The Broken Ones (45 page)

“Surgery went well. But he’s had a reaction to the antibiotic. They’ve changed it. We’ll see.”

Moechtar rested his hands on the document folder.

Oscar asked, “Did anyone find Naville’s phone?”

Moechtar pulled off his glasses and wiped them with a white handkerchief. “No. Detective Bazley suspects there probably was no phone,
given that one must present photo ID to purchase a SIM card, and Naville, having left prison unlawfully, couldn’t have ID.”

Oscar nodded. Of course, one could go to any market and buy a stolen phone complete with SIM card and a bunch of credit for twenty bucks. Oscar wondered why he wasn’t angrier. Tired, he supposed.

“Inspector Haig has a different view,” Moechtar continued. “He thinks Naville may have had a phone, but it was stolen while you were out on the street instead of keeping the crime scene secure.”

Oscar smiled. That was tidy: Bazley with one approach, his boss with another. Homicide’s own double-barreled Twinny, a bob each way.

“Me, though”—Moechtar unzipped the leather binder—“I was quite impressed. You identified Penny Roth’s body and you found her killer. The coroner is prepared to accept your photographs of her body and the evidence found on Naville’s ceiling with a view to declaring her legally dead and Naville as her killer.”

“And Leslie Chalk’s death?” Oscar asked, already knowing the answer.

“Suicide.”

Oscar nodded, unsurprised.

Moechtar handed Oscar a sheet of paper. He tried to focus on the words printed there but was simply too tired.

“What’s this?”

“Your resignation,” Moechtar replied. “I did the math. By resigning now, your payout will, in fact, exceed your earnings should you continue in another department at a considerably lower pay scale.”

Oscar stared at the paper.

“Where would that other department be?”

Moechtar thought about that, then spoke in a tone reserved for far-fetched theorems: “Well, in light of the performance record of the Nine-Ten Unit and the fact that you recklessly abandoned a crime scene, your demotion would be significant, and any reposting would be a long way from here.”

An orderly wheeled past a cart of soiled laundry, dragging sad and unpleasant smells.

“Naville’s place was searched,” Oscar said. “Did anyone find the altar I described in my report?”

Moechtar sighed. “No.”

“And the images of Naville leaving the building that burned down?”

“There is no clear connection between those and Penelope Roth.” Moechtar’s voice was growing tighter, as if wound by invisible ratchets. “If you found something on-site there, you should have formally logged it. Honestly, Oscar, how did you expect me to help you when you do everything outside the system? What did you think would happen?”

“I thought that whoever got Penny Roth’s body to the crematory and Naville out of jail would get rid of my evidence, too.”

“I’ve requested permission from the commissioner to investigate those anomalies and I’m pleased to say he’s agreed.”

“And Taryn Lymbery? And Frances White?”

Oscar noticed that Moechtar was watching him with an expression that took a moment to identify. It was pity.

“They’re missing, Oscar, and Albert Naville is dead.” He reached into his pocket for a pen and slid the folder and paper onto Oscar’s lap. “Here.”

Oscar heard light footsteps, and one of the swinging doors behind him opened.

“Mr. Mariani?”

It was one of the cardiac nurses. Oscar stood and handed the folder and the unsigned letter back to Moechtar.

“I’m sorry.”

Moechtar nodded. “I’ll need your identification,” he said. “The suspension’s temporary.”

Oscar reached into his wallet and slipped the badge out.

“And you’ll have to surrender your service weapon.”

“It’s at home,” Oscar said.

“Bring it in later.” Moechtar stood and offered his hand. Oscar looked at it, then shook it. “I’ll push to find you something decent in a town as close as possible.”

Moechtar left, and Oscar followed the nurse into the ward.

Sandro Mariani was as pale as paper. Tubes and wires seemed to have him suspended in an electric spider’s web. He looked worn and diminished, attrited by the years; the stubble on his chin and cheeks was no longer gray but the dead yellow of old grass. The clear
plastic mask over his nose and mouth clouded as he muttered in his sleep.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “He was awake. A bit disoriented, but he asked for you.”

Oscar nodded and pulled a chair beside the bed to sit. Nurses moved as silently as ghosts. Sandro’s sleeping hands searched for a small bundle to hold. Oscar reached and gently took hold of the arthritic fingers. They closed around his hand.

He was five, and nervous. He couldn’t stop thinking about his pants. He didn’t want to wet them. Mrs. Waislitz had helped him pack the night before, and her daughter Bethy—who was older than Oscar and liked to give Indian burns—had cried a lot, even though he’d been with the Waislitzes only a month or so. “How long will I be with these ones?” Oscar had asked.

“Always,” Mrs. Waislitz had replied.

It didn’t make sense.

And now a policeman. He was quiet, but he looked scary and angry. He gave Oscar strange little looks as he drove. Up through the windscreen, Oscar could see clouds of brilliant purple pass overhead.

“Jacaranda,” the policeman said. “From South America.”

Oscar crossed his legs and said nothing.

“Here.” The policeman turned the wheel and nodded to himself. “We’re home.”

The car stopped, and the policeman got out. There were voices, the policeman’s and a woman’s. Oscar looked at the window; the sun was shining on its dust and making it almost too bright to look at. He didn’t know if he should get out or wait. His bladder felt ready to burst and he wanted to cry.

Then the door opened and warm air rolled in.

The sun was behind her, and it lit her brown hair gold. He had to squint to make out her face. She was pretty and smiling. Then she laughed. “Oscar,” she said. “Welcome, Oscar.” And she laughed some more. It was such a pretty sound, and from then on he heard it whenever he saw the lavender bells of jacaranda flowers.

The woman helped him out of the car, and the world became a swirl of sunlight and purple and green grass. It didn’t make sense.

“Big boy,” she said, although Oscar knew he was little. “Such a big boy.”

Her hands were warm and dry. And as she turned him—sun to shadow, sun to shadow—he saw the policeman looking at his wife and smiling at her delight.

He was woken by a coded alarm and the padding of soft-soled shoes. Sandro’s eyes were open and sightless, and his grip was soft. His vitals monitor flashed panicked red rectangles.

“You’ll have to go,” said one nurse, and another began to whip a curtain closed around Sandro’s bed. A doctor rushed in.

Oscar nodded as gentle hands urged him out, and the curtain swished shut behind him.

It was afternoon when the undertakers came for the body. “You don’t have to wait for them,” the nurse told him, but Oscar said he would stay, and she offered him sandwiches.

The doctor had come and explained about how Sandro’s reaction to antibiotics had weakened an already weak system, and how he had not been a candidate for further surgery while the infection remained so severe. Oscar tried to think of questions to ask, but he couldn’t come up with any. The doctor smiled kindly, squeezed his shoulder, and left. A nurse had come, patted his hand, checked her watch, and was gone. Then another nurse arrived with more sandwiches and ersatz tea. A wardsman asked if it was okay to take the body now, and Oscar watched as they rolled Sandro away under a sheet, down the corridor, toward the service lift.

He followed it, and was allowed to wait in the small visitor section of the hospital morgue. When the funeral director arrived, Oscar saw that it was the same bald man from whom he’d taken Penny Roth’s body. Oscar barked a laugh, signed several forms, and then went home.

Chapter
33

H
e tried to sleep but couldn’t. The sunlight was hatefully bright. When he got home from the hospital, Zoe was gone. He washed, called for Sisyphus, waited, then crawled into bed.

He lay awake, wondering what he should be thinking about. His father. His career. The missing idol. Taryn Lymbery. Megan McAuliffe. How much a funeral cost. Who would perform the eulogy. His brain shucked off every suggestion, refusing to engage.

He rose and pulled on work clothes.

The backyard had the sweet, pleasant smell of rotting fruit. A possum-ravaged pawpaw sat beneath the tree, and around a few tomatoes buzzed fruit flies. The basil had gone to seed, and the grass had grown almost to his knees. The only sign of neatness was the patch of vegetable garden Haig had weeded. There was irony in that, somewhere, Oscar thought.

Near the fence stood the dead boy. Oscar forced himself to look at him. He was small. Maybe fifteen. His skin was pale. Sheaves of grass protruded through his legs. His eye sockets, even in the sunlight, were as black as Whitby jet.

“How is my father?” Oscar asked.

The boy bit a thin, pale lip. He shrugged.

Oscar nodded. “Useless,” he said, and looked away.

He bent to work, pulling weeds and tossing them, as Haig had done, into neat piles.

His phone rang. It was Jon. He offered condolences. Oscar realized how pointless they were, but thanked him nevertheless.

“Sandro was one of the old guard,” Jon said. “One of the good ones.”

“Yes.”

A silence. Jon cleared his throat. “And I heard about your suspension. Bullshit, utter bullshit.”

While Jon railed, Oscar muddled about pulling clumps of wiry asparagus fern from the spinach patch and snaking Madeira vine from the trellis. Maybe he should resign. Take the money. Garden.

He realized that Jon had asked a question and was waiting for a reply.

“Sorry?”

“What are you going to do?”

Oscar stared at the overgrown garden. “I don’t know.”

“Have you got a copy of his will?”

Oscar had no idea.