I didn’t handle our last meeting well, but I’m ready to confront Deborah about Fred. If she knows anything about her husband’s death, she’s going to tell me. I’ll choke it out of her if I have to.
The cab drops me in front of Fred’s. Though the front window is dark, I think twice about going around to the back. I knock on the front door instead.
Some teenager answers the door with paint on his face and T-shirt. He’s smoking a cigarette. He’s got muscles that don’t go along with his young face. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see me.
“You the cleaning lady?” he asks.
I wonder if something about my appearance begs the question.
“I’m looking for Deborah,” I say. I try to be nice about it. “I’m a . . . friend.”
The kid nods like I insisted the Cubs will take the Series this year (agreement is the only courteous option).
“She moved,” he says, looking me over.
“Are you moving in?” I ask.
“Nope. I’m cleaning the place out for her. I was expecting help.”
I want to ask who he is. I want to get inside the house and see what Deb is up to, and I want to know where she went. I should have said I was the cleaning lady.
“Could I trouble you for a cigarette?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, “they’re in the back. You want to come in?”
He holds the door for me to join him. I cross the threshold like a vampire. Little do you know, kid.
I follow him down the hallway, taking in as much information as I can. In the front room, everything is gone except the piano. The dining room is empty, too, except for some boxes. The hallway walls are bare.
“So you’re my mom’s friend?” the kid asks.
“What?”
“My mom. Deborah.” This is Deb’s son? Deb has a son? What the fuck?
I try to play it cool. “I knew her husband, actually.” I say. This is incredible.
“Which one?” the kid asks, carelessly flicking ash from his cigarette.
“Fred,” I say, probably failing to hide my astonishment. “I was talking about Fred.”
“Well, I guess you know he’s not here either,” the kid says. He means it as a joke, I think. It’s a good thing I already threw up.
“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll be in back.”
I manage to hold it together until I get in the bathroom, close the door, and sit on the lid of the toilet with my head in my hands. My breath shortens. I suck in gulps of air. The faucet drips, keeping arbitrary time. Drip. Drip. It would have driven Fred crazy. If he were alive he would have spent his next day off at the hardware store and under the sink.
I get up and run the faucet. I splash cold water on my face to keep myself from crying. Fred didn’t tell me he had a stepson. I’m starting to think he didn’t tell me a lot of things.
Maybe I didn’t know Fred at all. I have to talk to this kid. He might be my last chance to find out.
In the back room, Deb’s son is painting over a spackled wall.
“That’s a nice color,” I say, to let him know I’m there. I realize I’m standing where the couch used to be. The couch where Mason consoled Deborah. The thought disgusts me.
The kid hands me a fresh cigarette along with the one he’s smoking. “I’m outta matches.”
“Were you close to Fred?” I ask, lighting my cigarette and returning his.
He picks up a roller and runs it through a tray of pale blue paint. “We didn’t get along. I live with my dad. No offense, but for a hard-ass cop, Fred had no backbone. Especially when it came to my mom.”
“He loved your mother,” I say, though I would have agreed with the kid if Fred were still alive.
“I know. And then he goes and gets himself killed on the night shift that my mom convinced him to take for more money. I’ll never be like that with a girl, I don’t care what.”
“I thought Fred switched shifts because your mother had a problem with his old partner.” The kid paints the wall in determined, hard streaks, up and down.
“The only problem my mom had was with Fred’s paycheck. Bet she feels pretty shallow about that now.”
I doubt it, so I don’t respond. I look around for an ashtray with my hand under the end of my cigarette, though I wish Deb were here so I could put it out in her eye. How could Fred have loved such a fraud?
He quits painting to recoat his roller and notices my predicament.
“You could ash on the carpet,” he says, “I’m gonna get it replaced anyway.”
“What’s wrong with the carpet?” I ask.
“What’s wrong with it is that it looks like someone stole twenty sick sheep and stuck them to the floor,” he says. “My mother has very expensive, very bad taste.”
I agree with a tap on the filter of my smoke. The ashes flutter to the floor and get lost in the thick shag. Makes me wonder what Deb did with Fred’s ashes. Makes me mad.
“Where, exactly, did Deb move?” I ask.
“Naples,” he says.
“Italy?” I ask, though I get a bad feeling from the blank look on his face.
“Huh?”
“Naples, Italy?”
“I don’t know about Italy,” he says. “She’s in Florida.”
Florida is shaping up to be pretty crowded. I’d better get on my way.
What about Fred?
“Well,” I say, “I’ll let you get back to it. Thanks for the smoke. Tell Deborah I said good luck.”
“Sure. What’s your name?”
“Susan,” I call out as I’m already down the hall.
“See ya, Susan,” he calls out.
I let myself out as Deborah’s kid finishes covering her tracks. Poor Fred.
As I walk out to Webster Avenue, I rack my brain to figure out what to do next. If Susan had the tickets to Miami and Deb is already in Florida, then I’m not the only one Mason is lying to. I just don’t understand why Mason wasted so much time with me. Burying my case against Trovic doesn’t seem like enough of a reason. Mason could have just dumped me, like a normal guy. I would have recovered from that.
Mason’s up to something more, and I need to find someone besides him who knows what it is. I still don’t have any clue about who else is working with him, and I still don’t know what Fred had to do with it.
Who will talk to me? O’Connor says other cops are involved, but it doesn’t sound like he’s getting anyone to admit it. If I call Wade, I’ll end up wasting another hour eating breakfast somewhere listening to the “you know better” routine. Dave Blake, Randy Stoddard . . . all the other cops who have potential are probably the ones who aren’t talking to O’Connor.
Paul Flanigan has no potential. He’s a rookie; Mason wouldn’t bother with him. Anyway, he’s the one who gave me Fred’s phone records. He couldn’t be involved. He helped me.
Which is exactly what I thought Mason was doing.
I find the nearest pay phone and call Paul. I’ll take him up on that drink, if he’s still interested. I could use one whether he knows anything or not.