Lt. E. Ferguson. Rest in peace. May the Lord have mercy.
Now it all made sense. May the Lord have mercy, Nick Fox prayed, on his own godforsaken soul.
CHAPTER 32
An orange glow from the east summoned a new day. During the night the wind had shifted. In the summer our weather comes from the southeast, light breezes carrying the heat and moisture from the Caribbean. But sometime during the night the wind clocked around- southwest, northwest, north, finally northeast-at a steady fifteen knots. An unusual front for this time of year, a breath of air nearly cool.
My kitchen window was open to the breeze. I wore canvas shorts and an old jersey, number fifty-eight. Nick Fox wore his navy-blue suit. You never know when the TV boys will show up. I poured coffee, then sat at the table, my leg supported by a chair.
"I want something from you," I said.
"Yeah, what?" Suspicion knotted his forehead. Nick's mood had changed with the morning light. Blustery again.
"Your blood. Rodriguez's too."
"Go fuck yourself," Nick Fox said.
"Sperm samples, if you want some fun."
"Up your ass, Lassiter."
"No, in a little glass bottle. If you want, you can jerk each other off."
He lit a cigarette, changed his mind, crushed it into a priceless saucer with an illustration of Larry Csonka's face. If I hadn't broken the Jim Kiick dish, I could've auctioned the set at Sotheby's for six figures.
"What's this bullshit about Rodriguez?" he asked.
I told him that Biggus Dickus was trying to diddle every woman in town with a working modem.
"I asked him to do it," Fox said.
That didn't make any sense to me, and my blank look must have said so.
"I asked Rodriguez to join the damn club, to talk with Marsha and Prissy, scope them out."
"And his dating Priscilla…?"
"Same thing, I asked him to."
"Why?"
He looked at me, took a sip of the coffee, and said, "You really don't know, do you? That's the problem with you. You see a slice of the moon and think you've got night vision. But you've got to spend time in the jungle, Jakie, before you can see in the dark."
He turned away and looked like he was deciding how much more to say. "Once you had the log, I knew you'd jump to the wrong conclusion."
I wanted to laugh but didn't. "No wrong conclusion could be worse than the truth."
"No? What about your deciding I had Rodriguez kill Marsha and Priscilla?"
Suddenly the room was stifling despite the breeze. "I figure you'll have an excuse for those, too. It was them or you, right?"
"Damn you! I knew you'd fuck it up. I've got an excuse, all right. I had nothing to do with it. I don't know who killed them, but I know where you've been and what you're trying to prove. I know you were at Compu-Mate and copied a bunch of records that Rodriguez already had. I know you played some scam in the property room, and I know your English girlfriend signed up at the horny women's club. I know you got busted up by some cowboy who drives a Jeep, and I know who sneaked out of here about an hour before I showed up. Jakie, I know when you piss and when you shit, and when you step in it."
It made me smile, the irony of it. I was investigating him, and he had me under surveillance. "Look, Nick, what am I supposed to think? Especially now. You've just admitted the motive. I don't know how much Marsha knew, but it was enough to make you nervous."
"Everything. She knew everything. Priscilla told her."
"What? You told me you never talked about it."
"She was my wife. When I got back, I was a mess. They were pinning medals on me, and I was dying inside. She took care of me. I told her. She said it would go away, she would make it better, and she did."
"Until you left her."
He picked up the mug of coffee, then put it down again. "She set me up. She pretended she didn't care, that she'd get along without me, but she wanted me back. If she couldn't have me, she'd get even. She made friends with Marsha, up-and-coming TV personality, told her everything she knew. It wasn't enough for a story, no confirming sources, but Prissy figured a journalist could do some research, put it together. Prissy could ruin me, Marsha would get a promotion. They'd both be happy."
"So you planted Rodriguez in their little garden. Like I said, you're the guy with the motive."
He looked at me straight on. "Listen, you thick-skulled, lead-footed linebacker. Would I tell you this if I had anything to do with the killings?"
"Sure, 'cause you're so much smarter than me-"
"Cut the crap. I told you the truth to get you on track. We've got to work together. You, me, Rodriguez. These cases are making too many headlines."
"Right, may cost you some votes next time around."
He ignored the crack and drained the coffee, which had turned cold. He didn't seem to notice. "Yesterday, I ordered Rodriguez to start over. Go through the files. What did we miss? Re-interview everybody. Talk to that loony Blinderman babe, Doc Riggs, your English friend, anybody who knows anything. I want you to put some heat on Max Blinderman. He's got a record."
"Anything else?"
"Be creative. Do what you do best."
"You want me to hit somebody?" I asked.
I could never be a prosecutor.
A really good prosecutor must have no doubts. The prosecutor is the vengeful instrument of the state, a man or woman who sees the effect of depravity and must not care about the cause. The defendant is filth. No matter that as a child he may have been abused, impoverished, and ignored. He is a blight on society, and the prosecutor is the street cleaner of our times.
I always have doubts. I see the glimmer of humanity underneath masks of evil. I see reasons and causes and justifications. And mitigating circumstances. I feel pity. Nick Fox would say I misdirect my sorrow. He would say I am soft. But now my anguish was for him.
I had listened to his tale of horror and fear, to his admission of cowardice and betrayal. And I mourned for him, undeserving recipient of my grief. Evan Ferguson was dead. A few seconds of pain, nothing more. Nick Fox was dead, a lifetime of nightmarish torment.
He was right. He never should have appointed me. I didn't belong here anymore. Keep Lassiter away from the cops and the crooks. Let him try his fancy-pants divorces. Let him argue which conglomerate breached which contract to sell a million widgets to which multinational corporation. Let him defend the rights of reporters to fib and to fumble. But he doesn't have the stomach for the place with steel doors and the men with hard eyes. He doesn't see in black and white. All he sees are shades of gray.
"How do you feel?" Pam Maxson asked.
"Compared to what?" I answered.
I was sprawled on my sofa, left leg hoisted onto my sailboard cocktail table. Three donuts were spread on the fin.
"I went out," she said, sitting down on a wooden rocker Granny Lassiter had given me.
"I know."
"I couldn't sleep."
"That makes two of us."
"You were dead to the world when I left. You look better now."
I didn't ask better than what.
She walked over and sat down but didn't take a donut. "Did you have any breakfast?"
"Coffee and cyanide with Nick Fox. He stopped by after you…left."
We were dancing around it. I consider myself a modern man. Maybe I never took a vote on it, but I like to think I am enlightened where relationships are concerned. I try to be sensitive to a woman's needs, her independence, her space. Still, I don't think it impertinent to ask where my bedmate has gone at three a.m. while I lie there, battered and drugged.