“I was there you know,” I said, the ringing of my phone forgotten. We were back on the couch, her feet on my lap. “At your dad’s funeral. Me and my mom. My dad didn’t go. He said he was sick, but I don’t think he was. It wasn’t a happy time for us. It feels sort of ridiculous to say that now-it was just a fucking house-but I’ll tell you, we lost something that day-as a family-and we never got it back.
“But I remember the funeral. The sea of red trucks that stretched for block after block from the cemetery. All the firemen in their dress uniforms. The flag over your dad’s coffin. The way they folded the damn thing and handed it to your mom like, like-”
“Like it was some sort of substitute,” Sandy said. “Like that flag would somehow put food on the table, or keep my mom safe, or tuck me in bed at night. I wasn’t very old, but I remember thinking it was a joke. I remember thinking it might make everyone else feel good, except for the ones who really mattered.”
“We don’t have to talk about this right now, you know. It’s sort of a lot to process.”
“It’ll always be with us. It’s part of who we are.”
I took her feet in my hands, my thumbs kneading the area just below her toes. “I want to say I remember seeing you there, and I think maybe I do, but it might just be wishful thinking, you know, like when you want to remember something so bad you end up making part of it up and then that becomes the reality. I remember the line of trucks, I remember your mom, and I remember the sadness. I remember thinking for the longest time how I wished it had been me that died that day. I remember thinking about how there wouldn’t be all those fire trucks there at the cemetery, how there wouldn’t be as many people, how there wouldn’t be a flag over my coffin.
“I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t want to go. But my mom made me. She didn’t say it, but she made it clear that your dad had died trying to save me, and it was our duty to go.”
“Oh, Virgil, that’s terrible.”
“You know, it wasn’t really,” I said. “She didn’t put the weight on me. She didn’t have to. She just helped me see that it was the right thing to do. Boy, I can remember her and my dad fighting about it. They fought for weeks after that. Not about me going, but the fact that he didn’t.”
“Why do you think he didn’t go?”
“He never told me. He was drinking pretty bad back then, but I think the real reason was that he felt responsible for your father’s death.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You have to understand, I might not know what I’m talking about here. It’s not something my dad and I talk about very often, but I think he feels like if he could have gotten me out, then your dad would still be alive.”
“But you know that’s not true. It took two men to get you out.”
“Yeah, try telling that to him.”
“I will.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. He’s not exactly the easiest guy in the world to talk to sometimes.”
“So says the son.” I looked at her, a reply forming, when the phone rang again. Sandy dug her feet into my lap for a second, then swung them off and went to the kitchen. She answered my phone like it was the most natural thing in the world, spoke into the receiver for a moment, then handed it to me, a hint of a smile sneaking across the corner of her mouth. “It’s your dad.”
“How do you know that?”
“Caller I.D.,” she said. Then with a playfulness in her voice I was grateful to hear, she added, “ Detective.”
I laughed at myself and took the phone. “Morning, Pops. What’s up?”
“Hey Virg. Your boss is looking for you. She tried here out of desperation. Said she couldn’t get a hold of you. Anyway, sounds like something big might be happening with your case. She wants you to call her right away. Say, who’s that just answered your phone?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I dialed Cora’s number then put the phone on speaker so Sandy could hear the conversation. When she answered her words were clipped and the frustration in her voice at not being able to reach me was evident. “Know where the Safeway off of Morris Street is at?”
“What’s going on, Cora?”
“Woman named Elle Richardson is dead. Shot in the middle of her forehead. Ron Miles is already there and says the crime scene weenies think it’s the same shooter. If you’re not doing anything you might want to swing by. And by the way, Pate’s lawyer is raising holy hell with the Governor as we speak so you may have touched a nerve somewhere. Things are happening, Slick. You might want to get in the game.”
“We’ll get right over there,” I said, then wished I’d been more careful with my choice of words.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Her voice seemed to relax a little, but as is often the case with Cora, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Your phone sounds sort of funny. Do you have me on speaker or something? Hey, one other thing, I’ve got everyone else’s paperwork from yesterday’s cluster fuck outside the Governor’s place, but I’m still waiting on Small’s. Tell her to get it to me, will you? Or did I just do that?”
Sometimes a conversation with Cora can leave you feeling a little like a bug in a blender.
Fifteen minutes later we were dressed and in my truck, the bubble light flashing on the dashboard. When we pulled up to the crime scene, TV was there, along with a few print people. When we got out of the truck, the cameras turned our way. I looked at Sandy and said, “I hate it when the news beats me to the crime scene.”
“Well, they don’t really have a life,” Sandy said.
A very tall and skinny female reporter and her cameraman caught us just before we ducked under the crime scene tape. “Detective Jones, what can you tell me about this latest murder? Our information is the victim is a nurse, just like one of yesterday’s victims. Do the nurses of our city need to be concerned, Detective? Is it the work of the killer you’ve been hunting in connection with the death of Franklin Dugan?”
Hunting. Good word.
I don’t mind the press, really. They have a job to do like anyone else. In fact, it has been my experience that as a detective, if you treat the press with dignity and respect, they in turn, will reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship between all concerned parties.
Sandy and I ducked under the crime scene tape. “No comment,” I said.
The reporter put a pout on her lips. “Come on Jonesy…”
“Not now, Becky,” I said. Sandy and I took a few steps away and then I stopped her. “Go find Miles, will you?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
Sandy looked at me, a quiz on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Did you know I’d be here Beck, or did you just get lucky?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Becky said.
I think she was trying to look surprised, but with all the plastic surgery she’s had in an attempt to maintain the appearance of a twenty-two year old, it was hard to tell. I stood there for a moment and watched her try to blink.
“Who’s the cutie?”
I wanted to ignore her and walk away, and I even started to, but as most anyone who has ever been divorced will tell you, negative intimacy is a powerful force, one that often leaves you wondering about the status of your own mental faculties. I turned back around to say something to Becky. I wanted to put her in her place, but something else caught my eye. A taxi slowed in the street behind us and as I watched it go by I saw a man in the rear of the cab turn his head away at the last second. How many people when driving by a crime scene turn their head and look away? Answer: none. My eyes followed the cab, darted to Becky for a second, then back to the cab which was already turning the corner at the end of the block. When I looked over at Becky again I could not think of
