J Bertrand - Back on Murder

“Okay.” I’m a little baffled.

“Ann said something last night. When we were doing the dishes. She said we didn’t seem happy anymore. Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re lying. I can tell, you know. My husband’s a detective.”

“Things can be like they were – ”

“They’ll never be like they were,” she says. “I know that. I’m not naive. But I want them to be good again. All right?”

I down the orange juice, lower the glass. “I want that, too.”

Upstairs, my mobile phone starts to ring. I should honor the moment by letting it go, but the moment’s already as good as it can get. I kiss her on the juice-dampened lips and rush the stairs two at a time. The phone flashes on the nightstand charger.

“Hello?”

“March, it’s Wilcox. Good news.”

“I have the go-ahead to approach Thomson?”

“So long as he’s willing to give us everything, we’re prepared to work with him on the rest.”

“He wants it in writing.”

“Should I fax it over, or do you want to swing by?”

“I’d better come by. The fewer people who know, the better.”

When I head back downstairs to tell Charlotte, she’s standing in the open back door, arms crossed, glaring up at the apartment over the garage. I come up behind her, resting my cheek against her neck. At the top of the stairs, I catch sight of a girl in a crop top and tight jeans just disappearing into the apartment.

“You’ve got to take care of that, too,” she says.

“I did have a talk with him.”

“A talk’s not enough.” She turns, puts her hands around my waist. “He’s got to go. It’s past the point of talking. Just get him out.”

My hand rests on the small of her back and I inhale the scent of her hair.

“I’ll do what I can,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

Instead of heading straight out to the Northwest, business as usual, waiting for Thomson to get back in touch, I make an unscheduled visit downtown, breezing through Homicide on the pretense of having left some files in my desk. Lorenz gives me the cold shoulder, as expected, but Bascombe proves surprisingly cordial, stopping me outside his office to ask how the task force is going and whether I’m fitting in all right. Now that I’m no longer his problem, I guess the lieutenant wants me to see he’s not carrying any grudges. Neither should I, the implication seems to be.

“Any breaks on the Morales case?” I ask.

He gives his head a wary shake, like he suspects a trick question. “There’s a cool breeze blowing over that one, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

We stand there a moment, pondering the way a live case can suddenly flash-freeze, all the leads going cold at once. In this instance, with so many bodies and so much physical evidence, it’s hard to believe the line’s already gone dead, even for Lorenz. Strangely, I feel no satisfaction. If my test results come back positive and Thomson really can put the shooters in the frame, the fact that Lorenz got nowhere will only make my victory that much sweeter. Still, there are so many contingencies, so much that could go wrong. I can’t gloat for fear of jinxing my chance.

“You hear anything about your dna test?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You still think there’s a connection?” He doesn’t sound quite as skeptical as when they gave me the boot. Maybe he’s realizing he backed the wrong detective.

“It’s hard to say.” I turn to go. “We should know soon enough.”

The files are in my desk drawer. I tuck them under my arm, aware of Bascombe hovering nearby, watching my every move.

“If you do get back a positive match,” he calls after me, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“Sure thing.” I slip down the aisle toward the exit, giving a little over-the-shoulder wave of acknowledgment. When I glance back, he’s still watching, and I notice Lorenz’s head poking above the cubicle wall.

The sign next to the door reads COMPREHENSIVE RISK ASSESSMENT, not Golden Parachute Brigade, but the matching, nick-free furniture and the glossy new computer screens let me know I have arrived in the right place. The suite is compact, just a bullpen flanked by half a dozen enclosed offices, quiet enough that I can hear the rush of air through the registers overhead. A civilian secretary seated near the entrance behind a low-walled cubicle motions for me to halt.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Tony Salazar.”

She unclips her telephone earpiece and saunters over to one of the offices, tapping lightly on the closed door. After a pause, she opens it and leans inside. My story is simple: since I did Salazar a favor over the weekend, cutting loose one of his confidential informants, he now owes me one. I’ve come to see whether his ears on the street have heard anything about the Morales shooting. If in the course of this errand I happen to run across Joe Thomson, so be it. The meeting will have occurred by chance, and he’ll know without my having to say anything that the arrangements he requested have been made.

After a hushed conversation, the secretary returns to her desk, nodding for me to advance. Salazar meets me at the door, enclosing my offered hand in his thick boxing glove of a fist. He’s short but powerfully built, with tight dark curls and a nose that either came out flat or was beaten into that shape long ago. To accommodate his broad shoulders, he’s had to buy a white button-down that billows out around the waist, making his legs look disproportionately small.

He pulls me over the threshold, snapping the door shut behind me. My disappointment must show, but he misinterprets the reason.

“The boss is in,” he says with a shrug. “You two aren’t exactly the best of friends.”

It’s flattering to know that after all these years, Keller still keeps our rivalry alive on his end, long after it has stopped making sense for him to perceive me as a threat. The closed door means Thomson won’t be able to pass by and notice me, but in a small way Salazar’s reason for shutting it makes up for that. Once I’m done, I will just have to make a point of lingering.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, hoisting himself up onto the edge of his desk. Like the area outside, the office is nicely furnished, though a bit on the bare side. Apart from a couple of photos on the credenza, the contents are impersonal to the point of being generic. Whatever work the team actually does, it seems to leave little trace.

“I’m here for a favor.”

He points to his head, then shrugs. “Well, duh. I guess I now owe you one, don’t I? You know that Rios kid never called me.”

“I had a feeling he might not. Trouble there?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

“You know Octavio Morales got himself killed? I was wondering whether, with all your gangland connections, you’d heard any rumors about that.”

“Lorenz caught that one, I heard.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was working it, too, then they pulled me off.”

He smiles. “And you want to show him up, is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

He drums his fingers on the desk in thought. “I do owe you,” he concedes. “The fact is, I haven’t heard anything, and now that I’m on this detail, I haven’t really kept up with my network, apart from the odd informant like that guy the other day. Obviously, I haven’t even kept up with him. But if you want, I guess I could make a couple of calls and see what comes up.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“All right then.” He smacks his hands together, rubbing the palms, then hops off the desk. “Anything drops, I’ll let you know.”