanted all along: the opportunity to be more than a cop’s wife.
I don’t know if Deb is aware of Fred’s ties with Marko Trovic. But if she is, I think she’s trying to keep it quiet so she can take the money and run. If anyone finds out she knows about Trovic, they might also want to know why she was so willing to let me take the fall. I was his partner, his friend . . . why wouldn’t she push for justice? And what if her insurance company heard she failed to disclose information that was relevant to the case? They might be more suspicious than I am.
I’m guessing she’d rather have the cash than the killer, and she doesn’t want me or Trovic or anyone else slowing her down. I’m sure this trip to the crematorium is already cutting into her schedule.
I’m casing the place, checking windows and trying to figure out the best way to get into the house, when I peek inside and notice that most of the rooms are bare and there are boxes stacked everywhere. Deborah is either packing, or she’s having one hell of a garage sale. Either way, I’ll bet whatever didn’t make it into those boxes is in the trash. Maybe I won’t have to break in after all.
I follow my footprints where the snow has melted to the grass. I left a pretty obvious trail last time I was here. I might not have been so smart that time, but I think I’m doing some real cunning detective work now. I make sure no one’s around before I open the lid to the first trash can. I’m ready to find some secret documents or some overlooked piece of evidence that will turn this whole thing around.
I throw some newspapers on the ground as well as a Glad garbage bag full of plastic utensils, paper plates and food people brought over to ease Deb’s burden. The pungent smell of perishables kept warm by decomposition cuts through the air.
I take out empty Franzia wine boxes and wonder how anybody can drink Chablis. Then, underneath a second Glad bag, I find what looks like a Chicago postman’s trunk: a whole bunch of sympathy cards. Like from the entire city. At least a hundred cards, addressed to “The Family of Officer Maloney,” or some variation, pitched into the trash like junk mail—many of them unopened, like Deb couldn’t be bothered. Now I know for sure she didn’t care about Fred, and I want to go up to the house and break down the door and toss the place until I find something that proves it, but I just can’t believe all of these cards . . .
I look up at the sky. The clouds seem so far away and the significance of this “trash” seems so unfairly small. I can feel my eyes start to burn, the familiar prelude to tears. I look back at the house, dark and empty. Fred is not there. All the work he did to make the place a home will be forgotten, just like these cards. Just like he will be.
For Fred’s sake, I decide to open the cards. I think I qualify as family.
I take them all out of the garbage can and put them on the hood of my car. Then I climb up and sit there and I go through each one. Condolences offered to the widow of a fallen officer, to a stranger, for a hero. One from a woman in Schaumburg says, “In Hours of Dark Despair, God’s Love Will Light Your Way.” Another, signed by kids from a second-grade class in Crystal Lake, is a crayon drawing of what I think is a cop. It says “His Badge Stands for Courage” in grown-up lettering. I put each one back in its envelope like I’m safely tucking away his memory, because every card is another reason that Fred was a cop. And every card is another reason I have to find out what happened to him.
I’m in tears. I’m sobbing over one from an officer in Morris when I come to an envelope with a familiar return address. It’s Mason’s.
This is the first one that makes me question the legality of my actions, but it’s already open, so I pull the card out.
The cover reads “In This Time of Sorrow” and blah, blah, blah—I skip it to get to the important stuff. Inside, a handwritten note reads:
Deb,
As the wife of an officer, I know there is little I can say to console you. We’ve talked before about how the job is like a love affair we try to ignore: we don’t think about it when he leaves for work, and we can’t fathom it even after we know it’s happened; worse, we always have to think it could have been avoided. They say that to be killed in the line of duty is honorable, but there is no honor in losing a husband. I share your sorrow and hope that the person who took Fred finds her way to acceptance and absolution.
May God bless you, Susan Imes.
Acceptance? Absolution? What the fuck is she talking about? She’s saying I killed Fred. Her husband says he’s working overtime to prove I didn’t. I’m saying nobody gives a shit who killed Fred, and this whole thing is a sham.
I slide off the hood and I want to rip up the card and throw it back in the trash, but I wind up sitting down on the ground, my back against my right front tire, reading it again. I reread the part that pisses me off: . . . hope that the person who took Fred finds her way . . . and now I’m crying because I just can’t believe it. Susan acted so virtuous when I met her, and all the while she thought I was the fool. She sounds like Deborah with her righteous bullshit. Our hearts go out to you, she said to me. My middle finger goes out to her.
I’m trying to stuff the damn card back in its damn envelope when a kid from the house next door comes around the corner and catches me sitting in a heap in the middle of a bunch of trash.
“Are you a bum?” he asks me.
I am a mess. I wipe my nose with my glove. “That’s not a nice thing to call someone.”
“Are you?”
“I’m a police officer.” I stand up and dust off my pants.
“Are you looking for clues?”
“Something like that. Go back inside.”
He kicks the gravel around with his big snow boot, eyes on the ground. I don’t have the patience to talk him into going away, so I begin to put the cards in some kind of order to take them elsewhere.
Then the kid announces, “My dad doesn’t like cops.” Little shit.
“Good for your dad,” I say.
“He says most of ’em are crooked.”
“Like your teeth?” I ask.
The kid isn’t sure it’s funny.
“Was Mr. Maloney crooked?”
“No,” I say, “Mr. Maloney was not crooked.”
“Then how come you’re going through his garbage?”
“This isn’t garbage.”
“Are you crying because Mr. Maloney is dead?” he asks, like dead just means “gone on vacation.”
“Yes,” I say. The kid follows me around to the trunk, picking up cards that fall along the way.
“Did you love Mr. Maloney?”
“Enough with the questions, all right?”
“Sorry.”
I open the trunk and dump the cards inside. The kid throws his handful in too, and we stand there like we’re watching a campfire.
“Yes. I loved Mr. Maloney,” I tell the kid.
“You shouldn’t cry,” he says, and bends over to pick up a dropped envelope. He hands it to me. Of course it’s the one from Susan. “My dad says if you love someone and they love you, that they’re always by your side, even if they’re dead.”
“How about if they’re married?” I ask him.
The kid shrugs. “I didn’t ask him that.”
I toss Susan’s card into the open trash can and tell him,
“You should.”
“Jey-iff-reeee,” a woman calls from next door, and the kid’s eyes light up.
“I gotta go.” He runs away as fast as his big boots will let him. “I’m coming, Mommy!”
I watch him cross the yard and think about how simple happiness is to a kid. A cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. A cartoon. A snow day. Tears forgotten as quickly as they’re shed. And love, as easy as a handshake. Then, somewhere along the way, things get complicated. Innocence is less attractive; it becomes ignorance. Fred always used to say, “Ignorance keeps us in business.” As I get into my car and head for Mason’s, I wish I didn’t know better.