“Ninety-six,” Vitti said. He juked and jived, proud as if it were his own son. He’d known, of course.
The man of the hour held court at his cubicle, bumping fists and toasting with ginger ale beside a glittery sign: CONGRAD BRAD! He was to oversee graveyard shift, and we’d scheduled the festivities for the five p.m. changeover, enabling members of both teams to attend. The outgoing sergeant was there, as was Lindsey Bagoyo. In two weeks’ time, she would be joining us to fill the vacancy.
I wondered if she and I would ever get around to discussing my call from Reno.
Noticing me staring, she gave a friendly little wave.
I tipped my cup to her, went over to shake Moffett’s hand.
He grinned. “Thanks, hoss.”
“This whole goofy-dude vibe,” Zaragoza said. “I get that that’s an act. My question is: How deep does it go? Are we supposed to think you’re an idiot? Or is the idea that first we think you’re an idiot, then go, No, he can’t be that dumb, he must actually be a secret genius. Or is it a triple-cross: No, he can’t possibly be smart enough to act that dumb, he must actually be an idiot, and so we miss the fact that you aren’t.” He paused. “Which is it?”
Moffett said, “I’m just good at standardized tests.”
Standing in the burnished evening, tapping our feet to the sound of pop music through portable speakers, we laughed readily, talked more quickly than normal. Hurry up and live, because at any moment a call could come in. The dead don’t care.
Not long after, returning from a removal on Alameda Island, I peeled a folded Post-it from my computer screen.
my office
The handwriting was Vitti’s.
I scanned the squad room. Nobody paying me any special attention. Either they didn’t know I was in trouble or they were determined not to become collateral damage.
As usual, his door was open. I found him reading at his desk.
“What’s up, Sarge?”
He told me to shut the door and have a seat.
I crossed my legs, aiming for casual. My body didn’t cooperate. I was perspiring madly. It was a scorcher out, and in my haste I’d neglected to remove my vest. The ceiling vent thundered frigid air, patches at my lower back and chest going clammy.
Vitti let me stew a little before handing me the sheet of paper he’d been reading.
It was the intake form for a body that had come in several nights prior. The primary making the report was Rex Jurow. The decedent was a white male, age thirty-seven, found in an abandoned house near Oakland Airport, a needle jutting from his arm. Marital status as yet unknown. Manner of death accidental, pending autopsy. Identification was made from a California driver’s license, found in a wallet in the vicinity, stripped of cash.
The decedent, Samuel Afton, stood five-five and weighed a hundred and twenty-one pounds. He had brown hair and blue eyes. He resided at an address in West Oakland.
“You knew him,” Vitti said.
“His father was one of mine.” I set the page down. “Mind if I ask how it landed on your desk?”
Vitti said, “Moffett saw him come up in queue and remembered you mentioning the name. He thought you might want to know. He asked would I pass it along.”
“Right,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, thank him.”
“Will do,” I said. Silence. “That all?”
Vitti scrunched his eyes, rubbed them. “Why’re you doing this to me, Clay?”
“Sir?”
“Did I do something to you, in this life or another, that you feel the need to put me in this position?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Vitti said, “I see the name, I go, ‘Why’s that sound so familiar?’ I’m bananas, tryna figure it out. Then it hits me: this is the same guy who called to make a complaint about you.”
I said nothing.
“Which gets me thinking,” he said, “about our conversation that we had last year. You know the one I’m talking about.”
“Yes sir.”
He grimaced. “So? You like to tell me why you’re doing this to me?”
I didn’t answer, and he made an exasperated sound, grabbing at his computer screen and swiveling it around to show me my own queue. He pointed to the bottom of the list.
RENNERT, WALTER J.
He said, “I asked you — I ordered you — to close that case out. Did I not?”
“Yes sir, you did.”
He drummed the desk with his fingers.
I said, “It slipped my mind.”
“I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself, you’re gonna sit here and tell me that?”
“I’ll do it right now,” I said, starting to stand.
“Sit your ass down,” he said.
I obeyed.
He said, “Something like this, I have to ask myself, What else is he doing? Huh? What else is he up to, that he’s not supposed to be? Because clearly, whatever the deal is with you and this case, clearly it’s affecting your judgment.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” I said. “It wasn’t my—”
He waved me silent. “I called Berkeley PD,” he said. “Turns out Chief Ames has nothing but nice things to say about you. You and this homicide guy, all the good things you’re doing. I have to play along like I know what the hell he’s talking about. How’s that make me look? How’s it make me feel.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Wrong answer, Deputy. Try again.”
“Like a prick,” I said.
“Ding ding ding ding ding. Like a grade-A prick.”
I said, “I’m truly sorry, sir.”
He regarded me with a pained expression. “That’s not what we’re about here.”
“I know.”
“We’re a family. Family doesn’t treat each other like this.”
I thought: Maybe not yours.
“What’m I supposed to do here?” he said. “Huh? You know me. Am I the kind of guy who goes around, Blah this, blah that, Big Me in charge? Huh? I don’t want to be like that. That’s not me. I hate it. But this, here? What you’re doing? You’re basically forcing me.”
I said, “I’m sorry, sir.”
He shook his head. “That’s really all you got to say?”
“I’ll close the case out.”
“Of course you fucking will,” he said. “You’re gonna do that, first thing. Second thing, from this point forward, you have nothing to do with the appeal. Any further developments — a reporter comes to you — you don’t speak to them. You don’t know shit. You refer them to me. Three,” he said, “you’re suspended. One week without pay. Fight it if you like, but my advice to you — and I say this as a friend, who cares about you and your future — take your medicine. Dismissed.”
I left his office in a fog, stripping off my vest and hanging it on the edge of my cubicle. Phones rang. The copier coughed and spat. People minded their own business.
It all looked plasticky, deformed.
Punch line? I’d never meant to keep the case open. I really had forgotten. Tatiana and I hadn’t spoken in nine-plus months. My focus had become Julian Triplett, and him alone.
I hunched over my desk, mousing.
RENNERT, WALTER J.
SUBMIT
Stare at something long enough, you cease to see it at all.
“You okay, princess?”
I raised my eyes. Shupfer had craned around her monitor.
I said, “Knee’s acting up.”
She held her gaze on me.
I said, “Gonna give it a rest.”
Her smile was soft and sad and knowing.
“Feel better,” she said.
I nodded and she shrank behind her screen.
I clicked SUBMIT.