Kindle County: Reversible Errors Part 6

That was true. She had always loved danger. And Larry was part of it. But she was determined to grow up.

"The defendant in my case is gonna jump on tomorrow. I should work on the cross." She provided a little sealed grin meant to reflect just a vapor of regret, then turned toward the P.A.'s Office across the street.

"Muriel," Larry said to her. When she revolved, he had his hands jammed in the pockets of his long jacket and he flapped them against his side. His mouth moved, but he clearly had no idea what to say next. Instead, they stood in the night, facing each other, and let her name, spoken with the faintest woeful echo, remain the last word.

Chapter 8.

October 8, 1991 Squirrel "SQUIRREL?" asked Carney Lenahan. "We're always chasin after that birdbrain."

"What is he?" Larry asked. "A doper?"

Lenahan's partner, Christine Woznicki, answered. "He's the ring around the bowl." She gave Larry Squirrel's proper name, Romeo Gandolph, and he wrote it down. They were in the squad room at Area Six, a little after 8 a.m. The watch commander had just finished briefing the new shift and the two officers were ready to go out on patrol. Woznicki was awfully nice-looking, but with a tough set to her jaw and a lanky dryness that reminded Larry of a leather strop. Probably that kind, not that he cared either way. Her father had been on the job when Larry started his career here in Six more than fifteen years ago. Stan Woznicki had also ridden with Carney. The longer you live, Larry thought, it's just a big wheel.

"A thief is what he is," said Lenahan. "And a fence. Steal it or sell it, preferably both. Worse than a gypsy. We run his screwy little a.s.s in here once a month, at least. Ed Norris had him on the ring yesterday."

"For?"

"S.O.S." Same old s.h.i.t. "Lady Carroll got a wig store on 61st. That's what she calls herself, Lady Carroll. So Lady Carroll gets a little wrecked and don't lock her back door. This birdcage, Squirrel, that's his thing, back doors, hiding in a cabinet till after closing time. Yesterday a.m., half her stock has taken a walk. And most of the trade on 61st is wearing a new mop. So Ed let Squirrel lounge here for the evening but he wouldn't cop. It was him. Believe me. Fenced it for sure."

Carney had to be right at the end of the trail, sixty if he was a day. Everything about the guy was gray, even his face under the wan interior light. Larry loved cops like this. They'd seen it all and done it all and still had something good left. When Larry came on the job in 1975, Carney was still complaining that the Force had bought air-conditioned cruisers. That was just looking for trouble, he said, encouraging the element that didn't want to get out of the car in the first place.

"Any property?" Larry asked. "When Norris grabbed him?"

Lenahan flicked a look at Woznicki, who shrugged.

"What he gets he unloads fast," she answered.

Larry said he'd like to see Norris's report. When he asked if Squirrel had any connection to Gus, Carney laughed deeply.

"Mongoose and cobra, those two," he said. "Gus figured Squirrel had a hard-on for his cash register. I guess he tried to get his hand in there once. Gus caught Squirrel so much as sittin at his counter for a coffee, he'd run him out." At Paradise, anybody who paid his tab was equal. Gang lords sat next to pols and $20 hookers. When there was trouble, local kids getting noisy, vagrants who took up residence, or morons like Squirrel, Gus preferred to deal with it himself, even if a copper was in one of his booths. "One time I saw Gus go at him with a butcher knife," Lenahan said. "Don't think those two were writing love letters."

Larry felt a sensation travel through him. He was the doer. Squirrel.

"What about drugs?" he asked. "He use?"

Woznicki answered. "He don't have any kind of jones. He gets high like the rest of them. For a long time, he was sniffing paint," she said, referring to toluene, "which may be part of his problem. He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, that one. Squirrel, you know, he's just livin the life. He wants to steal enough to get completely noodled come nightfall, so he can forget how strange he is. You ain't gonna have to consult the Buddha to figure him out."

"Does he carry?" Larry asked, meaning a gun.

"Not so I seen. Kind of a weak puppy, actually," Christine said. "He'll run his mouth, but I don't know if he'd actually go to war. You figure him for the guy who capped Gus?"

"I'm starting to."

"I didn't think the little f.u.c.k had it in him." Marveling, Woznicki tossed her narrow, long-jawed face about for a second. That was one of the sad lessons of police life. People were a lot more likely to be worse than you expected, before they were better.

Lenahan and Woznicki left for patrol. In the front, Larry asked the records clerk to pull doc.u.ments. Rommy's criminal history arrived by fax from downtown in half an hour, but the clerk said Norris's report from last night must still have been in filing. While the clerk was looking, Larry called Harold Greer.

Harold was in a meeting, which was just as well. Larry talked to Aparicio, Harold's right hand, who was too amiable to ask many questions. There was one other call Larry needed to make.

"You want a warrant?" Muriel asked. She was in her office waiting on her jury.

"Not yet. Just stay close."

"Always," she told him.

Always, he thought. What the h.e.l.l did that mean? The other night, outside the jail, he had looked at Muriel in her go-to-court outfit, her red high heels elevating her scampish height, and suddenly felt the world was only empty s.p.a.ce. The fiber of feeling that connected him to her was the most certain thing in it. The strength of that sensation, which was not only the welling of desire but some larger yearning, had left him speechless after uttering her name. "Always," he muttered, cradling the phone.

After another hour, he asked dispatch to round up Lenahan and Woznicki. They were only a few blocks away and he met them behind the station. It was past noon now and the lot was as crowded as a shopping center.

"What's up?" asked Woznicki through the driver's window of the cruiser. "You still looking for that report?"

"As a matter of fact."

"I called Norris a while ago."

"Okay, but right now I could use some help scooping up Squirrel. Where do I find him?"

"Usually the street," said Lenahan. "It's not cold enough yet for him to take the hike to the airport. Whenever he's run one of his little jobs, we find him at the same pizza parlor on Duhaney."

"What's he do there?"

"Eat. I don't know if he gets high from the thrill or he's just hungry."

"Probably hungry," said Woznicki. "Hop in and we'll take a ride."

Today, Squirrel had skipped the pizza. After a couple of hours, they ended up at the joint where Collins said he'd encountered Gandolph. It was called Lamplight and it was strange it had any name at all. It was a s.h.i.thole. You knew you were in trouble when a place kept cyclone fencing across the window while it was open. Near the door, there was a small liquor counter, the merchandise locked behind heavy gratings, and a dim barroom in back. Larry had made this scene a thousand times before: only a few lights that worked, including the reflecting beer signs, and what they revealed was aged, filthy, and broken. The paneling in the room was so old it had started to fray, like worn cloth, and the toilet in the one john was stained, with a seat that had been cracked in half and a cistern that leaked and was always running. Even from the front door, the whole place smelled of rot and a vague gas leak. There were customers back there all day, little groups of young men standing around, talking stuff n.o.body believed, now and then dealing dope in little coveys in the corner. It was that activity, in all likelihood, that had brought Collins around.

Outside, on the sidewalk near the door, there was more of the same: smacked-out hookers trying to score a john or a fix, guys with disability checks or habits of their own. The paper-bag crowd. When the three officers strolled up, they all scattered. Carney and Christine went in the front and Larry ambled around to the alley, in case Squirrel opted for the stage door.

He heard Lenahan whistle for him a minute later.

"Detective Starczek, make the acquaintance of Romeo Gandolph."

The man Carney was pushing along was a scrawny, crazed-looking little thing, with eyes flashing around like Mars lights. You weren't going to have to convene a grand jury to figure out how he got the name Squirrel. Larry pushed him against the patrol car and patted him down. Rommy whined, asking several times what he had done.

"s.h.i.t," Larry said. "Where's the locket, Romeo?"

Romeo, as expected, said he didn't know nothing about that.

"s.h.i.t," said Larry again. Gandolph wouldn't have held the cameo for months, only to sell it now. Larry described the piece, but Squirrel kept saying he hadn't seen nothing like it.

Larry thought of Erno's warnings about Collins. This wasn't the first time a jailhouse snitch had run changes on Larry. He was ready to let Squirrel stroll, but Lenahan unexpectedly grabbed Gandolph by the scattered hairdo and pushed him into the back of the cruiser. Squirrel was moaning that his arm still hurt from last night, when he'd been cuffed for most of the evening to an iron ring above his head on the wall.

At Six, Lenahan pointed Rommy to a bench"he knew the way himself"then took Larry's biceps. He could tell there was a problem from the way Carney kept looking up and down the hall.

"You ain gonna find any reports or nothing from last night."

"Because?"

"Cause you ain gonna find that cameo in Property."

Larry groaned. He was just too old for this s.h.i.t.

"Carney, I know it's not on you, but this meatball's gonna tell me he had that locket last night when they pinched him. You know that. So what am I supposed to tell Harold?"

"I understand," said Carney. "I'm doin what I can. We been looking for Norris all day now. He's off. Girlfriend swears he's on the way in."

They were interrupted by a communications clerk. Larry had a call. His first thought was Muriel, but it was Greer instead. Larry tried to strike a cheerful note.

"I think we're about to clear this case, Commander." He gave Harold some of the details.

"Who's with you, Larry?"

He knew Harold meant Task Force detectives, but Larry played dumb and mentioned Lenahan and Woznicki.

"The Lone Ranger rides again," said Greer to himself. He told Larry he would get a Homicide detective there on the double.

When Larry lowered the phone, there was a big black guy waiting. He had on a snappy, short leather jacket and a knit shirt that didn't quite cover his full belly. He was smiling as if he had something to sell. Which he did, in a way. This was Norris.

"Hear you need this," he said. He took the cameo out of his coat pocket. He hadn't even bothered to put it in a plastic sleeve.

Larry had made it for a long time on this Force by saying live and let live. Best he knew, the Pope wasn't drawing up papers to nominate him for sainthood either. But he did the job. Maybe that was his greatest source of pride. He came on every day to do the job"not to catch a nap or shake down dopers or hide in the station house while he schemed about a long-term disability leave. He did the job, like every other good cop he knew. This was too much. He grabbed the locket roughly from Norris's hand. The christening pictures were inside, two babes both still bloated from the savage trip down the birth ca.n.a.l.

"You're just d.i.c.k f.u.c.kin Tracy, aren't you?" Larry said to Norris. "You pinch a guy who's got jewelry in his pocket that was on TV every day for a week because it belonged to a murder vic. And the guy you s.n.a.t.c.h happens to have had a known thing with another of the victims. And what are you thinking about? How much you can get when you sell the f.u.c.king evidence. I hope there aren't any more at home like you."

"Ease up. This ain your man. This is just some little local wackhead booster. He wouldn't cop on the wigs, so I's teaching him a lesson. What's the harm?"

"Harm? I got a great chain of evidence, don't I? Booking sheet, evidence log? How do we prove to Bernie the Attorney this is what you took off his client?"

"Don't bust my chops, man. Everybody here knows how to testify."

Larry turned away, but Norris called after him. "You know, if he's wrong on the murders," he said, "I oughta get a piece of the bust."

Larry didn't bother to answer. You couldn't talk to a guy like that.

Chapter 9.

May 22, 2001 Inside OUTSIDE THE MEN'S Maximum Security Penitentiary at Rudyard, Gillian had a final cigarette. She kept her back to the prison and instead surveyed the pretty Midwestern street of small frame houses, where the lawns had recently greened and the maple trees in the parkway were all in new leaf. Arthur was still in his fancy automobile, speaking on the car phone to his office. 'My robber baron against your robber baron,' was how he'd described his practice on the drive down, but, like all lawyers in medias res, he seemed given over to it, soothing clients and plotting strategy in the fierce war of words that was civil litigation.

For Gillian's sake, Arthur had left his carnivorous young a.s.sociate back in the IBM Building. Rocketing along the highway, beside the corn plants which were bursting through the earth with their green leaves drooping like welcoming hands, Arthur and she had conversed pleasantly. He had told her what he'd learned about Erno Erdai, the prisoner they were going to see, and they had also talked at length about Duffy Muldawer, her landlord, with whom Arthur had happily renewed acquaintance this morning, reminiscing over their courtroom battles years before, when Arthur was a Deputy P.A. in Gillian's courtroom.

In truth, Duffy had never been much of a lawyer"he'd gone to law school as an adjunct to his priestly duties, and ended up as a State Defender when love, which sadly did not last, had led him to abandon his vows. His true gift was in his original calling. Gillian had discovered that in 1993, when she had entered one of the fabled twelve-step programs. With a sentencing in her future, it was imperative to clean up, but she could not abide the cant, the formulae, the circles of lost souls baring their troubles and still lost. In desperation, she'd called Duffy, who'd offered to help when the first articles about her appeared in the papers. He was her one true confessor. Without him, she might have remained at the bottom forever.

As Arthur's call wore on now, Gillian ground her cigarette into the gravel of the lot and checked herself over in the reflection of the car's smoked windows. She'd worn a black David Dart pantsuit, with a cardigan-style jacket, pearls, and gold b.u.t.ton earrings. The effect was intended to be demure, to attract as little attention as possible inside the inst.i.tution. But Arthur, who'd apparently been watching her through the windshield while he finished on the phone, seemed to have missed the point.

"You look great, as usual," Arthur said, standing up from the car. He spoke with the same enthusiasm he had in his office. She sensed in Raven, as with so many males, a hint of tireless s.e.xual appet.i.te. But she was largely inured to men. She had even begun wearing a plastic wedding band to work. Saleswomen apparently had the same reputation as nurses and the gals lingering in a watering hole at closing time. Men actually seemed to cruise the counters. Now and then, some appeared to recognize her from her former life, and within that cohort were a few males who, for whatever demented reason, seemed to regard her as either easy pickings or an unfulfilled yen. She rebuffed them all. s.e.x had never been especially easy for her, anyway. Too much Catholic school or something like that. She had loved being attractive, the power it bestowed. But the mechanics of love, much like love itself, had never really been very satisfying for Gillian.

She thanked Raven for his kindness and turned to face the inst.i.tution, summoning resolve. For decades, at moments like this, Gillian had conjured the image of a ball bearing, gleaming, smooth, and impenetrable, and that was what was in her mind as they reached the front gates of Rudyard.

Inside the guardhouse, Arthur did the talking. The plan was for her to visit alone with Erdai, who was expecting her, in the hope he would agree to see Raven next. She was not sure exactly what faced her, but the police reports and other doc.u.ments Arthur had shown her made Erdai's story sound uncomfortably like hers. He'd worked his way up from police cadet to a significant executive position at TN, and then, in an inexplicable instant, had lost hold of everything. In February of 1997, Erdai had been at Ike's, a well-known hangout for police officers, when he'd had a run-in with a man named Faro Cole. According to Erdai's statements afterwards, he had once investigated Cole for a ticket fraud against the airline. Described as a black male about thirty, Cole had entered the tavern and displayed a gun, shouting that it was Erdai's fault he was broke. Several cops in the place had come at Cole with weapons drawn, and the man had thrown his arms in the air, still holding the revolver, but by the barrel, not the trigger. Finally, after brief negotiations, he'd handed the gun to Erdai and agreed to go outside with him to talk. No more than five minutes later, Cole had burst back through the door of the bar. By all accounts, Erdai, who was about five feet behind him, dropped the young man with a single shot through the back.

Erdai claimed, improbably, that the shooting was self-defense, but he found little support, especially in light of the ballistics and path reports. Erno was charged with attempted murder. Cole, who recovered, conceded, through an attorney, that he had been stoned and provocative and even made no objection to Erno's lawyer's plea for leniency. But because Erdai had shot and killed his mother-in-law several decades before, the P.A.'s Office was adamant that he'd already had his second chance. Erdai pled to Agg Battery, Firearm, and received a sentence of ten years, which would have gotten him out in five, had he not developed a stage-four cancer of the lung. The Warden's Office had confirmed to Arthur that Erdai's prognosis was poor. Notwithstanding that, the Prisoner Review Board had denied his request for commutation or compa.s.sionate furlough, much as they turned down everyone else. Erdai was going to die in here, a thought that seemed fully appalling to Gillian as she waited on a bench beside Arthur.

"Is he still lucid?" Gillian asked Raven.

"According to the medical staff." Her name was called then. "I guess you're going to see for yourself."

"I guess so," she answered and stood. So far as Gillian could tell, Erdai was Rommy Gandolph's last hope, and Arthur had become visibly nervous as the moment of truth neared. Coming to his feet to wish her good luck, he offered a damp hand, then Gillian headed off in the company of a female correctional officer. When the main gate to the cellblock finally smashed closed behind them, Gillian's heart squeezed. She must have made a sound as well because the c.o. turned to ask how she was.

"Fine," Gillian answered, but she could feel her face was pinched.

The officer, who was stationed in the infirmary to which they were heading, had introduced herself as Ruthie, a stout chatterbox with straightened hair. Even a prison could not dim her cheerfulness, and her tireless commentary about varied subjects, including Erdai, recent construction, and the weather, made a welcome distraction.

When they arrived, the infirmary proved to be a separate two-story structure connected to the main block by a dark hall. Gillian followed Ruthie down the corridor to another double set of barred doors. A guard sat in a small control room on this side, monitoring ingress and egress through bulletproof windows. Ruthie lifted the visitor's pa.s.s hanging from Gillian's neck and the buzzer sounded.

Within the prison hospital, there was an odd liberty. It was like entering an asylum. The worst offenders were chained to their beds, but only if they caused trouble. As in the yard, even the murderers wandered about freely. In the ward to which Ruthie led Gillian, two unarmed correctional officers sat in the corners on folding chairs, moseying around now and then to limber up, but appearing otherwise aimless. Halfway into the room, Ruthie pulled back a curtain and there in a bed was Erno Erdai.

At the moment, he was recovering from a second surgery to remove a lobe from his lung. He had been reading a book, his hospital bed raised to support him, and wore a washed-out hospital gown, while an IV dripped into his left arm. Erdai was thin and pale, with an arrow tip of a long nose. When his light eyes came up, they lingered on Gillian before he coughed harshly. After he recovered, he extended his hand.

"I'll just leave you to talking," Ruthie said. She did not actually depart. She found a plastic bucket chair for Gillian, then crossed to the other side of the ward, where she made some show of looking in the other direction.

"I knew your old man, you know," Erdai said. His speech had a faint foreign lilt, as if he'd come of age in a home where English was a second language. "In the Academy. He was my instructor. He taught Street Tactics. He was good at it, too. They say he was h.e.l.l out there." Erno laughed. He had a tongue depressor on one side of his mouth and chewed on it periodically. Gillian had often heard as much of her father, but it was hard to reconcile with the man whom she saw her mother wallop time and again. Gillian was always desperate for him to fight back. He was six foot three and could have toppled his wife with one swat. But he was scared of May like the rest of them. Gillian had hated him for it.

"I don't suppose you remember me from being in your court," Erdai asked, "now that you see me?" It seemed important to him to think he had made an impression, but she saw no need for gallantry.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Well, I remember you. And you look a d.a.m.n sight better off. Do you mind me saying that? Doesn't seem like you're drinking now."

"No."

"I don't mean anything by asking," said Erdai. "I drank too much, too. Only I'm not like you. I'd start right in again. The stuff in here the inmates make? You take your life in your hands and it tastes like it, too. I drink it anyway when I get the chance." Erno shook his head briefly, then glanced at the book that remained open in his hands, a history of World War II. She asked if he liked it.

"It's all right. It's something to do. Did you read a lot when you were inside?"

"Some," she said. "Not as much as I thought I would. Now and then, I try to remember what I did, and most of it's blank. I really think I spent a lot of time just staring."