Maguire looks terrible. Jowly, unshaven, the sleepless pouches under his eyes as dark as dried blood. While Kershaw fills him in on the details, the detective sergeant’s gaze drifts over to the family photo on his desk, Mabel and the two boys on the Chris Craft. There’s been talk of trouble at home.
Kershaw begins at the beginning, recounting how Dieter initially sketched in Faye Lindstrom’s recent history—her confinement and eventual escape from Quintana Roo—before asking Kershaw if he would stop by the house and introduce himself when she got into town.
To put her mind at ease, Maguire says.
Right.
If she had any questions or concerns, she’d have someone to call. That kind of thing.
Exactly.
Fine. So you went to the house and introduced yourself.
No, we met by accident. In front of Nirvana.
Maguire doesn’t reply. He looks bored, distracted, preoccupied. Beyond the closed door Kershaw hears a telephone ring in the precinct room and a muffled voice answer it. Sensing that he’s losing his boss’s attention, he skips ahead.
Cased the joint?
Kershaw shrugs, apologetically. His words, he says. Henry Gold’s words. He likes old movies.
Maguire shakes his head in bemusement. The day he was promoted to detective sergeant no one was particularly surprised, or even remotely resentful. Least of all Kershaw, who still considers Jack Maguire a friend, a mentor, and the finest cop he has ever worked with. Lately, though, Maguire’s marital issues have put a strain on their relationship. On a lot of Jack’s relationships.
You got nothin’, Dave.
Surprised and offended by Maguire’s brazen reproach, Kershaw waits a few beats, determined not to lose his cool.
Nothin’? Really?
Less than nothin’, Maguire insists, refusing to back down. Look, I’m not certain of the finer points of the law here, but I’m pretty sure Henry Gold stepped over some kind of legal line when he started casing, to use his word, that room.
Inadmissible. That’s what you’re sayin’, right? Inadmissible?
That’d be my guess. If there was an actual case here, that is. Which there isn’t. By the way, who gave you authority to put out an APB on that Monte Carlo?
Excuse me?
Maguire tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling. Then he lifts a weary hand, conceding. Fine. Whatever. You wanna put out an APB, put out an APB. But I gotta tell ya, what you’ve given me so far doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.
What about the gun, the .380?
Lots of folks carry guns, Dave. When you go on vacation, you carry a gun?
’Course I do. But I’m a cop.
Not when you’re on vacation.
Kershaw hesitates, trying to regain his footing. So what about the photo then? Why would he lie about Dieter? Why would he claim he doesn’t know him, never met him?
Maguire rubs his eyes, the weight of the world on his back. There was talk of trouble at home, Mabel hitting the bottle hard then slurring her way through certain social functions she was required, as the detective sergeant’s spouse, to attend.
We can’t bring a guy in just because he lied. Everyone lies. You know that.
That detective out in Oregon. Guy was adamant, Jack. Said there was no question in his mind that Albert Chance killed his girl-friend.
Then why didn’t they charge him? Why’d they rule it an accident?
’Cause there was no evidence, and no eyewitnesses. They didn’t have any choice.
Maguire glances up at the clock on the wall. Drums his fingers on the desk, impatient for Kershaw to leave. But Kershaw isn’t finished.
Cops that interviewed him right after the incident? Including that detective I talked to? Said he didn’t flinch. Not once.
So?
Gotta be a hard-ass to stay calm and collected like that right after your girlfriend tumbles off a fucking cliff.
Yeah well, there’s no law against bein’ a hard-ass. There was, we’d have to lock up half this town.
Spotting Betty through the office window, Maguire holds up his empty mug. According to the rumor mill, Maguire’s marital woes went beyond his wife’s drinking. Mabel and another man, other men. Seedy encounters in a cheap motel in Panama City. At one time their marriage had seemed rock solid, a template. What in the world, Kershaw wonders, went wrong?
What else you workin’ on these days, Dave?
Jessie Smith.
The missing witness?
Yeah.
What else?
That 7-11 thing. And Tommy Bouchard.
Bouchard? The biker?
Right.
When Betty brings in his coffee, Maguire takes a sip and cringes, burning his tongue. Bouchard, he spits. What a derelict.
No argument here.
You know what I think? I think a couple of those Angels from Oakland take that guy out they’d be doin’ us a favor. They’d be doin’ the whole world a favor.
So what are we sayin’, Jack? You want me to drop it?
What we’re sayin’, me, Maguire responds, mocking his Cajun protege, is that maybe you should take a couple days off. Hang out on that boat of yours. Do a little fishin’.
Kick back.
Exactly. Kick back with your lady friend out there. I’m sure she’d feel better if someone was with her.
I’m sure she would.
Maguire’s gaze floats over to the family photo again. Better days, the boys still at home, Mabel happy. Then he turns back to Kershaw with a weak smile, signaling a truce.
Look, you keep your eye on Faye Lindstrom and I’ll dig around a little bit on my end, all right? See what I can find. But I’m tellin’ you, Dave, I gotta have something more substantial than what you’ve given me so far to commit any more resources to this.
Maguire’s tired eyes follow Kershaw as he shuffles toward the door. Mr. Gold, he mutters darkly. The guy with the most, how should I put it, active imagination in town? This is your source, right? Oh excuse me, I forgot, you have two sources, Mr. Gold and our friend Dieter. A snoop who watches too many old movies and a guy that gets paid to make shit up.
Kershaw starts to respond but Maguire, switching his attention to an open file on his desk, waves an impatient hand, shooing away a fly.
Go catch some specks, you. I got work to do.