“So it is.”
“You want to continue this someplace less smoky?”
“Where do you have in mind?” He met eyes with her. He was hitting on her, and he didn’t know why. He felt like an asshole. He didn’t have to sleep with her, he told himself. He didn’t have to fall into that pattern. Times like this he felt pro-grammed. He thought about the pills again. They were part of the program. They helped him relax, to be himself.
“I’ve got some pictures of Mary-Ann. That kind of thing. If they’d help?”
“The father?” He was thinking of a trigger for Matthews to use. He was thinking of that sweater lying on the floor, and this woman along with it.
“Might have. I’m not sure.”
“I’ve got wheels,” he said.
“I’m only a couple blocks,” she said.
He nodded, knowing he shouldn’t. Some habits were hard to break.
The wind drove the lines against the aluminum and steel down on the docks as LaMoia walked the three blocks with her. Twice he reached down into the coin pocket and touched the two capsules. He could dry-swallow them. A dozen thoughts churned inside him-images of a bloated old-man-Walker coming up with his net. The meds would slow down all thought, would kill the pain brought on by the wind.
He knew if he took the pills he’d sleep with her. Two wrongs did make a right when meds were involved. If he wanted to sleep with a woman, he’d sleep with her-so why was Matthews at the forefront of his thoughts? An adolescent urge to prove himself independent of that thought arose inside him. If he drank enough on top of the pills, he might not remember much.
Wouldn’t be the first time. He could have all the sex he wanted, he reminded himself. He wasn’t tied to anyone.
Her place was the top floor of a former two-story saltbox.
When she turned to unlock the door, at the top of a set of stairs added when the floors had been divided into apartments, LaMoia slipped the pills out of the pocket, glanced down at them in the palm of his hand, and then tossed them into the tall grass.
He apologized to her, told her he couldn’t stay. Had to get back. He’d hurt her by accepting and then refusing. They both pretended otherwise. She said she hoped he hadn’t gotten the wrong idea. He kissed her-a good, solid kiss, one that she’d remember-and said how he wasn’t supposed to mix business with pleasure, and how he could lose his job over it. It was a lame excuse, but she allowed it to go unchallenged.
“Talking about Ferrell,” she said, as LaMoia turned his back to leave. “He’s a fisherman, don’t forget.”
“Meaning?” He found himself looking off the stairs, trying to see where he’d tossed the pills. He caught himself reconsidering a chance to lie down with this woman. God, how he needed it.
“They’re patient,” she said. “They fish three, four, five days and may not catch a thing and then go right back out there and try again. He’s been doing that all his life. You’ve never met a guy as patient as a commercial fisherman. They’re used to waiting for what they want.”
“What’s Walker want?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Other than having Mary-Ann back? I don’t know.”
Not good news for Daphne Matthews. He and she had expected it, but hearing it out of this woman’s mouth made it all the more real for him. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Could have helped more,” she said, trying one last time.
“You’ve got someone, don’t you?”
Did he have? He thought she might be trying to salvage her own pride, so he said, “Yeah.”
“You have that look,” she said.
That comment worried him the whole way home.
Hatred of the Father
Matthews came awake to the sound of the door’s dead bolts turning. She’d fallen asleep for a few minutes on LaMoia’s king bed, the wide-screen TV halfway through Pollock, a movie she’d been stunned to find in LaMoia’s DVD collection. To rent it was one thing. To own it?
She hit the wrong button on the remote, sending the volume higher instead of turning off the TV. At least she was sitting up by the time LaMoia appeared in the doorway.
“You didn’t happen to walk Rehab?” he asked.
“How’d it go?” she asked. LaMoia shook his head, discouraged. She wanted to explain herself-her being found on his bed-felt she needed to explain, even though he’d invited her to treat the place as her own. “I thought a movie might help with sleep.” She stood up, tugged at her T-shirt self-consciously.
Crossed her arms because she wasn’t wearing a bra and felt awkward about it. “And yes … to Blue. The walk.”
“You all right?”
“No,” she said, shaking her hair and hanging her head. She felt so weak for having reacted the way she had. “I think someone got into the apartment, John.”
“What?”
“I left a window open, I think.”
His face tightened, but he managed to say, “Okay.”
“It’s not okay. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t mean-”
“The floor was wet,” she said, stopping him.
“Because the window was open,” he suggested.
“No. Out here.” She pointed. “Prints. Maybe mine, maybe not. If not, they got there while I was out with Blue, I think.”
She felt awful, in spite of his attempts to smooth this over. “I think you should check whatever valuables you have. I haven’t touched anything and the place wasn’t tossed. Nothing like that.”
“Not much to take,” he said. But she could see him struggling with his frustration. He made light of checking a couple drawers. His underwear was there, he said. His socks. She wanted to hug him.
“See why you want me back at my place?”
“Not true.” He made a point of looking into the living space.
“Walker?”
“Would Nathan Prair know where you live?”
The question rattled LaMoia. “You think?”
“Could Neal or Walker know where you live?”
“If either of them had followed us, sure, they could.”
“But Prair. Your and my addresses are accessible to our fellow brothers in blue. Not to the public.”
“And what’s his motive?” LaMoia asked. “He’s looking for your laundry or something?”
“Cute,” she said.
“Special Ops tied Prair up for a while after he blew the surveillance. The timing’s off. I don’t see him good for this.”
“And what about Neal?” she asked. “It makes a little more sense in some ways. He might think we have files on the case.
Might have seen me enter alone and wanted to teach me a lesson. Never underestimate the power of guilt, John.”
He grimaced. “My using taught me all I need to know. Still working on it, for that matter. I don’t need the one-oh-one.”
“It gets big enough, you lash out. Neal could be there about now.”
“Wants to put this back onto us.”
“Something like that, yeah. I’m fishing, John.”
