King City (24 page)

It was Detective Harry Shrake. It wasn’t someone he’d expected to see, but as Wade considered Reardon’s options, sending Harry down actually made a lot of sense. Harry was the perfect ambassador, someone who Wade knew well, and presumably trusted, but who was on nobody’s radar outside of the department and barely registered a political blip within it.

“Afternoon, Harry,” Wade said. “Come on in.”

Harry stepped in and surveyed the apartment as if it were a particularly unpleasant crime scene. His gaze flitted over the yellowed walls, the moving boxes, the mattress, the newspapers on the window, the bra on the floor.

“Working nights, sleeping days, it’s just like when we were rookies,” Harry said. “Of course, it’s easier when you’re in your twenties.”

Wade noticed that even Harry’s eyebrows were colored. He’d never known Harry to be vain, so he figured it probably had more to do with trying to appear younger and more vital to the bureaucrats who handed out promotions.

And Harry was only thirty‐eight.

“It’s not so much the lack of sleep that’s getting to me, Harry. The duty belts weigh a ton now. It’s hell on my lower back.”

“And look at how you’re living.” Harry went to the window, lifted the edge of newspaper that covered it, and peeked outside. “And where. Jesus, Tom, how much worse can it get? Why don’t you just call it quits already?”

“Is that why you’re here, Harry? To talk me into going away?”

Harry turned around and looked Wade in the eye. “I’m here because I’m taking over the Glory Littleton homicide investigation.”

“The one you didn’t want to touch when I called you about the body,” Wade said. “Good timing, though, jumping on it now that it’s solved. It won’t cut too much into your workload.”

“I’m bringing Gayle Burdett back downtown with me. She’ll be booked there.”

Wade was still sleepy, but not so much that he couldn’t see the political chess moves being played on the King City board.

“So you’ll be recorded as the arresting officer,” Wade said.

Harry shrugged. “I’m a homicide detective, you’re a beat cop. That’s how it goes.”

“More importantly, it goes down as a Meston Heights arrest and Darwin Gardens never has to be mentioned,” Wade said. “That’s assuming nobody took any pictures this morning when I brought her in, or posted them on the Internet.”

Which, of course, Wade was certain that at least some people had done.

Harry shook his head. “That perp walk for the scum on Division Street was a bad call.”

“It’s no worse than doing it for the media outside police headquarters.”

“You might think occasionally about doing what’s best for the city instead of what serves your personal crusade.”

“The people down here need to know that the law works for them too.”

“No, they don’t,” Harry said. “Because they don’t give a shit. They aren’t the ones who pay the taxes that keep this city running. Or who fund the campaigns and cast the votes that put people in office.”

“You’re right,” Wade said. “They’re just the ones we’re supposed to protect and serve.”

Harry Shrake sighed and shook his head. “Now you know why you’re here and you’re alone and your back aches.”

“Maybe so, but at least I can look at myself in the mirror,” Wade said, opening the door for his former partner. “And not just because I’m wondering what shade of crap my eyebrows are.”

Wade knew it was a cheap shot, but it felt good to say it anyway. He closed the door on Harry and went back to bed.

____

He slept until 8:00 p.m. and it felt like a luxury, one he’d earned by closing the Glory Littleton case. The six hours of sleep—eight if he threw in the snooze he got before Harry Shrake’s visit—had reinvigorated his mind and body. He hadn’t felt this alert in days.

He showered and shaved, put on his uniform, then went to his kitchen.

On his way home from New King City on Saturday, he’d stopped and bought himself some paper plates, two cereal bowls, an assortment of plastic utensils, a hundred disposable cups, and two bags of groceries.

Now he filled one of his bowls with Grape‐Nuts, poured a little milk over it, and ate his dinner at the counter.

It was his first meal in his new apartment, and he liked it fine.

He used the few moments of solitude and clarity to think, going over the events of the previous day. And when he did, he saw something that he’d missed before.

Actually, he hadn’t missed it. He’d seen it clearly. But it hadn’t sparked the connections that it did now. And with that realization came a surprising sadness.

He wished he didn’t have to do what he had to do.

But there was no hurry.

When he’d finished eating, he washed out his bowl, threw away the spoon, and went downstairs to work.

As Wade came into the station, he saw Charlotte and Billy at their desks, glowering at him. It seemed like the only thing his two officers could both agree on was their bewilderment or anger over his actions.

“You two have something you want to say?” Wade asked, facing them.

Billy spoke up first. Wade had expected Charlotte to take the lead. She seemed to enjoy chastising him.

“You let that asshole from Homicide make the collar and get all the credit for solving Glory Littleton’s murder,” Billy said. “That was our case.”

“What matters is that her killer got caught,” Wade said. “We aren’t doing this for accolades.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Billy said. “You’re at the end of your career.”

“Gee, thanks,” Wade said.

“The only way the two of us are getting out of here is if we can rack up some major arrests,” Charlotte said, taking a more diplomatic approach.

“You haven’t even been here a week and already you’re planning your exit strategy?”

“We just don’t want you giving the good stuff away,” Charlotte said. “We’d like to get out of these uniforms someday.”

“I’d like to get you out of yours today,” Billy said.

“Pig,” Charlotte said.

Looking at it from their position, Wade could understand their anger. They had careers to build, while he was way past caring about his. For him, it was about honoring his core principles. For them, it was about finding their way. Their objections weren’t out of line.

“Fair enough,” he said. “In the future, before I make a decision, I’ll try to take into consideration what the unintended consequences might be for your careers.”

“You might consider doing the same thing for your own,” Charlotte said.

He shook his head. “Never have, never will.”

“Remind me not to ask you for career advice,” Billy said. “Hey, about that Lewinsky thing, was that the truth?”

“Yes, President Clinton had an affair with Monica Lewinsky,” Wade said.

“No, I meant about the jizz being on Glory Littleton’s panties,” Billy said.

Wade shrugged. “It could be. I don’t know.”

“You lied,” Billy said.

“I speculated,” Wade said.

“I wish I could have been there for the takedown,” Charlotte said. “I feel like I missed out on everything.”

“That’s because you work nights,” Billy said. “The day shift is where the real police work is done.”

____

They were on patrol, heading east on Clements Street through the center of the residential neighborhood, Wade at the wheel, putting off the inevitable.

It was a hot, humid night, the air as still and about as breathable as stone. Charlotte had the window rolled down, the movement of the car creating a breeze, but it didn’t bring much relief.

She could hear a voice crackling on a loudspeaker, though they couldn’t make out the words.

“What is that?” Charlotte asked.

Wade smiled, steering the car down an alley. “That’d be Mrs. Copeland.”

The patrol headlights illuminated Terrill Curtis, his back to Mrs. Copeland’s fence, confronting two men who were holding up an emaciated woman between them. The way the woman and two men were swaying, either they were drunk or high or there was a major earthquake going on under their feet.

In the backyard behind Terrill, Dorothy Copeland stood in a yellow floral housedress, one hand on her hip, the other holding a bullhorn in front of her mouth and aiming it like a gun at the alley.

“Go away, you filthy whore,” Dorothy’s voice boomed. “And take your garbage with you.”

Charlotte grinned at Wade. “She loves that bullhorn.”

Wade stopped the car and got out, stepping up to Terrill, who immediately backed up, holding his hands up in surrender.

“What’s going on, Mr. Curtis?”

“Nothing,” he said, practically whining. “I’m not doing nothing and I’m making sure they don’t, either.”

Terrill motioned to the threesome, who swayed to and fro, stupid grins on their faces.

“We’re just having a stroll,” one guy said. He had greasy hair, rheumy eyes, and a cold sore on his lip the size of the cigarette he was smoking.

“We’re having a party,” the woman said. She wore a tank top that hung loosely from her bony shoulders, denim shorts the size of panties, and high‐heel shoes.

“Looks very festive,” Wade said, then turned back to Terrill. “What’s the problem?”

“You are,” Terrill said. “If they take a whiz on the flowers, it’s me you’re gonna piss on.”

“True,” Wade said.

“It is?” Charlotte asked.

Wade ignored her and addressed the threesome. “Maybe you should take your party elsewhere.”

“Sure,” the woman said. “Want a blow job?”

“No, thanks,” Wade said.

The three stumbled off, Charlotte watching them warily.

“They’re high,” she said.

“Very,” Wade said.

“Shouldn’t we arrest them?”

“They aren’t causing any harm.”

“They are publicly intoxicated,” she said. “They could be a danger to themselves and to others.”

“That’s true,” he said. “But I’ll take the chance.”

Dorothy approached the fence and held the bullhorn at her side.

“Thank you, officers. But that really wasn’t necessary,” she said, casting a smile at Terrill. “Mr. Curtis has been doing an excellent job protecting my garden. We both have.”

She hefted the bullhorn to indicate how she was doing her part.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Wade said.

“Do you like pecan pie?” Dorothy asked Terrill.

“I like all pie,” Terrill said.

“Come inside, I’ve got a slice for you,” she said.

Terrill was stunned. “You do?”

“But you’ll have to take off your shoes and wash your hands,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Terrill said.

Dorothy turned to the officers. “You two are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, but it will have to be another time, Mrs. Copeland. I need to pay a call on someone tonight.”

Dorothy opened the padlock on the gate and let Terrill into her garden. “I’ll have banana cream tomorrow.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wade said.

He and Charlotte got back into the car.

“You might as well return those lights you bought her,” Charlotte said. “She’s never going to give that bullhorn back to you.”

“I’ll get by,” he said, and they drove off.

The cots were out and Mission Possible had a full house, a captive audience for Friar Ted, who sat on a folding chair reading aloud from the Bible. No one appeared to be listening. They were talking among themselves and, in some cases, to themselves, but Ted didn’t seem to mind. The preacher closed the book when he saw Wade and Charlotte approaching.

“Your audience isn’t paying much attention,” Wade said.

“But I’m sure they hear me,” Ted said, rising to meet his guests. “God’s word has a way of sinking in, even for those who think they are deaf to it. I’m living proof of that.”

“I admire you for trying,” Charlotte said.

“It can’t do any harm,” Ted said. “But I’m afraid I haven’t had any luck with those photos.”

“That’s OK,” Wade said. “That’s not why I’m here. I ran into a guy today who had the Twenty‐third Psalm tattooed on his arm and I thought of you.”

“
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me
,” Ted recited from memory.

“
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies
,” Wade continued. “
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over
.”

Ted smiled. “I’m pleased that you know it so well, and I’m sure that particular passage gives you great comfort while you’re doing your job, especially here. But I don’t see what made you think of me.”

“Well, you’ve been providing meals, shelter, and comfort to street people here for two years,” Wade said, “trying to show them that accepting God is the only way to be truly safe and content.”

“I wish more people heard his word as clearly as you have,” Ted said.

“I know you do,” Wade said. “And it must be so frustrating to you when they don’t.”

“I can’t open their hearts and minds to God. They have to do that for themselves.”

“The psalm also made me think of the murders of those women that began two years ago,” Wade said. “The victims were all shot with the same gun and covered with a blanket or a piece of cardboard.”