J Bertrand - Back on Murder

“You should transfer out of there,” I say. “Come to Homicide. You could hack it up here, Theresa.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She heads for the door. “I’ll be honest. I think I’d rather be hunting for the victims, not the killers. It’s better for the soul.”

Aguilar sees her going and stands. Lorenz does, too. By the time she makes it out, the whole squad is on its feet, even Bascombe leans through his open door.

“I’ll miss that one,” the lieutenant says.

Aguilar nods. “She’s a good one.”

But I don’t have time for sentiment. I grab the phone, start dialing the number, slumping in my chair as it rings and rings.

“Hello?”

“You’re a patient kind of man,” I say, “the kind who likes to sit and watch a place for hours on end. Isn’t that right?”

After a pause, Carter Robb answers in the affirmative. He’s already proven himself, staking out James Fontaine like he did.

“You said you wanted to do something this time.”

“I do,” he says.

He knows Rios, has seen him up close. He won’t mistake someone else for him, the way a uniform working from a photo and a physical description might. “Well I have something, assuming you’re still interested.”

“I am.”

“We aren’t giving up,” I tell him. “That’s the main thing.”

And just like that, I set Robb loose on the street, another set of eyes. I give him the list from Coleman, give him my home number, and tell him that in the unlikely event he catches sight of Rios, he should call me right away.

“It’s a wild goose chase, I realize that. But it’s better than nothing.”

“I’m on it,” he says, then hangs up.

When I put the phone down, there’s a warmth running through me. I like this kid. I haven’t misjudged him. Just like that, he’s taking up the task. What I’ve just done, it’s wrong. It’s outside the bounds. But I don’t regret it, not even a little.

Charlotte returns from Dallas looking tan and rested, with a canvas tote full of new clothes and a determination to see the last of our tenant. While he’s out in the suburbs winging his way through one of the many community college classes he teaches for extra money, she and Ann pack up the sleeping bag and dirty clothes and men’s magazines he’s littered around the living room in her absence, boxing everything neatly, then climb the stairs and do the same thing in the garage apartment. Thanks to the neighbor’s chain saw, the roof is free of tree limbs, so they work in the heat beneath the rustling blue tarp, so focused they barely speak. My offers of help are uniformly rejected. Clearly the sisters cooked up a strategy on the drive home.

“I’m not sure this is entirely kosher,” I say. “Tommy has rights here as a tenant.”

Charlotte hardly glances up. “Don’t worry.”

She’s gotten tired of waiting for me and has taken matters into her own hands.

Just as they finish carrying all the boxes down to the driveway, leaving nothing upstairs but the furniture, a moving van pulls up to the front curb. Ann gives instructions while Charlotte watches, a contented smile on her lips.

“It wouldn’t be right,” she says, “to expect a tenant to live in conditions like this, and there’s no telling when the insurance will pay up. Finding him another place is the decent thing to do, Roland. Anything else would be irresponsible.”

“Shouldn’t he get a say, though?”

“His dad pays the rent, and I’ve already talked to him.”

“You have? When?”

Her smile widens. She has been busy, very busy during her absence. The thought of Tommy’s reaction worries me a bit, but it’s a relief to have the old Charlotte back, in control of her life once more, the refractive, toxic influence of the anniversary finally in abeyance. I put my arm around her bare shoulders, squeezing her tight, as the movers head up the stairs to do the heavy lifting.

“Go up and change,” she says, brushing her hand on my suit jacket. “We’re all going out to dinner when Tommy gets home.”

“Dinner? All right then.”

In the bedroom I peel off my work clothes, changing into jeans and a short-sleeved pullover, leaving it untucked over my backup gun, a slim Kahr K40. My mobile phone rings, a number I don’t recognize.

“Mr. March? It’s Gina Robb. I’m sorry to bother you, but – ”

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering… have you seen my husband? It’s just, he’s been out looking, you know, and he didn’t come home last night – ”

“Out looking for what?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.

“That man. The one who killed Hannah.”

“He’s up to his old tricks,” I say, trying to make light of the situation. “I told him when he staked out James Fontaine’s house to leave it alone. I figured he’d learn his lesson.”

“Well, he hasn’t. He thinks he has to do something. No matter how many times I tell him it’s not his fault, no matter how much he’s already done – and he’s done a lot. No offense, but I don’t think anyone’s done more than him. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he does can bring her back – either of them, Hannah or Evey.”

“And he’s not answering your calls?”

“I’m afraid. Either something’s happened to him or… he’s done something.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch.”

“If you hear from him – ”

“I’ll make sure he calls you.”

Once she hangs up, I dial Robb’s number. Charlotte, who’s come inside with Ann, interrupts her conversation to call up the stairs. As the phone rings I tell her I’ll be down in just a second. Robb answers.

“I just got a call from your wife,” I say. “She’s worried that you didn’t come home last night, and you’re not answering her calls.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Listen, Carter. I wouldn’t have given you that list if I didn’t think you’d be cool. You’re freaking out, and that makes me worry.”

“I’m not freaking out,” he says.

“It’s going to take more than that to reassure me.”

“I’ll call her. I was stupid. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were out all night?”

“I couldn’t leave. I had a feeling he was gonna show up. Every time I’d put the key in the ignition, I’d know the moment I left he was gonna be there. So I couldn’t do it.”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I say. “I’ve made a string of bad calls lately, so I guess this is just the latest. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. But look, it’s time to pull the plug.”

“Not yet.”

“It’s time,” I say. “You’ve spooked your wife, and you’re starting to spook me, too. So let’s put an end to it, all right? I appreciate your help. You made a real difference. Without you, we wouldn’t have put this case down. You’ve done good work, okay? It’s time to let yourself off the hook.”

“Not yet.”

“I understand you feel responsible. Get over it. This isn’t your load to carry. You’re absolved, all right? So go home to your wife.”

He’s quiet a long while, long enough for me to picture him. Not in a church van but in his own car – I’ve already lectured him about that – a mess of fast food wrappers and water bottles on the floor, his worn out little Bible on the dashboard or across his lap, so he can read and pray and watch all at once, convincing himself his freelance surveillance has some kind of religious significance. I recall his eagerness when I first made the offer, like a starving man invited into the bakery. I should have known right then what I was doing was wrong.

“Carter?”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go home.”

“You promise? I’m going to call Gina later, so if you don’t – ”