She listened intently. She listened without interruption. But she didn’t answer him. No matter. He took her silence for acquiescence.
The next day, he went to work while she was in school and the kid was in day care, making his offer a fait accompli so she couldn’t change her mind. He found a modest but clean two-bedroom furnished apartment complete with pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, and within walking distance to bus stops and the El. He went shopping for her, stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with food, filling the dresser drawers and small closets with needed clothing: winter apparel for her and for the kid-sweaters, pants, coats, boots, and scarves. He found a Gulbransen spinet piano in a thrift shop. It fit perfectly against one of the living-room walls. When he picked them up in the limo that evening and showed her what was possible, he was 99 percent sure it was over. Then when the kid went over to the piano-wondrous awe in those saucer mint-green eyes of his, tiny fingers tapping out the first couple of bars of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C Major-man, he knew he had her. He gathered up her mail, took it back with him to New York, and began the arduous process of sorting through her numerous bills.
For five and a half years, she would be his property-his chattel and concubine. And in the process, he figured he’d eventually fuck her out of his system.
A serious miscalculation.
Because it wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse. Every time they parted, it was another knife slicing through his heart, and the knife kept getting bigger and bigger… the voices growing louder and louder. He didn’t just want her; he didn’t just crave her; he needed her. When they were together, she silenced his demons: her face, her voice, and her touch more soothing than any drug he had ever taken, more effective than any therapy he had ever gone through. She was his personally designed opiate, and he was addicted to her as surely as if she coursed through his veins.
Two and a half years left.
The thought of her being financially independent, that one day she might leave him yet again, only this time she’d take from him his own flesh and blood, seized him with heart-thumping anxiety. And now she was talking about marriage-theoretically-to someone else. His anxiety receded, evolving into uncontrollable rage…
What the fuck was on her mind?
His breathing quickened, and he knew what was coming. Slowly, the veil of deep depression would lift, converting its energy into unbridled frenzy. Then the urge would overwhelm him. By now, he didn’t even try to stop it, knowing full well that there was only one way to quell it.
He reached under his mattress and pulled out one of his many firearms-a Walther semiautomatic. Holding the weapon ameliorated some of the feeling, but that was only temporary. Something more permanent had to be done. With sudden force, he shoved the magazine into the chamber.
Fuck the promises-tacit or otherwise.
He had a job to do.
First come, first served.
31
Despite the cold weather and the threatening clouds, there were more than a few joggers in Liberty Park, men and women in sweatpants and jackets, exhaling rapid puffs of mist like fire-breathing dragons. Beyond them lay the steel and glass structure of the Quinton Police Station, all sparkles in the dull sunlight, but as welcoming as a computer chip. Though the van’s motor had been turned off for only a minute, the interior temperature was dropping quickly. Decker wrapped his fingers around the chilled metal door handle. He paused before tugging it backward.
“So you have my cell number, and I have yours.”
“Yes.” Jonathan rubbed a stiff neck. “I don’t feel good about this.”
“Don’t do anything to your relatives that you can’t live with,” Decker told him. “I’ll understand.”
“I’m not worried about myself. I have concerns about you.”
“Me?” Decker furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“You didn’t leave the police chief under ideal circumstances.”
“I’m just going to talk to the man.”
“Akiva, if he’s crooked, he’s not nice. You’re in his territory. That puts you at risk.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
Decker mentally summarized the events of the past few days. It was more than a casual question. “I’ll be careful.” Then he opened the door and was out, waving to his brother as the van pulled away. He fast-walked toward the station, hands in his pockets-he had yet to pick up his gloves from Luisa-dodging the runners and the rollerbladers, wondering if he’d ever own the capacity to kick back and let go. It wasn’t just this case-although this was personal-it was any case he was on. After turning the big five-oh, he kept waiting for the inevitable diminution of drives. Yet, as much as ever, he was still a slave to his twin obsessions, sex and work, both keeping him vital and sharp witted, but no doubt fueling his overheated engine. It was only a matter of time until he hit maximum burnout.
Precipitation had begun to moisten his nose, dotting the hard ground with distinct wet circles. He put some speed on and made it to the station house before the sky decided to open up. It wasn’t warm inside, but the temperature was livable. Better still, it was dry. He went through the usual channels to get to Merrin, but because the town was so small, the red tape didn’t take very long. To his surprise, Merrin was in. To his greater surprise, the chief agreed to see him-a promising start considering that Decker had acted like a fool the last time the two had met up.
As he waited, Decker worked on his excuses, playing with the fine points and the details of what he should say and how he should act. When the big man appeared-bulging stomach leading the way-Decker had not only perfected his defense but had also attained, in his mind, the ideal humble look. A glance at the face, then the eyes-an expression that didn’t confront, yet held some dignity. He held out his hand as a peace offering. The big man took it, pumped it, then nodded for him to follow. The chief went over to the elevator and pushed the up button. Decker remembered that the office was on the third floor.
Merrin was dressed conservatively-blue suit, white shirt, blue-and-brown-striped tie. His platinum hair was slicked back off his forehead, his ruddy face had that wet look of the recently shaved. Underneath Merrin’s belly, Decker could make out the chief’s gun harness-a waist holster.
They strolled through the hallways silently, Merrin waving to his officers and detectives as he passed them. His secretary was on the phone, but he nodded to her as he took Decker into his office, closing the door behind. Because of the expanse of picture windows, the room was chilly, actually drafty in spots. Only half of the glass panes had been double hung. But the nip in the air was offset by the perfume of brewing coffee, sending up an aromatic steam that made Decker’s mouth water. To distract himself, he looked outward, at the rain pelting the hard brown earth of the pathways, drenching the loose soil of the flower beds. The surface of the lake had become pitted silver. The corner suite afforded Merrin a good view of the park. It was not only pretty, but also allowed the chief to take in most of the area in a single glance.
“Coffee?” Merrin asked.
“If you’re taking, so will I.”
“Black, white, sugar?”
“Black.”
He pressed the intercom on his desk and requested two black coffees. A moment later, his secretary came into his office, went over to the gurgling coffeemaker, and poured two cups for the chief-one in his ceramic mug, the second in a paper cup. Why the chief couldn’t go over and pour his own coffee was left to speculation.
“Have a seat,” Merrin told him.
“Thank you, sir.” He waited for Merrin to sit, then followed suit. “I appreciate your seeing me.”