Penance (15 page)

McGaney said, “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’re on top of it.”

“I want a hard search, six-block radius. The shooter might have ditched the gun. Find it. And do a license plate check on every vehicle within the radius. Ask the neighbors if they’ve seen any unfamiliar vehicles parked nearby.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Casper said.

“There’s an incredible amount of blood,” Annie continued. “Make sure the techs check the bathroom and kitchen sinks, determine if the killer cleaned up before leaving the scene.”

“We’re on top of it, Lieutenant,” McGaney repeated, miffed that Anne would treat him like a rookie; everything she requested was SOP.

“Get Mankamyer to work his magic,” Anne added. “Find out if the bullets that killed Amy were fired from the same gun that killed Brown and Thoreau.”

“Lieutenant …”

“Just do it, goddamn it!”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Anne went to the driver’s side of Curtis’s car, opened the door.

“Lieutenant?” Curtis said, standing beside his squad.

Anne stopped, fixed the patrolman with her death-ray vision.

“Nothing,” Curtis said.

I took the passenger seat, barely shutting the door before the car was in gear and Anne pulled away from the curb. She flipped a U-turn, drove two blocks and parked on the opposite side of the street. A van plastered with the call letters of a local TV station sped past us. “Vultures,” she muttered, letting the engine idle for a moment before shutting it down, all the time gripping the steering wheel like it was the throat of her worst enemy.

Anne doesn’t tan and she wears little makeup. Even so, her face appeared more pale than usual and her brown hair looked like it hadn’t seen a stylist in quite a while. She released the wheel and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes.

“Tired?” I asked.

She nodded. “Haven’t gotten much sleep lately. Trouble at home.”

“Really? I thought it might be a guilty conscience keeping you awake.”

Anne did not respond, her eyes still closed.

“You and the old man going to be all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned now. Anne and I had never spoken about her husband, yet he was a part of nearly every conversation we’d had. We were partners for over four years, Anne Scalasi and I. We’d faced death together, standing back to back. Most people don’t know what that means, the emotional bond it forges between a man and a woman. Still, we never did anything about it, even after Laura was killed and the sexual tension between us became almost unbearable. We stopped seeing each other regularly after I pulled the pin four years ago, yet the feelings, they were still there, just beneath the surface. I felt them as I sat next to her in the car, wondering how tophrase the question I needed to ask. She beat me to it.

“I didn’t kill Dennis Thoreau.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I didn’t,” she repeated more emphatically.

“I believe you,” I said.

“Only people without imagination kill. I have plenty of imagination. I want to get rid of someone, I’d find a few bindles of coke that he took out of his pocket and threw away when he saw me coming, at least ten ounces; he’d go away for a long time.”

“That’s one way,” I agreed.

We sat silently for a few moments before Anne asked, “What would you do if I had killed him?”

“I’d give you up.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s against the law to aid and assist a felon. It’s called ‘accessory after the …’”

“I know what it’s called,” Anne said, frowning, her eyes still closed.

“What about Amy Lamb?”

That jolted her eyes open. “You think I’m responsible for that?”

“Yes.”

“You sonuvabitch!”

“Fine, I’m a sonuvabitch. Now tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”

“Don’t talk to me in that tone …”

“You don’t like it? Tell you what, Annie. I’ll call Internal Affairs and the city attorney; we can all sit down together and have a pleasant chat. How ’bout that? Would you like that better?”

That slowed her down. She leaned forward and grasped the steering wheel at the ten and two positions. “How much do you know?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know anything. I’m only guessing.”

“Go ’head and guess.”

“You’re protecting C. C. Monroe, gubernatorial candidate.”

“Bullshit!”

I continued. “Marion Senske called her friend in the St. Paul Police Department and said, ‘Please, please make the big, bad man go away.’ You agreed.”

“Bullshit!”

“Fine,” I said. “What’s your story?”

Anne sighed, then said, “Marion called me. Said Thoreau was blackmailing C. C. Asked me to put a stop to it. Quietly. I told her I couldn’t do anything unless she signed a complaint.”

“And?”

“And then I went over there.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Marion’s done a lot for women in this state,” Anne answered in a weak and totally uncharacteristic voice. “She was very supportive when I helped found the Women Police Officers Association.”

“Sisters united,” I said.

“Something like that.”

“So you went over there and discovered Thoreau’s body.”

“Yes. My first thought was that Marion had decided to take matters into her own hands. So, I searched the house. The tape was gone. That clinched it for me.”

“Sure it was gone? How hard did you look?”

“You were there. Did you see anything I missed?”

“Was I there?”

“Cut it out, Taylor,” she said, frowning.

“No, I didn’t see anything you missed.”

“Marion looks real good for it. She or C. C. Or both. Probably both.”

“So, why don’t you bust ’em?”

Anne didn’t answer the question, so I did.

“Because Internal Affairs will want to know how you came to discover the body. They’ll want to know how you came to learn about the videotape. They’ll want to know why you didn’t call it in immediately. And if you tell them, you’re gone. The highest-ranking female police officer in the history of the department bounced for malfeasance, for crissake. On the other hand, if you don’t come clean, somebody will get away with murder.”

“No!” Anne screamed. “How dare you say that to me. You know me better than that.”

“I’m not sure I know you at all.”

“If C. C. Monroe is guilty I’ll drive her to Shakopee myself. Count on it! But there can’t be any doubt, reasonable or otherwise. Not this time. Before I accuse C. C. Monroe I have to have it locked seven ways to hell and back. I have to give her to the grand jury on a platter with an apple in her mouth—to the grand jury
and
the media. You can see that, can’t you? If I told the truth about how I came to find Thoreau’s body, how I came to accuse C. C., I’d be sacrificing my career for nothing. I don’t have any evidence. And you know C. C. and Marion will deny everything. They’ll claim it was politics. They’ll claim I was doing it for the mayor. What’s going to happen to the credibility of the police department if we’re accused of investigating a gubernatorial candidate for political reasons? What’s going to happen to
my
credibility?”

“Has it occurred to you that C. C. and Marion might be depending on that—you protecting them in order to protect yourself and the department?”

“No, no,” Anne pleaded. “Not me, not the department. The case. I’m trying to protect the case. Can you imagine what a defense attorney would do …”

“The case, the department, you … What difference does it make? C. C. and Marion still get what they want.”

“No, they won’t. Taylor, what do you think this is all about? Why do you think I got you involved?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Okay, check my reasoning. Someone killed John Brown and we determined almost immediately that it was probably Joseph Sherman. Sherman killed Terrance Friedlander, who was running against C. C. Monroe. I know how you work. I know the first thing you would do is run to your computer…”

And then I understood. The realization hit me like a truck.

“You set me up!” I cried. “You bitch, you set me up! I was supposed to get caught in that house; that’s why you had me followed and then pulled the tail when you knew where I was going, so you could catch me in the house.”

“I needed something to justify an investigation.”

“Fuck your investigation. You used me. We’re supposed to be friends, Annie.”

“I had to …”

“Jeezus, you were going to bust me, right? Bust me with a dead man at my feet and ten Gs in my pocket. To save my ass, I’d have to confess to why I was there and who hired me and then you could go after C. C. without having to admit your involvement.”

“That’s about right,” Anne agreed.

“What about me?”

“You would have walked.”

“Without my license? B and E is a felony. The Department of Public Safety can take my license for a felony.”

“Oh, quit whining. I would have protected your license.”

“Yeah, sure, after I spilled my guts about C. C. Monroe. Wouldn’t that be good for business? Everyone loves a PI with a big mouth; I can see the clients lining up already. Goddamn it, you set me up, you bitch.”

“Still, you have to admire the logic of it all. I just knew Marion would think I sent you to help her. She’s so arrogant.”

“She’s arrogant? You bitch.”

“Will you stop calling me that.”

“Why? Isn’t it politically correct?”

“I needed help. Your connection to Brown made you the logical choice.”

“Then you should have asked me.”

Anne turned her head away. “I figured if we worked it right, you’d never have to know what I did. Look, I didn’t want you to think I was that stupid. I didn’t want you to think less of me. Okay, maybe I’m being selfish. But you and I, there’s something between us. Something strong. No, don’t shake your head. I know you have my photograph on your desk.”

“Well, you are my friend,” I said.

“And I need that friendship now more than ever.” Then with a voice that came from deep inside and got stronger with every word, Anne said, “But I think C. C. Monroe and Marion Senske are guilty of murder. If that’s true, they’re going down for it and I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it costs your friendship or my career. Nobody gets away with murder in this town. Nobody.”

“Oh, Annie …”

“I need your help, Holland. There it is. I need your help.”

I didn’t know whether to wrap my arms around her or punch her in the mouth. I did neither. Maybe I did love her; her photograph was on my desk, after all. Maybe she loved me. Maybe if she wasn’t married with three kids, maybe … But this thing with C. C. had nothing to do with that. This had to do with Anne Scalasi smashing the law, her career, her integrity all to hell—and then tricking me into cleaning up the mess—so she could remain a role model for women everywhere. Even now she was lying. She found the videotape, she must have. She put the tape in the camera for me to find, so I would have it in my possession when the cops busted Thoreau’s house, so she would have an irrefutable excuse to go after C. C. That’s the only way it made sense.

Still, I might have forgiven her. Except for Amy Lamb, 988 Fratzke Avenue, St. Paul, Ramsey County, Minnesota, USA …

“Bullshit,” I said, using one of the lady’s favorite curses. “You want my help? I get four hundred dollars a day plus expenses.”

“Taylor …” My name died in her throat.

“Let’s get something settled right now,” I told her. “I don’t give a damn about C. C. Monroe or Marion Senske or Dennis Thoreau or John Brown and right now you’re not very high on my list, either. What I do care about is that little girl in there. She’s dead because you didn’t do your job when you had the chance. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to find her killer and stuff him in a sack and drop him off the Lake Street Bridge. You want to help, that’s fine. Otherwise, stay the hell out of my way.”

“You’re not the law, anymore,” Anne reminded me.

“Neither are you, Annie.”

I opened the passenger door and slid out. The squad was already pulling away from the curb when I slammed it shut.

FOURTEEN

I
HAD MANAGED
only six blocks from Amy’s duplex before raw sorrow closed my throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I pulled the Monza to the shoulder of the street and stopped. I thought of Amy’s parents, afraid something like this might happen to their lovely daughter; I thought of her father taping the news of her death to the refrigerator door. I wanted to cry but did not. I had things to do and it was time I got to them.

I have always been able to recognize my own emotions and compensate for them. Love, fear, joy, pity: those were easy. Despair? Despair was the hardest of all. It took me a long time to turn it into something else. I turned it into anger, helping it along by cursing the cars that weaved around me, saluting the drivers with my middle finger when they leaned on their horns. Anger is good. You can do things with anger. You can function. Only you must be careful because anger can quickly turn to hate and hate colors everything: the way you walk, the way you talk, what you see and what you don’t. Hate makes you do things that are not in your best interest. Hate makes you kill.