Dust To Dust (36 page)

"You'd had that argument before."

"Fifty times.We'd have that fight, break it off for a while, get back together, ignore the issue, he'd get depressed . . ."

He let the sentence trail off and sat there, slumped over like an old man, his expression bleak with pain and regret.

"Would he have told Jocelyn?" Kovac asked.

"No. He wasn't like that. It was up to me, my responsibility. And I wouldn't accept it."

"Was he angry?"

"He was hurt:'he said, then fell silent for a moment. "I don't want to believe he might have killed himself, because I don't want to believe I might have caused him to."

His eyes filled again, and he closed- them tight, squeezing the tears out between the lashes.

"But I'm afraid I did," he whispered. "I couldn't be man enough to

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admit what I am, and now maybe the person I loved most in the world is dead because of that. Then I did kill him. I loved him and I killed him."

Silence hung between them for a moment, only the murmur of the stereo in the distant background. One of those soft pseudo-jazz stations that seem to play the same song continuously; same beat, same wimpy saxophone, same lazy trumpet. Kovac sighed and thought about what to do next. Nothing, he guessed. There was no point in pushing Pierce further. This was his secret, the weight around his neck. His punishment was to carry it around for the rest of his life. "Will you tell Jocelyn?" Kovac asked.

"No." "That's a hell of a big lie to live, Steve." "It doesn't matter."

"Maybe not to you, but don't you think she deserves something more?"

"I'll be a good husband, a good father, even.We make a stunning couple, don't you think? That's what Joss wants-her own life-size Ken doll to dress up and take out and play make-believe with. I'm very good at make-believe. I've played it most of my life."

"And you'll get your partnership at Daring-Landis, and everyone will live miserably ever after."

"No one win even notice." "It's the American way." "Are you married, Kovac?" "Twice."

"So you're an expert."

"On the misery part. I finally figured out it was cheaper and easier to be miserable alone."

They were silent again for a moment.

"You should tell her, Steve. For both your sakes." "No."

Kovac saw the door to the hall swing open slowly, and a ripple of dread went through him. Jocelyn Daring stood in the doorway, still in her coat. He didn't know how long she had been standing there, but by the look on her face it had been long enough. Tears and mascara striped her cheeks. All the color had drained from her lips. Pierce looked at her and said nothing. Slowly her mouth pulled back into a trembling snarl.

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. "You stupid son of a bitch!" She spat the words out like so many bullets, then flew across the room, shrieking like a banshee, eyes wild with fury.

Kovac caught her around the waist as she launched herself at Pierce. She screamed and flailed, fists swinging, connecting with his forehead and splitting open the cut that had begun to heal. She kicked him and twisted out of his grasp, grabbing a pewter candlestick off the end table.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" she screamed again, swinging and hitting Pierce--,who hadn't moved-a glancing blow off the side of his head. "I told you not to talk to him! I told you! I told you!"

Kovac grabbed her again from behind and struggled, dragging her backward. Her body was taut and strong, and she was tall, and her fury was superhuman.

Pierce did nothing to defend himself Blood ran in bright rivulets down the side of his head. He wiped at it with his fingertips and smeared some onto his cheek.

"I loved you! I loved you!" Jocelyn shouted, nearly incoherent. "Why did you have to tell? I could have made it right."

The fury ran out of her then, and she collapsed, sobbing. Kovac maneuvered her to a chair and eased her down into it. Body limp, she slipped down to the floor and curled into a ball, pounding her fist against the chair. "I could have made it right. I could have . .

Kovac leaned down and pried the candlestick from her hand. Blood dripped from his own wound onto her sweater. Baby-blue cashmere.

"I think you're right, Sergeant:' Pierce said dimly, staring at his bloody hand. "It probably is easier to be miserable alone."

T H E N E 10 H B 0 R H A D managed to find three square feet of yard not already occupied, and had added a new display to the montage: a lighted scoreboard counting down the hours and nuinutes to Santa's arrival.

Kovac stared at it for an indeterniiinate, length of time, mesmerize- dby the ever-changing numbers, and wondered how bad the suspension would be if he were to be arrested for destruction of private property. How many glowing, garish icons to the overcommercialization of the holiday could he destroy before the damage toll took him

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over the line from petty misdemeanor to something worse? Could he plead a felony down and still keep his badge?

In the end, he didn't have the energy for vandalism, and simply went into his house. It was as empty as before, except for the stench of garbage that should have been left at the curb that morning. Home sweet home.

He took off his coat, threw it over the back of the couch, and went into the half-bath off the hall to wash up and assess the damage.The gash above his left eye was angry-looking, crusted and smeared with dried blood. He should have gone to the ER to get it repaired, but he hadn't. He dabbed at it with a washcloth, wincing, then gave up and washed his hands and took three Tylenol.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge, pulled out a half-eaten meatball sandwich, and sniffed at it. Better than the garbage ...

Sandwich in hand, he leaned back against the counter and listened to the silence, the scene at Pierce's house replaying through his head. Jocelyn Daring, insane with rage and pain and jealousy, flying across the room.

I told you not to talk to him.... Rly did you have to tell? ... I loved you. I loved you.

My did you have to tell? Strange wording, he thought. As if Pierce's homosexuality was a secret she had already known, even though Pierce hadn't told her and had had no intention of telling her.

He thought back to the night he'd first met her, the way she behaved toward Pierce--possessive, protective; the carefully blank look in her eyes when he'd asked her if she'd known Andy Fallon.

nat's whatJoss wants-her own life-size Ken doll to dress up and take out and play make-believe with....

She was amazingly strong. Even now, Kovac's biceps ached from the effort to restrain her.

Pensive, he raised the sandwich to take an absent bite. His pager went off before he could taste-test for salmonella.The display showed Liska's cell phone number. He dialed her back and waited.

She answered the phone: "House of Pain. We deliver."

"Yeah. I'll take another smack in the head, and a kick in the teeth for dessert."

"Sorry. No time for fun. But this'll make your day. Deene Combs just reached out and touched someone. One-of Charmiqua Jones's kids is dead."

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C H A P T E

W H A T H A P P E N E D T 0 you?" Liska asked, frowning at Kovac as he climbed out of the car.

"A woman scorned."

"You don't have a woman to scorn."

"Why should that limit my chances at suffering?" he asked, taking in the scene.

Chamiqua Jones's neighborhood was shabby, the houses sagging old monsters built in the early part of the century and later cut up into apartments. But it was by no means a slum. The families who lived here were poor, but for the most part did their best to look out for one another. The gangs and the crack dealers were far worse enemies to them than to white suburbia.

And this was why, Kovac thought as they walked toward the gathering of cops and crime scene techs.

A small body lay in the street near a pile of snow. The body had been covered. The mound of dirty snow was splashed with blood. Chamiqua Jones stood off to one side, wailing, screaming, rocking, friends and neighbors trying to comfort and restrain her.

"The kids were playing on the snowbank," Liska said. "According to one of them, a car with three or four gangbangers pulled up, one

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stuck his head out the window and called the name Jones. When he saw which child reacted, he shot her. Caught her once in the face, two to the torso."

"Aw,jeez-" "Not exactly a subtle message." "Whose case?"

"Tom Michaels."

At the mention of his name, Michaels looked up from a conversation with one of the uniforms, and immediately came toward them. Stocky and full of nervous energy, he wore his hair slicked straight back with a ton of goo to combat the fact that he looked about seventeen. It didn't work. He was a good cop.

"Sam, I knew you and Liska were on the Nixon assault," he said. "I figured you'd want a heads-up on this."

"Thanks, I guess," Kovac said. "Any ID on the shooter?" Michaels made a face.

Answer: no. And there wouldn't be. TheJones girl was dead because her mother had been asked to testify against one of Deene Combs's thugs. The neighborhood's leaders would make an angry show of demanding j ustice and daring citizens to stand up and fight back, but no one would. Not after this. And who the hell could blame them?

"I told you!"

The shout turned all their heads. Charruiqua Jones stormed toward them, her focus on Kovac, her eyes full of tears and pain and anger. She thrust a gloved finger at him.

"I told you you was gonna get me killed! Look what they did! Look what they did! They killed my child! They killed my Chantal! What you gonna do for me now, Kovac?"

"I'm sorry, Charmi qua:' Kovac said, knowing how horribly inadequate the ap'ology was.

She glared at him and at Liska. "You're sorry? My child is dead! I told you to leave me be, but you had to keep on. Testify, Chanui qua, you said. Tell what you saw or we'll put your black ass in jail, you said. I told you what would happen. I told you!"

She hit Kovac in the chest with both fists as hard as she could. He let her have her shot. Then she stepped back, glaring at him because it hadn't helped.

"I hate you!" she shouted.

Kovac said nothing. Chanui qua Jones didn't want to hear how rotten

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he felt, or how badly he wished this hadn't happened. She wouldn't forgive him or absolve him for doing his job, for following orders. It wouldn't impress her that he had become a cop because he wanted to help people, to try to do his little part to make the world a better, safer place. Charmiqua Jones didn't give a shit about him, except to hate him. "Ms. Jones, if there's anything we can do-" Liska began.

"You've done enough," Jones said- bitterly. "Do you have children, Detective?"

"I have two boys."

"Then you pray to God you don't ever have to feel what I'm feeling. That's what you can do."

She turned away and went to where her daughter's body lay. No one tried to stop her.

"It's a pisser"' Michaels said quietly, watching as Jones pulled the cover back and touched her child's bloody head. "If people could stand up and give us thugs like Combs, this wouldn't happen. But because this kind of thing happens, nobody wants to stand up."

"We tried to tell Leonard to back off," Kovac said. "Come up with some other angle to get Combs. But Sabin thought if we could nail the guy from the Nixon assault, he could turn him for Combs."

Michaels sniffed. "Bullshit. No banger's gonna beat a guy's head in with a tire iron, then give up his boss."

"You know it and I know it."

"And Chamiqua Jones pays for it," Liska said, not able to take her eyes away from the grieving mother.

"Whatever you need from us relating to the Nixon case, just ask," Kovac said.

"And vice versa:'Michaels said.

Kovac put a hand on Liska's shoulder as Michaels went back to work. "Life sucks, and the night's still young:' he said. "Come on, Tinks. I'll buy you a cup of coffee. We can cry on each other's shoulders."

"No, thanks:'she said absently, still watching Chamiqua Jones even as they started to walk away. "I need to get home to my boys."

Kovac put her in her car and watched her drive away, wishing he had someone to get home to.

A T E R R I B L E S E N S E of urgency chased Liska home. A feeling of dread, of impending doom. She couldn't escape the idea that while

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she had been paying her respects to the mother of a dead child, something horrible had happened to her own children. She drove fast, ignoring traffic laws and speed limits, feeling almost as if Charmiqua Jones's words to her had been a curse. That was stupid, she knew, but it didn't matter.

As a horm*cide detective, she encountered death on a regular basis. Like most cops, she had hardened herself to it long ago. That was the necessary route to maintain sanity. But there was no immunity to the e4fects of seeing a dead child. There was no escaping the emotionsthe anger and sadness at how brief that young life had been, at the things that child would never experience; the heavy sense of guilt that the death could have been prevented somehow, some way. Adults could look out for themselves. Oftentimes an adult victim's life choices put the person in the situation that ended his life. But children never chose to be put at risk. Children were dependent on the adults in their lives to keep them safe.

Liska felt that burden now, as she turned off Grand Avenue and spotted her home. It was still standing.That was a good start. It hadn't been burned to the ground in her absence. It didn't matter that the sitter had told her so just ten minutes prior when she'd called home on her cell phone.

I She pulled in the driveway, abandoned the car, and hurried to the house, fumbling with her keys.

The boys were in their pajamas, stretched out on their bellies in front of the television, mesmerized by the video game they were playing. Liska dropped her purse, toed her shoes off, and hurried across the room to them, ignoring the sitter's greeting. She fell down on her knees between them and scooped a boy into each arm, earning howls of protest.