Authors: Lawrence Light,Meredith Anthony
Officer Sweeney was snoring, a deep-lunged cycle of phlegmy breathing and snorting, zoned-out to the world. Nita knew the call would
come about now, in the pit of the night when the bovine Sweeneys of
this world nodded off.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” came the jumpy voice on the line. He
sounded as if he’d been hot-wired. “About what happened.”
“You’re outside, aren’t you, Ace? You’re nearby, waiting for me.”
She crooned to him, her voice at once sexy, maternal, soothing.
“How did you know?”
“I know you, Ace. I’ve known you for a while now. I know all
your secrets, don’t I, Ace?”
There was a silence and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Your shift’s supposed to be over.
Where are you? I’ve got to talk to you.”
“I’m working a double shift,Ace. Everyone is too upset to work.”
“I’ve got to see you.” Nita glanced at Sweeney, who had stirred
and mumbled in his sleep. Breathe, snort.
“Please,” Ace’s voice was pleading.
She spoke even more quietly, her voice suggestive. “What are you
going to do when you see me, Ace? Tell me.”
“You’re the one, aren’t you?” he blurted out. “You did it.You did
them all.”
Nita checked out the sleeping policeman once more, a cunning
smile creeping over her face, wicked and wise. “Always playing, aren’t
you?” she murmured into the phone. “Teasing.You see, I
know
that you
did it.”
Ace gasped, then laughed crazily. “Bullshit. I was there. And so
were you. And so was that big, dumb bastard that got killed, Reuben.”
“And when I last saw you, the two of you were both alive. I don’t
care, though. It just makes you more interesting.This was just the sort
of thing you always said you would do, isn’t it?”
Sweeney snorted himself awake, then yawned and stretched,
looking over at Nita curiously.
Waiting, Nita could almost feel the flattering suggestion seep
into Ace and swell his ego.
“Well, I could have —” Ace said.
Nita met Sweeney’s porcine eyes. She sat up straight and her tone
changed from insinuating to distantly professional. “If you think you
or your friend saw a crime being committed, I’d advise you to go to
the police.”
Ace lacked the wit to pick up on Nita’s predicament. “The police? Fuck the police.You think I’m nuts?”
“If you’re worried about your sanity,” Nita said, “I can give you
the number of a very good doctor who —”
“Just meet me outside. Talk to me. I’ve got something to show
you. Something important.”
Sweeney lumbered over to Nita’s desk.
“I’d love to,” Nita said into the phone. “Well, if you decide to talk
to someone, let us know. Any staff member here can help you. Good
night.” She hung up.The policeman loomed over her. Nita smiled up at
him. “A kleptomaniac. His conscience is bothering him.”
“I just wanted to know —” Sweeney said.
Nita’s eyes narrowed. She reached for her purse and pulled it toward her.
“— if you wanted something,” Sweeney continued. “I could go
for a sandwich about now. I wouldn’t mind going out to the all-night
carry-out.”
Nita smiled, relieved. “Great idea. I’d love a Greek salad.” She put
her hand in her bag. “Let me give you some money.”
“My pleasure,” he said with a grin, waving her away.
“How sweet,” Nita said. Her fingers briefly touched the butt of
her gun, where it lay hidden beneath an eighth-of-an-inch of leather,
three feet from the law. She withdrew her hand into the light and
favored Sweeney with her dazzling smile.
The cop nodded and turned away. He had a thought and turned
back to her. “You don’t mind if I go, do you? You’ll be okay for a
couple of minutes?”
“Go right ahead. I can take care of myself, you know.”
The policeman grinned again. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sweeney left. Nita waited for a few moments, then turned on the
answering machine and grabbed her coat off the rack. The fish swam
serenely in the glow of the glass tank. The street outside the crisis
center had an even greater stillness.
The moment she stepped outside, she could sense the shadow
that Ace was hidden in. He slinked out into the gray light, head jerking
around in agitation, checking for cops, for ghosts, for demons.
Nita touched his scrawny arm, and his nerves jolted his face into
a grimace, then subsided. “Let’s take a walk,” she said.
She steered him in the opposite direction from the one Sweeney
had taken.
The feel of her hand upon him worked on Ace with the potency
of a fine wine. “God,” he babbled. “God, how I love you. I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything, Ace?”
“I bought a gun. Just like the one you have. Let me show you.”
He wanted to stop, to turn her to him, but she kept him marching, her neat shoes in rhythm with his boots on the gray concrete.
“You know all about it, don’t you?” she said. “You know all about the
victims, their names, how they were killed, when they were killed.
You met them at the crisis center.You know everything.”
“Yeah, yeah. I saw the papers. I knew them all. Fucking Wall
Street bitch looked at me like I was a piece of shit.” He shook off the
unwelcome memory.
And they walked and she told him, under the pure and lucent
stars, what to say and how to act and why it mattered.And she showed
him the gun from her handbag. And he showed her his. And she exchanged guns with him. And when she had finished, she told him, “I
love you, too.”
After locking the crisis center door behind her, Nita called out
Sweeney’s name. No answer. Good. She had beaten him back. She
climbed the stairs.
A man was silhouetted at the top. She started.
“Don’t be afraid,” Dave Dillon said.
“I don’t scare easily, detective.” She brushed past him. “How did
you get inside here?”
“Dr. Solomon gave me a key.Where were you?”
No light was blinking on the answering machine. “I needed a
She indicated the clock on the wall. “But by four, they usually trail off.”
“Even the crazies need their sleep, eh?”
“No one is crazy, detective.” She sat at her desk and watched him.
“I’d say it’s crazy to go out wandering at four in the morning.”
She didn’t reply.
“Where’s Sweeney?”
“Out getting us something to eat. I asked him to go.”
“You like ordering people around, don’t you?”
“What I like is for you to tell me what brings you here at this
hour, detective.”
“I’m out searching for leads on the case.”
“Well, well. So I
am
getting my tax-money’s worth.The detective
is still on the job. Don’t you ever sleep?”
Dave had begun to pace. He prowled around the desks, circling
Nita as they talked. “Not while a serial killer is out there, Ms.
Bergstrom. Do you think the killer ever sleeps?”
“What did you want to talk to me about, detective?” Even though
Dave was behind her now, Nita did not turn to address him, but spoke
to the place he had occupied before he started to stalk her. “Did you
really want to discuss the nocturnal habits of psychotics? Or are you
working off the frustration that comes with drawing a blank during
your visit to the Cristides family?”
“Megan told you that?”
Nita could tell she finally had the better of him. “We’re close, you
know.Very close.”
Dave moved into her field of view, and he changed the subject.
“Dr. Solomon says you are a top-flight sociologist, Ms. Bergstrom.
And a very ambitious one.”
“How kind of him.Yes, I want to make a mark in my profession. I
won’t deny that.”
“Your credentials are impressive. And the number of hours you
spend with your clients is amazing.”
Nita locked her eyes onto his, as if willing him to stand still. But
he kept moving, out of her line of vision.
“You had a good look at my file, it seems, detective.Yes, urban
problems are my specialty.What better place to study them than at the
grassroots level?”
“Exactly.” His tone was ominous.
He moved into her view. “I came over tonight because I want you
to help me.”
She paused before answering. “I already am, detective. Didn’t I
go through the files for you this afternoon?”
“I don’t mean that. You really run this place. I hoped that you
could give me some insights about the people it attracts.”
“I doubt you’d understand, detective. I’m sure you mean well,
and I don’t want to sound rude. But I don’t think you understand what
we do here.”
“I’d like to.”
When she didn’t answer, he tried another approach. “You interest me, Nita,” he said from behind her.
She noticed how he had shifted to using her first name. “Do I,
Detective Dillon? And how is that?”
He walked around her, again, and sat down on a desk in front of
her. Then he turned away and looked abstractedly off into the dark
part of the room as he talked. “How is that?”
“Yes, detective. How is that?” She reached for her handbag.
“You figure you’re immune somehow.”
“Immune?” Nita opened the bag and slid her hand inside.
“You and Megan both.You seem to think that this city is your private laboratory and that urban problems are some kind of game. Like
charades. For you to figure out.”
Nita laughed and pulled a handkerchief out of her purse. She got
up and began to prowl around the office as Dave had done, circling
him. “I assure you that we’re quite aware that the world is a dangerous
place. And that anything can happen. Anything. Look what happened
to Reuben.”
Dave’s eyes followed her as she walked. He shifted position on
the desk, never letting her out of his sight. “Maybe you’re aware.
Careful. Is Megan, though? She’s so —”
“Young, detective? Innocent? Unspoiled? Perhaps you’d like to be
the one to teach her. Show her things.”
“Maybe. Does that bother you, Nita?”
“Yes, it does bother me. I don’t want Megan to get hurt.”
“No one’s going to hurt her. Least of all me.”
Nita stood above him, her face hard. “That’s wonderful. Then
we’d better not tell her about your little problem.”
“What ‘little problem’ is that?” Dave already knew the answer,
and an icy finger seemed to run along his spine.
“I think you know.”
It took Dave a few seconds to trust his voice to answer. “I was
cleared.There was an investigation, and I was cleared.”
“Yes.You were cleared.”
He hesitated. He didn’t want to sound defensive. “It’s public
knowledge. I don’t have anything to hide.” He hated the pleading tone
that had crept into his voice.
Nita went back to her desk and sat down.
“It’s all right. It’s just between us. Our secret, detective.What do
you say?”
Dave didn’t have a word to say. A predator’s smile lit Nita’s face.
The phone rang, and she didn’t drop the smile as she picked up the
receiver.
“Crisis center. Can I help you?”
Dave walked down the stairs. He didn’t acknowledge Sweeney,
whom he encountered at the front door, Greek salad in hand. Or even
hear his excuses for being away from his post.
Back home, the cat cuddled in his lap and purring, Dave sat transfixed
by the bloody photos of the victims on his wall. He tried to picture
them in the crisis center. But his thoughts kept returning to Nita and
her hard smile — and how she now had a hold on him.
Then he thought about Megan and wondered how she looked
sleeping. How she would look sleeping next to him. He stroked the
cat like a woman.
He fell into an uneasy sleep where he chased a laughing Megan,
her pretty legs flashing as she ran, beyond his grasp.
The cat woke him in the morning with its sandpaper tongue on
his cheek. Time to eat. As he scooped cat food out of a can, the cat
brushed his legs in gustatory anticipation. He remembered that Jimmy
Conlon had to go in early today to work some kind of low-manon-the-totem-pole news shift. So Dave would be running alone in the
park this morning.
He was pulling on his running clothes when the phone rang. It
was Mrs. Corrigan, his family’s neighbor in Queens.
“I don’t mean to be worrying you, Davey,” said Mrs. Corrigan,
who had spent a life worrying about everything.About money (too little of it), the passing years (too many of them), the steady deterioration of the neighborhood, other people’s manners, and her own
health.“But your mum’s in the hospital.”
“My God, what happened?”
“Well, the doctors don’t know.The ambulance came last night. I
didn’t want to disturb you.You probably were with some girl.A young
man like you. But —”
“Where is she? What hospital?”
He tooled the unmarked car over the river to Queens. His blaring siren and flashing dashboard strobe cleared the morning traffic out
of the way. He spun between the iron legs of the el along Queens
Boulevard and smacked the steering wheel with his palm, as if to
make the car go faster through the rush-hour clog of inch-along commuters.
Within the hour, Dave was trotting down the sterile halls of the
hospital. He pushed his badge into the nurses’ faces and demanded to
know where his mother was.
In a private room, sitting up in bed, wearing the sour expression
of someone who had eaten a lemon.
“Ma, are you okay?” He clasped her bony hand in his.
“Of course I’m okay. I had a few chest pains, and old lady Corrigan dials 911. It’s nothing.They’re letting me out of here in an hour.”
“Mrs. Corrigan had me worried.”
“Well, if this is what it takes to get my son to visit me, I should
have chest pains more often.” His mother didn’t smile. In fact, growing up, the only times he could remember having seen her smile was
when she was hearing about the misfortunes of others.
“Ma, I’ve been on a case.”
“Two months it’s been since I saw you. I forgot what you looked
like.”
“Stop it, Ma. Listen. I’ll take you home.”
The old lady screwed up her mouth and pulled her hand from
his. “Not necessary. Mrs. Corrigan is coming for me.You should get
back to your case.”
“Come on, Ma.”
She sighed theatrically. “You’re like your father. Police work, police work.That’s all he cared about.That and running around with the
wrong kind of woman.”
“Ma, don’t. Let’s not talk about him.”
“When I die, make sure she doesn’t come to my funeral.The way
she came to his.The cheap tramp.”
“I don’t have a clue where she is now.And what’s all this nonsense
about funerals? Really, Ma.”
His mother licked her dry lips. “That cheap tramp ruined our
marriage. And she killed him. If it weren’t for her, he would be alive
today.What is it with men?”
Dave didn’t have an answer.
Unable to dissuade her from waiting for Mrs. Corrigan, he got
back into the car and joined the slow morning parade into Manhattan.
He tried to occupy himself with fantasies about Megan, but his father
kept creeping in. Not his father, the teacher of police craft; his father,
the strayer.The traffic’s stately rhythms — move three feet, then stop,
move three feet, then stop — lent itself to contemplation.The endless
red string of brake lights ahead was mesmerizing.
His father was a jovial sort who loved to tell loud jokes and drink
heartily and even sing a song or two in his rich Irish tenor down at the
corner bar. That’s where he met Cassie, the barmaid. She had teased
hair and wore tight toreador pants with blouses that showed off her
cleavage. A week after his father moved out of the house, his mother
sent Dave to the bar with a message about some financial matter. “If
he’s not there, that cheap tramp will be able to find him,” his mother
said.
And so the bar was where Dave met Cassie too. His father wasn’t
there, but Cassie greeted Dave with an earthy warmth. “You’re a
fine-looking boy, just like Brian told me you was,” Cassie said from
somewhere above her breasts.
Weeks later, Dave sat on a barstool, a Coke in front of him, his
father and a beer beside him, and his father’s friends all around. Cassie
had her back to them as she arranged newly cleaned glasses along the
shelf. She bent down and the fabric stretched across the enticing
globes of her butt. “That is a fine woman,” his father told Dave. “My
soul belongs to her,boy.”
Detective Brian Dillon, to the dismay of his more conservative
superiors and neighbors like Mrs. Corrigan, began openly living with
Cassie. Mrs. Corrigan was the bearer of bad tidings and evil speculation: that Brian had bought that woman a new car, had paid for the
new roof on her house, had spirited her off for an expensive vacation
in Jamaica.
“Where is he getting all the money for this, do you suppose?” his
mother groused to Mrs. Corrigan. “On a policeman’s salary?”
Then the Knapp Commission on police corruption convened.
The high spirits left Brian Dillon.When Dave came to see his father in
the bar, he was hunched over a drink by himself or talking in a low
voice to a somber Cassie.Years later, Dave read the evidence against
his father. It was small stuff: petty payoffs from local merchants who
were eager to help out local cops anyway. There was no extortion.
Brian Dillon hadn’t sold out to the Mob or anything really awful. But
the day of his scheduled testimony before the Knapp Commission,
Brian Dillon rested his service revolver’s muzzle against the roof of his
mouth and pulled the trigger.
Lt. Blake, then a sergeant, told Dave at the funeral: “Your father
was a good detective. Smart, tough, hard-working. He couldn’t stand
being a disgrace to the force.”
Dave thought it was more like he couldn’t stand having his wife
gloat over his disgrace.
As Dave’s unmarked car passed over the iron grillwork of the
59th Street Bridge, it hummed an odd tune. And life ground on.