“I can understand that,” I said. “But why the rest of the-”
Barris raised a finger, a silent admonition for me to shut up. “There’s also the possibility that Dr. Hinckley may try to contact you, now that Mr. Tiernan is dead. We haven’t been able to locate her since the shooting, and we suspect that she has gone underground to avoid being killed. So has the other member of the Ruby Fulcrum team, Dr. Morgan.”
He put down the glass ball and leaned forward across the desk. “Mr. Rosen, I realize that there is little reason for you to trust us,” he said. “ERA has a bad reputation in this city, and as easy as it may be for me to put all the blame on the media, I know that my men haven’t always … well, behaved themselves. But this once, we need your cooperation. We’re trying to track down a killer, and we’re also trying to save the lives of two valuable people.”
“Uh-huh.” The bullshit was getting so thick in there, I thought I was going to need a shovel just to get to the door.
“If you hear from either Dr. Hinckley or Dr. Morgan, we need to hear from you at once,” Barris went on. He pulled a calling card from a box on his desk and handed it to me. “That’s how you can reach me personally, any time of the day or night.”
I glanced at the card. No phone number was printed on it, only Barris’s name and the ERA logo. The codestrip on the back would connect with his extension if I passed it in front of a phonescanner. I nodded my head as I tucked the card into my shirt pocket.
“Here’s something else you may need,” he went on, and that’s when he passed me the plastic card and explained how it could be used to get me through ERA blockades.
“We also need you to keep quiet about this matter until it’s resolved,” he went on. “When that happens, you’ll have the complete story from us … and you’ll have helped to bring your friend’s killer to justice. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I hope I can be of service.”
What should I have said? No, sir, this place reeks like a barnyard and you can take me down to the basement now?
Barris nodded, then he stood up from his desk. So did McLaughlin; once more, he extended his hand to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosen,” he said as I shook his hand again. “I’m glad to have you on our side.”
Farrentino pushed back his chair and stood up. Huygens gave me a perfunctory nod. Barris glanced at Farrentino. “Now, Lieutenant, if you will kindly escort Mr. Rosen to the street …?”
I was free to go-but I was certainly not free. There were too many secrets, too many lies.
Too much bullshit.
13
(Friday, 1:07 A.M.)
“Which exit do I take?” Farrentino asked.
The light rain had become a steady downpour, but through the darkness and drizzle I could make out the familiar landmarks of Webster Groves from the interstate. The sign for the Shrewsbury Avenue exit was coming up. “This one will do,” I said.
The detective nodded as he swerved into the right lane. “I take it your ex isn’t expecting you,” he said, following the long curve of the ramp as it led up the street overpass. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be dropping you off?”
“I guess it’s okay,” I replied as I pointed toward the left; he waited until a street cleaner ’bot rumbled through the intersection, then turned onto Shrewsbury. “She’ll let me in, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s what I’m asking.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Worst thing a cop can do is get caught in the middle of a domestic quarrel. Y’know that when cops get injured in the line of duty, it’s most often while breaking up a household fight? I damn near got my left ear sliced off with a vegetable knife that way, back when I drove a cruiser.”
The intersection of Big Bend was coming up, and I pointed to the left again. “That’s not going to happen here,” I said. “For one thing, she’s not really my ex. I just call her that.”
“Separation?” He lighted his cigarette while making the turn, catching the green light just as it was turning yellow. A blue-and-white passed him in the opposite lane; he flashed his brights at it, and the officer driving the cruiser gave him a brief wave. It was the only other vehicle on the street, despite the fact that Webster was one of the few neighborhoods in the city that wasn’t under dusk-to-dawn curfew. “Sometimes it’s better that way,” he went on. “Why did you guys get separated?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“It’s my job. Besides, I’m just asking …”
His voice trailed off as if anticipating a reply, but I didn’t answer immediately. It had been a few months since I had last visited this neighborhood, and I wanted to look around. Webster Groves had ridden out the quake pretty well, at least in comparison to the parts of St. Louis that had been built on sandy loam or had been undermined by the tunnels of lost clay mines. Some homes had collapsed, a couple of strip malls had fallen down, but overall this quaint old ’burb of midwestern-style frame houses hadn’t been significantly damaged. I didn’t even see any ERA patrols.
“Go a few more blocks, then turn right on Oakwood,” I said.
“Okay.” Farrentino was quiet for a few moments. “Not going to talk about it, are you?”
“Talk about what?”
He shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust somebody sooner or later, Gerry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’ve got your hand stuck in a hornet’s nest. Either you talk to me, or you talk to the colonel or McLaughlin, but eventually you’re going to have to talk to somebody.”
It was true; he knew it, and I knew it. I was treading on hot coals now, and there were damned few people I could count on to get me through this firewalk. Before I could commit myself either way, though, there were a few questions that still had to be cleared up in my own mind. Stopping by for a visit with Marianne, even in the middle of the night, was the first step.
“I’ll let you know, Mike,” I said as he took the turn onto Oakwood. “Right now, all I want to do is get home.”
Home was an old, three-story Victorian on a quiet residential street, a one-hundred-twenty-year-old former farmhouse that had been renovated at least three or four times since the beginning of the last century. Marianne and I had bought the place shortly after we had moved back to St. Louis; if I had known the city was going to get socked by a quake, I might not have signed the mortgage papers, but to my surprise the house had only swayed during New Madrid. The house next door, which was only half as old, had fallen flat, but by some quirk of nature our place had survived, suffering only the loss of the carport and an oak tree in the front yard.
In that respect alone, we had been lucky. The house had made it through the quake; it was the family living inside that had been destroyed.
After Mike Farrentino dropped me off at the curb, I trudged up the walk and climbed the stairs to the front porch. A downstairs light was on, but the upper floors were darkened. Security lamps hidden beneath the porch eaves came on as soon as I approached the door; I still had a key, but I figured it would be polite if I touched the doorplate instead.
“Mari, it’s me,” I said. “Will you get up and come let me in?”
There was a long pause. I turned my face toward the concealed lens of the security camera and smiled as best I could, knowing that she was rolling over in bed to check the screen on the night table. Probably half-asleep, maybe knocking away the paperback thriller she had been reading just before she turned off the light. Unshaven, haggard, hair matted with rain, and wearing drenched clothes, I realized that I must resemble the bad guy in her latest novel.
“Gerry …?” Her voice sounded fuzzy with sleep. “Gerry, what the hell are you doing here?”