The voice continued to rail, as harsh as the chains spinning on auto tires on Mount Royal, which seemed so far away. She needed to get there or into the store. She needed to get to where there were people.
“Why did you bring my name into this?” a voice harangued her. “Haven’t you done enough? I already lost money because of you, you bitch, and now the cops are at my door, threatening me. I… don’t… need… this.”
Each word of the last sentence was accompanied by a stomp, starting on the back of her thigh and working up toward the tailbone. But on this, the foot’s aim was off, and the blow landed to the right of its presumptive target. Tess waited, assuming the next one would find its mark, wondering if one’s back could be broken this way. She felt strangely resigned, her inertia a byproduct of wine and pain.
But the blow didn’t come, only shouts, deeper than the first voice. She saw a carton of half-and-half skitter by her and then burst, wasting its white in the snow, and soon she had a companion on the sidewalk, a long sturdy body flattened by running tackles from Crow and the smocked convenience-store clerk.
“You all right?” Crow asked anxiously, rubbing her hands between his, trying to warm her. She might have been seven again, coming into the basement after a day of sledding on Suicide Hill; everyone’s sledding site was called Suicide Hill. She had forgotten how the skin felt as if it were on fire, after you were exposed to cold and snow, how the flesh burned.
“Sure,” she said, but only because she wanted to be agreeable. Strange, she almost felt sorry for the other one, the person no one was tending to, even if it was her attacker. The clerk sat perched on the broad back, looking absurdly small, an elfin broncobuster who could be thrown at any moment. But the body beneath him offered no resistance, just pushed the hair back from its face and sighed, defeated.
“Hey, Gretchen,” Tess said, still feeling companionable, “how you doing?”
“Fuck you.”
Tess assumed this meant she was okay.
Chapter 25
I knew I wasn’t going to accomplish anything. But it felt good, hitting you. I owed you.“
Most assault victims do not invite their attackers into their homes for tea and brandy much less share the Entenmann’s coffee cake that was to be the next day’s breakfast. But Tess, despite the ringing in her ears and the disorientation brought on by Gretchen’s sneak attack, had been able to think quickly enough to offer a deaclass="underline" Talk now, and there would be no charges later.
“I haven’t done anything to you,” Tess said, handing Gretchen a mug of tea, which she put down on the floor, uninterested, and a snifter of brandy, which she bolted in one gulp.
“You almost cost me my license, twice.” Gretchen appealed to Crow, as if he were the chief justice on a neutral panel comprising him, Esskay and Miata. The three perched solemnly on the foldout sofa, while Gretchen had the one comfortable chair in the room.
Tess sat cross-legged on the floor in front of an electric heater, warming her back and massaging the tender muscles in her neck.
“How did Tess do that?” Crow asked.
“First she rats me out to Pitts, telling him I didn’t see the visitation because I got screwed up about the date. And then, the minute she gets called in by the cops, she has to throw my name around. Baltimore PD and I are not exactly on the best terms. It’s better for me when they forget I’m out here.”
“Why is that?” Tess was curious to hear if the answer matched with what Rainer had told her.
“We have some… history.” In someone else’s mouth, this might have sounded like a euphemism. But there was something raw and unfiltered about Gretchen O’Brien tonight. She seemed to be speaking carefully, groping toward the truth as best she could.
“I’ll be honest, if you’ll be honest,” Tess said. “The first time, with Pitts, getting you in trouble wasn’t my goal, but I didn’t lose any sleep over it. You broke into my office, told me I was a piece of shit, and wouldn’t tell me why you were there. So, yeah, it felt a little good, letting Pitts know you had screwed up. It didn’t occur to me you had lied to him about it, tried to take money under false circumstances.”
Gretchen looked into the bowl of the brandy snifter the way Esskay sometimes stared at her supper dish, as if her powers of concentration could summon the food back. Crow walked over and tipped the bottle into her glass.
“I was playing catch-up. That’s why I came to your office and talked my way into Bobby Hilliard’s apartment. I figured no one knew much anyway, and I wouldn’t have been able to follow the guy even if I’d been there, because of the shooting. If I had been there, I would have run, because Pitts sure as hell didn’t want me talking to the cops.”
“I imagine Pitts saw it differently.”
“Yeah, he had me where he wanted me. He said if I told anyone about him, he’d complain to the state licensing division, tell them I took his money under false pretenses. I thought he’d make me do some more work for free, but no, he just wanted to make sure I knew he could screw me if I so much as said his name out loud.”
“He approached me for the same reason, if that’s any consolation. He did his research; we have to give him that. He knew we were vulnerable.”
“How do you figure?” Gretchen was perplexed. “He couldn’t know ahead of time that I was going to screw up.”
“But he could know the real story behind why you left the department.”
Tess put the tiniest of spins on the word real, so Gretchen wouldn’t miss it going by. She didn’t, and her face darkened with a quick intimidating anger that made the muscles in Tess’s neck twitch.
“Rainer told me,” she added. “I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble when I talked to him, I was just running down the list of everyone known to be in Bobby Hilliard’s apartment after his death. Rainer jumped on your name like a cat pouncing on a mouse.”
“Rainer,” Gretchen said, her voice flat. “That cock-sucker.”
“Yeah.”
Crow piped up, “That’s funny, if you think about it.”
“What?” Gretchen and Tess chorused.
“Cocksucker as an insult. I mean, so what? You are or you aren’t, but it’s not a pejorative unless, of course, you’re desperately homophobic. Which I guess Rainer is, but why would either one of you think that’s an appropriate insult? And asshole-everyone has one, so what does it mean to call someone that? Sure, it’s rude, but it’s not worth a fight. Then there’s motherfucker, which I get, but it’s never used in cases where it might be true. Do you think anyone ever called Oedipus that?”
Gretchen looked at Tess. “Is he on drugs?”
“No, but his serotonin levels are off the chart. Look, I agree with you. Rainer’s a prick”-she gave Crow a warning look, uninterested in hearing this particular profanity deconstructed-“but he said you were a thief. Did you steal from other officers? Were you forced to resign?”
“I was a scapegoat.” Gretchen held herself very still, as if she had to have every muscle under control to tell this story. “Stuff was disappearing so someone had to disappear too, and it couldn’t be the real culprit. You see, there was a sergeant-good guy, popular guy, long history with the department. And a long history of problems, related to his drinking. His wife had put him on an allowance; he had to account for every penny. So he began to steal in order to have money to drink. They come to him, because he’s such a good guy and all, and he says, ”Well, I don’t know anything for sure, but I’ve seen O’Brien going through other people’s stuff.“ I get fired, he sobers up for a little while, and the thefts stop. He felt bad, but not bad enough to tell the truth.”