“That simple, huh?”
Glitsky seemed to be asking himself the same question. His lips tightened again, loosened, tightened. “Yep,” he said, standing up, “that simple.”
The kids were asleep. He lay with his shoes off on the living-room couch, his head in his wife’s lap as she massaged his temples. The television was on in the corner but was muted. It gave the only light in the room.
“I got my ass reamed. Frazelli, not so gently, suggested I just stay off it. It’s Griffin ’s case.”
“But I thought you’d-”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not anymore. That was when Frazelli thought there was new evidence.”
“But why pull back now?”
“Because now, my love, I have suggested not one, not two, but three possible suspects to the same killing within a twelve-hour period. It doesn’t do much for my credibility. Especially since two of them definitely didn’t do it, and there’s no evidence at all with the third.”
“Are you sure it was a murder?” She moved from his temples to the forehead, smoothing the crinkled brow back with the palm of her hand.
“Feels so good,” he said. He’d been awake since whatever time this morning. “I don’t know, maybe it’s Hardy.”
“Is he sure?”
“He’s dead positive now. I just got to wonder. Here’s a guy was good, you know, good. Just a beat cop, but he had a feel for it. Hell, you knew him.
“Then he goes into law and suddenly burns out. Anyway, he lays low for maybe what, six eight years, and now he swings back in action. You got to ask yourself what for? He doesn’t think he’s jerking himself off, I’ll tell you that.”
“But maybe he’s just wrong. Maybe he wants to believe it so bad, he’s making it true for himself.”
“Maybe,” Abe said. “All I know is, I’m off it. I’m still interested, but I’m off it.”
“And you told him that?”
He closed his eyes under her soothing hands. “Yeah. I told him he comes to me with a signed confession, I’ll be delighted. Then I’ll go shove it up-sorry, all worked up.”
“Just forget Griffin tonight, forget all that stuff. They’re not out to get you ’cause you’re black.”
“I’m only half black.”
“Okay, they’re still not out to get you.”
He looked up into her face. “That’s what you think. I’m not allowed the luxury of being wrong.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Paranoid.”
“Don’t mean they’re not after me.”
She smiled and continued with the massage, her white hands seeming to shine in the dim room against the dark skin of her husband.
Chapter Thirty
THE FIRST message on his machine said: “Dismas. Jim Cavanaugh. Just calling to find out how it all turned out, see if you’d like to have a drink. Give me a call when you can. 661-5081. Thank you.”
The second was from Jane. “I’m just thinking about you. Maybe Thursday instead of Friday? Maybe tonight?”
The last was from Moses, who wanted to know how he was getting along and when and if he was coming back to work.
Hardy threw darts while he listened to the messages. His aim was off. Not that he ever missed the general pie he was half going for, but occasionally he’d miss his number two out of three. It didn’t bother him. He was only throwing to be doing something. If he kept hard liquor in his house, he’d be drinking. Too wired to sleep, he threw darts.
After a while he went around to his desk, two of his three tungsten darts embedded in the I to the left of 20, the last one stuck in the 5 to its right. He’d missed 20 for two whole rounds, something he hadn’t done in five years.
He rewound his machine. Since he didn’t have hard liquor at home, he’d go and have some in a bar. It wasn’t all that late, and Cavanaugh had offered. He didn’t want to go to the Shamrock and have to answer questions from Moses about his progress. He got to the number, switched off the machine, wrote it down and dialed.
A woman’s voice answered. “St. Elizabeth’s.”
“Hello, is Father Cavanaugh in?”
“Just a moment, I’ll get him. Can I tell him who’s calling?”
When Hardy told her, she paused, then said, “Did Father tell you? Oh, I’d better let him tell you.”
Cavanaugh, now at the phone: “Dismas. Good of you to call.”
“Okay, I’m curious. What were you going to tell me?”
“When?”
“Your housekeeper just now asked me if you’d told me something, then said you’d better tell me.”
The priest paused, chuckled tolerantly. “I don’t know, tell the truth. I’ll have to ask her. How’s your case coming?”
“That’s kind of why I hoped you had something for me. There isn’t any case anymore. It’s gone south.”
There was a longish pause. “What do you mean?”
“You mentioned a drink, and I could use one. Can I meet you somewhere? Tell you all about it then.”
“You want to come over here?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Anywhere’s fine.”
“No, forget here. We might keep someone up.”
“You name it.”
Cavanaugh took a minute, then named a fern bar on Irving about midway between them. Hardy knew the place. He could get there in ten minutes.
These drugs were funny. One minute it’d be as though you were dead-no dreams, no memory of sleep even. And then, bingo, you were wide awake. Then you had somewhere between a half hour and an hour before the pain got you again.
The foot was the worst. It felt as though it was continually being crushed in a car door. Steven had done that the summer before with his thumb. He couldn’t believe the next day how bad it had felt. It had affected his whole body, with a headache and throwing up and everything. He’d lost the nail.
But that was nothing next to now when the painkiller wore off. He had tried toughing it out this afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to sleep anymore. There were too many things to think about- Eddie and the investigation.
But it hadn’t worked. The foot had been the worst, but he was already beginning to feel his collarbone, and his head was throbbing. He hadn’t been able to keep the tears back when Mom had come in. It was just from the pain, the water forming in his eyes and falling out over his cheeks.
The bad thing about the painkiller was you woke up so thirsty every time, which made you drink a lot of water, which then meant you had to pee like crazy, and since you couldn’t move, that meant Mom had to come in with the bedpan.
You think crying’s embarrassing, try a bedpan.
But this night it was Pop. He took care of it with a minimum of hassle, then poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table by the bed and sat down right up next to him, hip to hip. He reached out his rough hand and touched Steven’s forehead where it wasn’t bandaged, very businesslike. He nodded to himself.
“So how’s my boy?”
“Okay.” That was always the answer. Now Pop would say “Good” and go out to the garage and do something.
But instead he said, “Really? Really okay?” Steven blinked a couple of times, and his dad continued, “ ’cause that’d make you the only one.”
“Well, you know,” Steven said.
“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”
There was a small light on by the door and another out in the hallway, but Steven could tell it was pretty late. Everybody else was probably asleep. His dad loomed up in front of him, blocking out most of everything else. No wonder they called him Big Ed.
Steven had no idea how to answer. “I don’t know. Not great, I guess.”
“Me neither. Just general?”
Steven tried to shrug, but wound up making a face. Shrugging with a broken collarbone wasn’t recommended. “You know. Eddie, I guess, mostly. Mom, a little.”
Big Ed lifted a leg onto the bed and shifted to face him more.