Macy knew that she was pretty, and that she possessed, superficially at least, a kind of vulnerability that drew a certain type of man to her. Scratch that: it drew a whole lot of different types to her, and she had learned to sidestep their attentions with a grace that would have befit a ballerina. Barron was subtler than most, but it was perhaps that subtlety that was most off-putting. While most men made a frontal assault, Barron was the kind who crept up, like a sneak thief. They were the worst types and had to be watched most closely.
She thought too of an incident that had occurred the night before, one that still troubled her. Macy and Barron had been heading down Congress, doing their standard loop, when they saw him. The lights picked out a figure in a black Alpha Industries aviator’s jacket, the hood of his gray jogging top hanging over the back of the jacket, a watch cap on his head. He took one look at the cruiser and started to walk briskly in the opposite direction.
“Will you look at this joker?” said Barron. He depressed the accelerator slightly, causing the patrol car to increase its speed to match the guy. Watch cap looked over his shoulder, then ran.
“I mean, seriously,” Barron continued. He could have been talking about the return of flared pants or the revival of progressive rock for all the concern in his voice. “Here’s conclusive evidence that a whole lot of criminals are just plain dumb. If this guy could just have kept his head for ten seconds”-he swung the wheel to the right as the suspect made a turn onto Pine-“then he would have been free and clear. Instead, he decides to outrun Miss Crown Vic here, and I’m telling you now, I don’t think this is a healthy man. Look at the vapor trail he’s leaving. It’s like chasing a crop duster. Okay, screw this. Let’s light him.”
Barron hit the gumballs and the siren, and put his foot down hard to the floor. Already, the guy was visibly wilting. When they swung into the parking lot behind him, he seemed almost grateful to be forced to stop. Barron stepped out from behind the wheel seconds later, and the two cops came at him in a narrowing V. The runner had his hands raised and was breathing as if he were about to bust a gut. Barron seemed to do a double take when he got close enough to identify the man. It was hardly noticeable, but it was there.
“Hey,” said Barron. “Terry Scarfe. Look, Macy, it’s Terry Scarfe. How you doin’, Terry? They let you out? The fuck were they thinking?”
“Maybe they took a vote,” said Macy. Scarfe’s name had been on a circulated list of new parolees. According to the other cops, he was a well-known local lowlife. He was just over five feet tall and desperately thin. His face was heavily lined, despite his comparative youth, as though it still bore the imprint of the last foot that had stepped on it.
“Yeah, like a straw poll. You, Terry, are the weakest link. Now get the fuck out of our nice prison. You carrying, Terry?”
Scarfe shook his head.
“You sure now? Because I better not frisk you and find something that draws blood. I gotta say that if you think the airlines are kind of strict, then wait until you get a load of me. I find even a sharp fingernail clipping and I’m going to have you charged with carrying an offensive weapon. And that’s in addition to you just being offensive, period. So let me ask you again, Terry. Anything in there we should know about? Sharps? Needles?”
Scarfe found his voice.
“I told you, I got nothing.”
“On the ground,” said Barron.
“Aw, come on, it’s cold. I’m telling you-”
Barron came at him hard and shoved him to the ground. Scarfe landed on his knees and seemed about to protest, until Barron pushed him down fully and his chin hit the ground.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Scarfe whined while Barron patted him down.
“Get up,” Barron said when he was done.
Scarfe got to his feet and rubbed the dirt from his hands.
“Why did you run away from us?” asked Barron.
“I wasn’t running away from you. I was running to someplace.”
“Someplace where?”
“Someplace else.”
“You want us to take you in? How long you been out on parole?”
“Since Monday.”
“Monday?” said Barron loudly. “You mean you been out just a couple of days and already we’ve got you for fleeing and for failing to cooperate with your local friendly police department?”
“I told you, I wasn’t fleeing. I’m a busy man. I got shit to do.”
“Is it the kind of shit you can do in jail?”
Scarfe looked at him in puzzlement. “No.”
“Well, you seem in kind of a hurry to get back there. I just figured that maybe it was kind of nonspecific shit. You know, independent of geography.”
Scarfe kept his mouth shut.
“You’re an asshole, Terry,” said Barron, and his tone was more serious now. “You’re an asshole and you’re going to get in some serious trouble again if you don’t watch your step. Now get out of here.”
Macy looked at Barron incredulously. “You’re letting him walk?”
“What are we going to arrest him on? Dressing too young for his age?”
“He ran.”
“Yeah, but-Hey, are you still here?”
Scarfe had stopped, seemingly uncertain of what to do now that the two cops were arguing about him. “I told you to go so go, before I change my mind.”
Scarfe took one final look at Macy, shrugged, then walked briskly from the parking lot and faded into the night. The two cops faced each other.
“Come on, Macy,” said Barron. “Don’t do that shit.”
“What shit?”
“Criticizing me in front of a cockroach like Terry Scarfe.”
“He wasn’t running for nothing. He’s got something going on.”
“So, what were we supposed to do? Haul his ass in, then watch him sit on his hands for twelve hours until we get him to court? Maybe we get the right judge and his parole is revoked, and then what? So he serves another six months. Big fucking deal. Terry’s more use to us out on the street now. He hears things, and maybe we can lean on him in the future. He owes us now. We got him over a barrel.”
Macy said nothing. They got in the car and made their way back onto Congress.
“Come on, Macy,” Barron repeated. “Let it go.”
But Macy remained uneasy for the rest of the shift, and she spoke little to Barron until they were on the steps of the headquarters building. There, Barron had reached out a hand and grasped her arm.
“Are we okay?” he asked, and Macy looked into his eyes and knew better than to disagree.
“Sure. I just don’t have a good feeling about Scarfe. We should have brought him in.”
“He’s dumb. If he is up to something, we’ll spot it soon enough. At least if he goes down again, it will be for something more than time remaining.”
He gave Macy his best shit-eating grin, then headed toward the lockers. Macy watched him go, and wondered if she’d seen what she thought she’d seen: Barron frisking Scarfe, then palming the small bags of white powder that he’d found in the man’s pocket. She said nothing about it to anybody. She didn’t figure Barron for a user, and maybe he was holding on to the bags for future use, possibly as payment to snitch junkies, but that didn’t sound right either. It simply wasn’t worth the risk for Barron to carry drugs, no matter what the excuse.
Which left the possibility that Barron wanted to protect Scarfe. Once again, as she headed for home, Macy was glad that her time with Barron was now over, and despite his stories, she was curious about her upcoming island detail. Macy was not a credulous person, and while police work tended to encourage a certain amount of superstition-lucky shoes, lucky routes, lucky bullets-she was still a little surprised by what Barron had said, and more particularly by the sincerity with which he had said it. Barron really believed everything he had told her about George Sherrin and Dutch Island, or at least had fewer doubts about it than he might otherwise have been expected to entertain. Still, he had pricked her curiosity, although that would be as close as Barron ever came to pricking anything of Sharon Macy’s.