Captain Edward Henry Vance was beating a rhythm on his desk with the tip of a pen and staring into space. He had the distracted look of a man who was either pondering a complex problem or suffering from indigestion.
Except for a standard issue calendar and telephone, his desk was clear. It was a personal rule of Fat Eddie Vance’s that even small signs of disorder ultimately lead to chaos. There would be no disorder within the ranks of the Boston Police Department, Homicide Division. And there would be no disorder on the desk of its new captain. Vance promised as much to the police commissioner on the day of his appointment.
“Organization,” the commissioner had said over lunch in his private anteroom. “That’s your principal concern, Vance. Everything else is already in place. The talent. The systems. The support. All you have to do is impose order and you’ll succeed.”
Fat Eddie Vance had not risen from police cadet to detective captain by improvising, but by performing to the orchestrations of his superiors, note for note, beat for beat. If the commissioner said organization was Vance’s mandate, then by God Vance would impose organization everywhere. Lines of authority would be established. Paperwork would be processed efficiently. Clutter would be banished.
But clutter was not the source of Fat Eddie’s discomfort this summer morning as he unconsciously beat out a cymbal-riding rhythm with his pen. The uneasiness was caused by former Lieutenant Joseph Peter McGuire, who had called an hour earlier and asked to meet with Fat Eddie. Vance had consulted his empty desk calendar and told McGuire he could squeeze in a short session at eleven a.m.
He wants to come back, Fat Eddie smiled in silence. He thinks I’ll reinstate him. After all that happened, he thinks he’ll walk in here and become a hero again. Well, we’ll see about that.
Fat Eddie’s pen ceased its desktop tattoo. On the other hand . . .
He leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. Over the previous six months, the Homicide Division had lost five top detectives, three to retirement and two for medical reasons. Vance’s first move in his new position had been to fill the vacancies with promotions. But full detective status for the new staff was several months away, maybe a year. Meanwhile, two more detectives were becoming eligible for retirement. Eddie Vance expected them to take it. Some people, he acknowledged, just weren’t able to function within a tightly structured organization.
The staff problem was of serious concern not only for the protection of the good citizens of Boston, but for the protection of Fat Eddie Vance’s position and power. Fewer staff meant reduced budget allocations, a lower profile at police commission meetings and ultimately less opportunity for Fat Eddie to reach his full potential.
Bringing an experienced detective on board would relieve some of the staffing problems and help Vance in his reorganization plans.
Especially a detective like McGuire.
Or, he mused, maybe in spite of one like McGuire.
Fat Eddie’s admiration for Joe McGuire was similar to that of a tone-deaf music lover’s awe for a gifted musician. There was no getting around it: McGuire was the best intuitive cop Fat Eddie had known. And Eddie Vance, for all of his talents real and imagined, had never claimed to possess intuition in any quantity.
McGuire’s intuition, in combination with Ollie Schantz’s plodding methodical technique, had once made them the most efficient homicide investigation team in Boston history. Now Schantz lay virtually paralyzed in Revere Beach. And McGuire had returned from somewhere . . . Bermuda? Barbados? One of those places where people do nothing but waste time . . . looking, as he had put it on the telephone to Fat Eddie, “for something to fill the time.”
Fat Eddie snorted. “Fill the time.” As though it were some sort of recreational club, instead of a major metropolitan police force dealing with the most vicious of crimes.
Yet Fat Eddie needed McGuire. He needed McGuire’s intuition on a force supremely equipped with procedures but woefully lacking in instincts. He needed McGuire’s experience to provide stability for younger interim detectives still trying to grasp the scope and mechanics of their profession. And he needed McGuire’s name back on his staff roster to help boost the division’s status. It wouldn’t be that difficult, Vance mused. Kavander, as promised, had refused McGuire’s resignation, choosing instead to place him on indefinite unpaid leave of absence.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” Kavander had grumbled to Vance, explaining why he had kept McGuire’s name on the roster. “But nobody works harder on a case. Just because I want him out of my sight doesn’t mean I want him off my staff.”
Now it was Captain Edward Vance’s opportunity to restore McGuire to active duty, if he chose to do it. But McGuire would pay a price. And the price would be total submission to Vance’s authority.
“Brought him in from the cold,” Fat Eddie would tell the commissioner. “Taking a chance on him, of course. Have to keep him under control, right outside my door. Way I see it, you can’t buy experience like that. Just have to make him toe the line from an organizational standpoint. Give him as little activity in the field as possible until he’s proven he can still do the job. I’ll oversee him closely, help transfer some of his experience to the younger staff. He’s a resource, is what he is. A resource worth tapping.”
That was how Fat Eddie would explain it to the commissioner.
That was how he explained it to himself.
Fat Eddie’s secretary announced McGuire’s arrival, and the police captain stood as the door swung open and McGuire entered.
Something’s missing, Vance said to himself, watching McGuire cross the carpet to his desk. The swagger. He doesn’t swagger when he walks any more.
“You look well-tanned,” Fat Eddie said when McGuire was seated. “Pretty well rested too. You lose some weight?” He frowned as soon as he spoke the words. Weight was a concern of Captain Vance’s. It had been a concern since his adolescence. He knew he was Fat Eddie to the rest of the department. He had been Fat Eddie as a constable, as an acting detective and as a full lieutenant. There was no doubt that he was still Fat Eddie the Division Captain, just as his predecessor had been Jack the Bear.
McGuire will pick up on that, Fat Eddie thought as he sat down again. Here comes a sarcastic comment about my weight. You never give McGuire an opening like that, not even when you’re captain and he’s looking for a favour.
“A few pounds,” McGuire nodded in a voice softer than Fat Eddie remembered. “Lost it eating fish and taking long walks.”
Fat Eddie shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t bite. No cracks about my weight. What’s he up to? “Where are you staying?” Vance asked.
“With Ollie Schantz and his wife for a few days. Until I can find an apartment.” McGuire looked around Fat Eddie’s office, cataloguing the changes the new captain had made.
He’s different, Fat Eddie observed. Lost his arrogance. Is that good? It was McGuire’s arrogance, or maybe his anger, his intensity, that drove him, Fat Eddie believed. “How is Ollie?” Fat Eddie asked. Paralyzed, he expected McGuire to answer. How the hell do you think he’d be with his neck snapped?
“Okay,” McGuire replied softly. “Ollie’s doing okay.”
Fat Eddie blinked, then turned to open the top drawer of his desk, retrieving McGuire’s file and opening it in front of him. He studied the sheets of paper slowly as he spoke, absorbing the list of commendations and reprimands acquired during McGuire’s twenty-year career.
“Joe, I have to tell you this is really difficult. I mean, you walk out of here six months ago on a short vacation, then call us from Barbados to say we can, uh, stuff the job, you’re never coming back. . . .”
“The Bahamas.”
“What?”
“The Bahamas. That’s where I was. Not Barbados.”
“Wherever. The point is, it’s just not that easy. I mean, we can’t have everybody deciding to throw away their careers one day and come back the next.”
McGuire smiled. “You’re right,” he said, standing up. “Sorry to trouble you.”
Fat Eddie blinked again. “Wait a minute,” he blurted. “I didn’t say it was impossible. Officially, you’re still on an unpaid leave of absence. I just meant your expectations shouldn’t be too high.”
“They’re not.” McGuire remained standing, hands in his pockets and eyebrows raised.
“There’s paperwork to be done.”
“Always is.”
“You can’t be issued a weapon until you’re checked out again, had your licence restored, spent time on the firing range and waited for the approval to come through.”
“Won’t need one right away.”
“I’ll have to submit this to the commissioner’s office as an extraordinary request.”
“You know best.”
“You’ve lost seniority. Which means your salary level will drop to regular detective status.”
“That’ll be enough.”
“But I might be able to list you as acting lieutenant.”
“Sounds okay.”
McGuire stood waiting while Fat Eddie rolled his pen between his fingers. “Maybe we can work something out,” Fat Eddie said lamely.
“Do whatever you can.”
“How about Monday? I’ll get everything prepared, have an interim badge issued. Can you be here Monday, ready to get back into harness?”
“Monday’s fine.” McGuire smiled and nodded. “Monday is terrific.”
Fat Eddie watched his office door close silently behind McGuire, then leaned back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. “I handled that rather well,” he told the ceiling.
They met for lunch in Hutch’s. McGuire stood and smiled uneasily as Janet Parsons entered the Boylston Street restaurant.
She offered her hand and McGuire squeezed it before sitting again, feeling awkward, like an actor on stage in a play he didn’t know.
She wore a pale, silky blouse over a dark, tapered skirt. Her long hair had been trimmed to a length that barely reached her shoulders, and it swung in time with her dangling gold earrings.
He had always loved her eyes.
“You’ve changed your hair,” McGuire said.
Janet Parsons nodded. “It’s easier to take care of this way. I don’t have time to spend fussing with it. Things have been so busy . . . do you know we’re getting by with eight fewer detectives than we had a year ago? It’s crazy. Ralph and I, we’re juggling six cases right now, most of them potential first-degrees too.” She straightened the silverware in front of her, aligning it with the paper placemat that declared “Hutch’s, Home of The World’s Finest Chowder.”
“Ralph?” McGuire asked, forcing a weak smile.
“Ralph Innes.” She folded her hands and rested her chin on them, looking at McGuire and speaking directly, holding back nothing. “He and I are working together now. Things have changed, Joe.”
“I’ll bet Ralph hasn’t.”
“Even Ralph. He’s grown up a lot. He’s not the clown he used to be. I always thought it was just an act anyway. When you get him alone, he can be a serious kind of guy.”
McGuire wanted to ask how often Janet and Ralph had been alone, how often Ralph had shown his serious and sensitive side. Instead, he waved a waiter over and ordered Dubonnet for Janet and a Kronenbourg for himself, to be followed by chowder and sourdough bread.
“You’re curious, aren’t you?” she asked when the waiter left.
“About what?”
“About Ralph and me. You want to know if we’re more than working partners. Come on, admit it, Joe.”
McGuire shrugged. “It’s none of my business.”
“You’re right. But I’ll tell you anyway. Yes, we’ve dated. We still do, now and then. When we can keep it private and not have everybody know. At work, it’s strictly business.” She sighed and looked away. “Ralph’s more serious about it than I am. I just want to get on with my job, which doesn’t leave a lot of time for . . .” She hesitated, then gestured with her hands helplessly. “Social things,” she finished.
McGuire looked away, his eyes avoiding hers. “You and Ralph.” He shook his head in wonder. “I just can’t see it. He’s always been such an animal with women, and you . . .” McGuire shrugged. “Hell, and he’s even . . .”
“Younger than me,” Janet said, finishing his thought. “Haven’t you heard? Older women with younger men are fashionable these days.” She was almost smirking at him until she saw the look on his face. “Look.” Janet reached across the table to rest her hand on McGuire’s arm. “You didn’t really expect me to live like a nun up here, did you? Because there’s no way you were living like a monk down in the Bahamas.”
“You’re right,” McGuire agreed. “But I didn’t expect you to become involved with Ralph Innes either. What’s the attraction?”
“Hey, he’s a good-looking guy.”
“You need more than that.”
“Sure I do.” Janet withdrew her hand. “In some ways I’m almost a mother to him. Don’t you dare laugh at that,” she warned as a smile began to play across McGuire’s face. “I’m only five years older than him. But he’s got that little boy thing about him that’s . . .” She shrugged. “You have to be a woman to understand.”
“He brings out some maternal instinct in you.”
“Maybe. He’s the kind of man who needs . . . I don’t know, not taking care of . . .”
“You want to protect him.”
“More than that. It’s as though I’m responsible for his happiness.”
“You were responsible for a hell of a lot of mine too.”
“Really?”
“You know it.”
“I guessed it. You could have admitted it to me. No, wait a minute. I can’t imagine you admitting anything like that. That’s not your style.”
They sat in silence, waiting for the tension to dissipate.
“I always thought you would come back,” McGuire said finally, resting his arms on the table and leaning toward her. “You kept saying how much you loved it down there and how you hated the idea of returning to Boston. Then, when I called Kavander and resigned, you changed your tune. Things were different. You began looking for reasons why it wouldn’t work. We’d get bored, you said. First we’d get bored with the island. Then we’d get bored with each other. But I always believed you’d come back. After a few days of winter up here, you’d like the idea all over again.”
“You’re right, I did.” She let a warm smile fill her face. “I thought it was a wonderful idea.”
“It would have worked.”
“It would have been a disaster.”
“We got along fine.”
“For the first day. Don’t you remember the last couple of days? You were sulking. And I was on edge. We were getting on each other’s nerves.” She tore a slice of sourdough bread in her hands and looked across it at McGuire. “It was a test, Joe. Commitment. You either pass it or flunk it. You didn’t pass.”
“We could have worked it out. If we had tried hard enough. If . . .” He let the word hang in the air.
“We might have. Another try and we might have.”
He looked up at her, full of hope and surprise. “Then why didn’t you come back? Or call me? If you thought we could work it out, why didn’t you call me?”
“Because changing my life wasn’t my idea. It was yours, Joe. It would always be yours. Throwing aside my career, pulling up roots, coasting through the rest of life with no purpose . . .” She shook her head sadly. “That was your fantasy, not mine. It would always be yours,” she repeated. “And I could never accept that. I loved you more than you ever knew. But I could never give up control of my life to anyone else. Even to you.”
The waiter brought their drinks and they touched glasses.
“A toast?” Janet asked. “To what?”
“Not what. Who. A toast to me.”
“A toast to Acting Lieutenant Joe McGuire. To his new career on the force.”
“No,” McGuire said over the rim of his glass. “A toast to the fact that he’s finally starting to understand Janet Parsons.”
They devoured chowder and gossip together. The decision of her ex-husband to move back to Illinois. The sudden death of Jack the Bear at his desk, one hand clutching an empty coffee mug whose contents had spilled across layers of official papers like blood from a gaping wound. They talked until only inconsequential topics remained to nibble at. The growing traffic problem. The weather, so cold for June.
When Janet looked at her watch a second time, McGuire called for the bill.
Walking the few blocks back to police headquarters on Berkeley Street they avoided touching each other, even when jostled by pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk. Janet commented on the promising warmth of the sun and the clearness of the sky. McGuire grumbled about the trash in the gutter and the panhandler who accosted them, neither of which he had encountered on Green Turtle Cay.
“You have a lot of adjusting to do,” she said when he finished complaining.
“I have to get used to dirt on the streets and bums who won’t work?” he asked.
“Uh huh.” She was walking briskly, setting her own pace. McGuire was conscious of men assessing Janet’s lithe figure, sometimes surreptitiously and sometimes in open admiration, pausing to look back at her after she passed. He watched them as they swivelled their heads to admire the motion of her long legs, the rhythm of her walk. “Plus working with Fat Eddie Vance.” She turned to catch McGuire’s eye. “And working with me. On a strictly professional basis.”
“You’re right.” He plunged his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’ll have to get used to it.”
“No,” she corrected gently. “We’ll have to get used to it, Joe. You and me together.”
When they reached police headquarters, Janet paused at the foot of the steps. “It’s only Thursday,” she said. “You don’t start until Monday. What will you do to pass the time?”
“Get my stereo system out of storage, set it up in my room at Ollie’s house and listen to all the music I’ve missed for the past six months.” He reached out to squeeze her upper arm. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Too late,” she smiled, kissing him lightly on the cheek. A sister’s kiss. Or the kiss of your best friend’s wife as she greets you at her door. She offered another smile, this one sad and ironic, and ascended the steps to the massive bronze doors.
McGuire turned to walk away. Then, like the men he had watched with amusement earlier, he looked back and followed her with his eyes as she climbed the steps and entered the cold stone building.