American Sextet (24 page)

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,"
he said, watching her carefully.

"Self-righteous son of a bitch."

She tossed the dirt into the grave, started to walk away,
then came back. "You think I'm blind. The money, the tapes. What you did
to those men ... I can't live with that. I'm getting out."

"They were all guilty," he said.

"Of what?"

"Murder."

"That's a legal definition. We had nothing. You just
got even. That's all." She paused, the anger building. "A nigger's
revenge."

She waited for him to react. It was the ultimate insult and
she knew it. She saw the flash of anger, the knee jerk reaction, then the fight
for control.

"Men like that..." he said calmly. "They
make us all niggers."

His answer confused her. He was playing with her now, as he
had played with the men. Wanting to get it over with quickly, she opened her
purse and pulled out her badge in its black leather case. But before she could
fling it into the grave, he wisked it out of her hand.

"She's got enough in there now," he said quietly.

"Enough?"

He smiled. "The tapes."

He tossed the leather badge case back into her purse and
snapped it shut.

"Only the dead get buried," he said, throwing a
handful of dirt into the grave and striding off to join the others.

The workmen dipped their shovels into the mound and began
to shovel it onto the coffin. She watched them for a moment, listening to the
eerie drumbeat of the falling earth, then turned and walked back to the car.

In a lifetime, Fiona supposed, it happened at least once to
everyone. The sense of life seemed suspended, without forward movement. Feeling
vanquished, judgment disappeared, the senses closed. The mind floated in a
vacuum.

Déjà vu, she heard Cates say as he looked upward at the
high arches of the Ellington Bridge, its concrete skin a burnished orange in
the early morning light.

She followed him across the parkway onto the marshy grass
to the edge of the creek, unable to shake the eerie emptiness inside of her.
She was steadier than her last visit here, as if she had got the hang of it.

"Naturals again," Cates had muttered, ignoring
her silence. "He's being a shit."

There had been another teenage girl murdered and the
eggplant had been up all night. They had caught the briefest glimpse of him
that morning, barely visible in the clouds of smoke that filled his office.

"Sorry," the lieutenant said, handing them the
assignment. "You're the jumper squad."

The ground was especially soft from the long week of rain.
This time it was Cates who slipped and Fiona who had to help him up. When they
got to the body, the officers gave way to give them a better look.

"My God," Cates said, turning away.

The body of Jason Martin lay broken and sprawled obscenely
on the creek's edge.

"They always do it the hard way," one of the
uniformed men said. She scanned the body perfunctorily and waved to the medics
peering down at them from the parkway.

Cates leaned against a tree. He looked like he was about to
be sick. After the technicians bagged the body, they carried it back to the
ambulance.

"I don't believe it," Cates said, when they got
back into their car. He was in no condition to drive. She headed back toward
the office, but seeing his condition, she stopped at Sherry's instead.

Near the counter was a newspaper vending machine, filled
with copies of the
Washington Post
. She put a quarter in the slot, took
out a paper and brought it to a booth. Sherry, sweaty and fat in her dirty
apron, came by and poured out two cups of coffee.

"'nother one," Sherry said, nodding to the banner
headline about the new murder. "Some crazy," she sighed, moving on.

Fiona's eyes drifted to other headlines. Orson Strauss's
resignation, Tate O'Haire's declining to run again, the Czech ambassador's
defection.

"We seem to have made all the news today," she
said wryly. His brooding look was impenetrable. "Drink your coffee."

"I don't know how I can live with this," he said,
shaking his head.

"Don't," she snapped. She felt a sudden jolt as
feeling came to life inside of her again.

"Don't what?" He looked at her helplessly.
"I pushed him hard. I drove him to it."

"Bullshit," she shouted banging the table. A few
of the other customers turned to look at them.

"I feel..."

"Feel?" She glared at him. "You're a
cop." She pointed a finger at him. "Once you start identifying with
the victim or feeling guilty about him, turn in your goddamned badge."

He was startled by her vehemence, but it had helped calm
him.

"I feel like I murdered him."

She reached over and grabbed a handful of his shirt.

"You ever give me that again, I'm going to ask for a
divorce. I want a partner, not a crier. He was a jumper. Case closed. A jumper.
A damned fool jumper."

Cates lowered his eyes in acknowledgment and she released
him. Picking up her coffee cup, she scanned the paper. There was a box in the
center of the story on the new murders.

"Son of a bitch."

The curse seemed to shake him out of his brooding and he
looked down at the paper, turning it to see. A drop of coffee had splattered on
the box. He read the headline aloud.

"Anonymous Donor Gives Victim Fund $115,000." He
looked up at her. "Is that it?" he asked, confused.

"That self-righteous bastard."

"Who?"

"The captain."

"Captain?"

She smiled. She had never called him captain before.

The ice was thin, they all fell in
They all fell in, they all fell in
The ice was thin, they all fell in
--from an old nursery rhyme