A Welcome Grave

Joe. When I was finished with the story, I met his eyes.

“I’m starting to drown in it a little bit, Joe. I’m starting to feel a little over-matched. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should be good with all this, be all collected and focused and calm about it, everything that you’d be if you were in my shoes. But, damn it, I’m used to working with a partner. Used to working with you. Then this shit keeps stacking up, and I’ve got cops talking about murder charges, and guys putting bags over my head and guns against my skull, and I turn around and look in my corner for you, and you’re not there.” I softened my voice, leaned back in my chair. “I don’t see you there, at least.”

He stared at me, no clear emotion on his face, and then he finished the rest of his water and set the glass aside. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that. But you have to admit, I didn’t know about most of this until five minutes ago.”

“Right,” I said. “Because you haven’t been around. Don’t misunderstand me—you getting healthy is the most important thing. But did you have to go so far away to get healthy?”

“I’ve been right here.”

“Did you have to go so far away to get healthy?” I repeated, and after a pause, he nodded, getting it this time.

“All right,” he said. “That’s fair enough.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” I said. “Shit, Joe, you took those bullets for me. Because of me. If I can realize that and somehow be pissed at you for all of this, then I’m pretty damn self-absorbed. I’m just saying that . . .”

“What?”

“That I could use you right now. That I need some help. Okay? I need some help.”

He ran a hand through his gray hair and nodded. “Then I’ll help. Of course I’ll help. Damn, LP, you had to know that.”

“I did. I do. But you have to understand the kind of distance you’ve been keeping lately. It’s my fault that you’re gone—”

“It’s not your fault.”

“The hell it’s not. It’s absolutely my fault, and I understand that. But do you think that makes it easy for me to approach you, ask you when you’re going to come back?”

Something changed in his eyes then. Something a stranger or casual acquaintance wouldn’t pick up on, but that I couldn’t help but notice after years of working so closely with him.

“Are you coming back, Joe?”

He picked up the empty glass and rinsed it. Rinsed water out of a glass with more water, then set it back down as if he’d accomplished something.

“Look,” he said, “the issue of the day is what’s happening with Karen. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Then let’s get focused on that, LP. You aren’t going to need to worry about having a partner if they send you to prison.” He paused, then smiled slightly. “On second thought, maybe having a partner is exactly what you will need to worry about if they send you to prison.”

I was laughing then, and so was he, and it felt damn good. Shit, when was the last time Joe and I had laughed over anything? I couldn’t think of it. We laughed about the prospect of me in prison, a real howler of a subject, and then he pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, resting his bad arm on the edge of the table.

“So what have you got? Other than a beat-to-shit face, what have you got?”

“A vague reference to an old sin, a list of late-night phone calls, a missing fifty grand, and that’s it. Had a photograph of the murder victim, but not anymore.”

He frowned. “I don’t like your decision on that one. You could have guessed that, I’m sure. That’s evidence, LP.”

“Same word I used to motivate myself when I burned it.”

He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, we aren’t going to accomplish much if we stay in this kitchen, are we? Better get down to the office.”

I looked at the clock. “How long was the therapy session supposed to go?”

“An hour.”

“Would they let you start late if you told them you got held up with something important?”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

“Then go to your physical therapy,” I said. He started to shake his head, but I held up my hand. “Joe, go to it. I said you getting healthy is the most important thing, and I meant that. But come on by the office when you’re done. Come on by, and give me a hand.”

He hesitated before nodding. We left the kitchen and walked outside. I paused at the door to my truck, and he slowed down and looked back at me. I said, “Thank you,” just as he said, “I’m sorry,” and then we both just nodded at each other. I climbed in my truck and started the engine, then drove to the office, feeling better than I had in a long time.

Good enough that I could almost forget about the question he’d left unanswered.

I’d been in the office for fifteen minutes before Targent and Daly showed up. All I’d accomplished so far was to boot up the computer and crack the windows, let a little of the Indian summer day bleed into the room. I heard their steps on the stairs as I settled back into my chair behind the desk, and for a moment I thought it was Joe, deciding to pass on therapy after all and get an early start on this. Then someone knocked on the door, and I had a bad feeling I knew my visitors.

I pulled the door open, and Targent greeted me with a cheerful smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Perry.”

They came inside. Daly was carrying a black leather bag, and he walked past me and sat on one of the old stadium chairs that occupy the center of our office, relics from Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Targent came in, too, but he stayed on his feet.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“Well, you drove off in such a hurry the other night I didn’t have a chance to wrap up our chat.”

“I wrapped it up, Targent. And I’m busy. So this better be damn important, because if you’re just visiting, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He nodded, looking at me with a curious expression. “Speaking of visiting—you been doing any in places where you’re not wanted?”

“Nope.”

“Because,” he gestured at his own face, pointing to his eye and then to his lip, “you’re a little banged up there.”

“Uh-huh. That’s a souvenir from the guy you should be arresting.” I knew where we were headed, and it wasn’t going to be good. I should have reported the attack. I’d waited because I hadn’t talked to Karen yet, and my chances of getting an honest answer about any extortion attempts seemed better if I went alone. Now that was about to blow up in my face.

“The guy I should be arresting?” Targent’s eyebrows arched.

“I was interrogated about some things last night. Rather vigorously. The guy put a bag over my head and asked me what had happened with Jefferson’s son, in Indiana.”

Targent turned and looked at Daly. Then he looked back to me, and when he did all that was left on his face was anger.

“You were interrogated about Jefferson’s son.”

“Yes.”

“Well, someone is in trouble,” he said. “Whoever failed to get this police report to me and point out that it has a direct impact on my murder investigation, they are in some kind of trouble. We must have an incompetent asshole in our midst. Because I’m quite sure you had a police report made, and yet that report never made its way to my desk.”