Authors: Kate Flora
He followed slowly, bracing himself against the wall, his feet leaden as he climbed the stairs and trudged to the car. He folded himself cautiously in, skipping the seatbelt. He didn't need that rubbing over his punctured skin.
It was still early and the traffic was light. A mercy. He wasn't so much driving as staying upright behind the wheel, keeping the vehicle pointed in the right direction, every bump and pothole a jarring agony. The places where the pellets had bored into him felt red and raw. By the time they pulled into the police garage, he was gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He stopped as close to the door as he could and turned off the engine. Radioed for someone to come get her.
He was no longer a sentient being, inhabiting the sphere of sheer endurance, a static-filled place where the travel time between brain and response was surreally slow. His call brought both Kyle and Perry. Perry took charge of Kara, nodding at his quick summary.
"Get her story on tape," Burgess said. "Right away."
Kyle took one look and dragged him out, propelling him around and into the passenger seat, cutting off his protests with a brusque, "Stan and Vince know what to do."
He closed his eyes and let Kyle take charge. Glad to let someone else be on first for a while. When they got the hospital, he roused himself long enough to say, "Don't let them admit me." Assisted by Demerol, he dozed through the medical indignities as they pried out the shot.
He would probably have slept the whole day away, despite the gathering of witnesses he'd orchestrated, if he hadn't felt someone's fingers traveling lightly over his face. Even with a cop's instinct for waking quickly, he struggled. He finally opened his eyes to find Chris Perlin wearing a look of sweet concern. She put two warm hands on his bare chest, pressing him gently back against the mattress. "Don't get up," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"Water?"
"I'll get some," she said. Again, he tried to push himself up. She put a restraining hand on his chest. She wore gray sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt with a picture of Tigger on it. Her hair hung loose and shiny down her back. It was Saturday. He'd rousted Kyle and Perry out of their beds shortly after dawn on a Saturday morning, so immersed in the case he'd lost track of time. Her hand stayed on his chest, warm and solid. "Promise you'll stay put?"
She was back in what his mother would have called "two shakes of a lamb's tail," fitting the straw between his lips.
"That's so good," he said. "Where's Terry?"
"Went back to work. They're supposed to call when you're ready to go."
"I'm ready." He hated being away from the action, lying on this table like a slab of meat embellished with large patches of tape. Raw meat. Lotta tape.
"Not quite." There was a hint of teasing in her voice. "You're a bit underdressed for February." She set her hand on his chest and let it travel south, stopping just a tad below his navel. Nothing came between her skin and his. "I think they're bringing you some clothes."
He shivered at her touch, wanting to pull her down next to him and hold her there. Feeling a rare longing, not for sex, but for closeness.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "It's Saturday."
"Fate," she said. "Kid in the apartment downstairs twisted his ankle on the ice. He couldn't drive, so I brought him in. Heard you were here, so I decided to see for myself."
"See all you wanted?"
She laughed, a rich, mellow sound. "Not nearly. I was going to offer my services as a private duty nurse, but knowing the little I do about you, I'm betting the only way I'd get to nurse you would be if I wore running shoes and a bulletproof vest. Even then I'd probably have to hustle to keep up."
"I'm not Superman." He felt like Hamburger Man.
"I'm not usually this forward," she said. "It's just—"
Remy Aucoin opened the door, the lights behind him illuminating his fair hair like a halo. He held out a duffel bag. "Excuse me, ma'am. Sir? I brought some clothes. Detective Kyle thought you might need 'em. He said if you need a ride back to the station, or home, I'm to drive you, sir."
"Officer," Chris said, taking the bag. "Give us a couple minutes, will you? I'll get the detective dressed and he's all yours."
"Yes, ma'am," Aucoin said. "I'll be right outside."
"That's a sweet boy," she said, unzipping the bag and setting it on a chair.
"You were saying something about being forward?" he prompted.
"Right. I'm not. But I went home after our... my... lunch... after we talked, and I thought about you. About how there's more to you than most of the men I meet."
"Yeah," he said. "Thirty or forty extra pounds."
"That's not what I meant. I was thinking about decency. And depth." She touched his bare shoulder. "Let's get you upright and see what happens."
"You get me upright, we both know what happens."
"Later," she said, guiding him slowly to a sitting position and helping him swing his legs off the bed. "It comes to that, I don't want anything on your mind but me. Okay. Hold it right there." She got him into underwear and socks, got his shirt on, slipped his pants over his feet. "Time to stand up. And take it easy. I mean it. You might be dizzy."
He slid onto the floor, swaying, slightly exaggerating his need for help. She tucked her shoulder under his and wrapped an arm around his waist. "That's good," she said, taking her time, pressing her body against his before bending to help with his pants. She tucked in his shirt. "There. Now the shoes. Your friend Terry took your gun, I think. All that cop stuff. Except your wallet."
Paper rustled as she slipped a hand into his pocket. "My phone number," she said. "Call me up. I can cook. I can tap dance. I play a mean round of ping pong. I'm into kick boxing. I like to go fishing, listen to women singing the blues and I read Mary Oliver's poetry. A little something..." Her voice dropped into a lower, more intimate register. "For everyone." She backed him slowly up against the bed, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. "I think a less forward woman would never get anywhere with you."
He pulled her tighter and kissed her back. The door opened. Aucoin again. "Excuse me, sir. I have your wallet." Burgess went right on kissing Chris Perlin. Didn't even look up. "I'll be outside." The door closed again.
"How am I going to go back to work?" he complained, finally breaking away.
"You ought to be going home to bed."
"Don't I know it." He patted his pocket. "I'll call you."
"I hope so," she said. "Do something for me, will you? Stay out of the Emergency Room. You got away this time without damaging anything vital, but you're pushing your luck. Take it easy for the rest of the day. You got elephants that need stopping, bad guys who need tossing through windows, let someone else do it. There are other cops in town."
"I'll do my best," he said.
"I'm sure you always do." She picked up her purse, hesitated, then pulled out a folded sheet of 8 ½ x 11 paper. She unfolded it and showed him a big red heart. "This was on my door this morning. A sign, maybe?" She walked to the door and opened it. "Officer? Your patient is ready." She left without looking back.
Valentine's Day. One of Portland's closely guarded secrets. Every February 14th, Portlanders woke to find the secret Valentine had left these hearts all over town. Burgess had one of his own, at home in a drawer, from 1986. Somewhere in town, a big red heart was hanging. While he was mired in death, life went on.
Aucoin stared after her, grinning. "Man," he said, "that's the kind of nursing care you always dream about."
"Yeah," Burgess agreed. "Almost makes facing a loaded shotgun worthwhile." As they passed the fire station, he saw a big, red heart hanging from the flagpole.
Kyle was in an interview room with Kara Allison, Stan Perry watching on the monitor, waiting to take his turn. Melia, who ought to have been home with his kids, hadn't even allowed himself a dress-down Saturday. His suit was immaculate, his tie was straight, his shoes spotless. He and Perry watched as Kyle took Kara Allison through her story.
"It's the third time," Melia said. "He can't shake her. But it never varies. It's almost word for word. Real people don't work like that. There's something plastic about her, something unreal about the whole thing. I see why you brought her in. Get past that blonde façade, you could be looking at a stone-cold killer. Goes out to screw Pleasant just for the chance to whack him. You like her for it?"
Burgess nodded. Kara Allison seemed remarkably unfazed by the questioning. Most people, even the pros, would be a little frazzled by now. "Told you this one was going to be a bitch. I like her for it—like her a lot—but she could be telling the truth. But is it the truth or the truth up to where the mystery guy jerks open the door? You do a poly?"
"Yeah. Borderline. Inconclusive. She's a cool one, though. I've got a guy working on a warrant for her place. Love to get my hands on what she was wearing that night."
"Probably long gone," Burgess said. "Anyone look at the crime scene photos? See if there's anything to corroborate her story that she was flung down in the snow? Anything that puts a mystery guy in the car?"
Melia shook his head. "They took a hell of a lot of stuff out of that car but they're waiting for something to match it to. You got some prints you want Wink or Dani to run a match on, we can do it Monday. Got no crime lab people to spare. We're already breaking the bank on overtime, and as for the rest of us—been kinda busy around here."
"Alana?"
"Interview three. Cooling her heels. She said we could take our time. She brought a book to read." Melia grinned. "
The Happy Hooker
." He turned to Perry. "Why don't you give Kyle a break?"
Burgess shook his head. "Anyone check that surveillance tape yet?"
"Stan queued it up but no one's had time to look at it yet. It's in the conference room." Melia sat back and studied him. A cop's assessment. He knew Vince was taking in the way he moved, the way he sounded, as well as how he looked and what he said—the speed of his reflexes and the speed of his synapses.
"I pass?" he asked.
"Makes me hurt just looking at you. What are you trying to prove, Joe? You're not a kid anymore. We're neither of us kids anymore. Don't bounce back like we used to." He cleared his throat, looked out the window toward Saturday and the normal life they hadn't chosen. Toward a place where your customers didn't do unspeakable things to each other and you didn't have much risk of finding yourself on the wrong end of a gun. He straightened his tie as though he could impose the same order on the world he imposed on himself.
"I'm wasting my breath but I've gotta say this. You could go home. Get some rest. Sometimes you have to let up. Believe it or not, Stan and Terry are competent detectives."
"I know that. We trained 'em, Vince."
Melia wasn't done. Like Burgess, he took a paternal interest in his people. And though they were colleagues, rank made Burgess one of his people. "When's the last time you ate? I could send out for something."
"Know anyone who delivers chicken soup and weak tea? I'm not up to much else, just want to play this thing out and crash."
"Tea I can do," Melia said. "Wanna see that video?"
"Yeah. I'll just stick my head in, say hello to Alana. Anything on Randall Noyes?"
"Stan talked with the local cops. Guy works for the highway department. Absolutely straight arrow, except for a few brawls right after his fiancée died. He hasn't been at work all week. Taking some vacation time."
"Lawyer show up for Kara Allison?" Melia shook his head. "She tell us where to find Noyes?"
"Says she doesn't know."
Burgess shrugged. "Whole damned world acts like we were born yesterday."
He found Alana engaged in animated conversation with a pair of riveted young cops, one of whom was Remy Aucoin. Aucoin spotted him first and took a step backward, his face flushing red. Alana looked up and grinned. She wore a pair of faded jeans that confirmed his belief that jeans were about the sexiest piece of clothing ever, and a copper-colored thermal top cut low and tight.
"'Lo, Copman. Long time no see." Her visual assessment wasn't much less probing than Melia's; her conclusions, judging from the concern on her face, not much different. "Jesus, Joe. You don't know the meaning of 'take it easy,' do you?"
"Had to go get patched back together," he said. "Think you can wait on me another couple minutes? I've got to take a quick look at some TV."
"Nothing on except cartoons, but you run along. I'm fine."
"I see you are." He couldn't help himself. When he looked at her, he saw her on tape with Ken Bailey, naked with those big hands all over her. Saw Bailey's mouth where his own had been. Proof of the truth of the old saying, a picture is worth a thousand words. A picture could hurt more, too. He knew it was irrational. She'd been a hooker as long as he'd known her. It was just one of those guy things—one thing to know it in the abstract, another to have it brought home in living color. "I won't be long," he said.
"You're mad at me."
He didn't respond. He went into the conference room and turned on the TV. The air was a stomach-turning mix of coffee, pizza, and old sweat. He hit play and waited, Vince beside him. It was ugly and graphic and played out about the way the high school kids had said. It also matched what little bit of statement they'd gotten from Mai Phung. With video like this, they didn't need a statement. They ever caught up with O'Leary, he was going away for a long time. Burgess rewound and watched again, looking for anything that might help identify the car O'Leary had come in or the driver of that car.