Robert Crais - Free Fall

Margaret Riggens said, “What’d that sonofabitch do now?” Guess she didn’t bother to read it.

I put the license away. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. It won’t take long.”

“Ain’t that what they all say.” She took a final pull on the Marlboro, then flipped it into the front yard and stepped out of the door to let me in. I guess visits by guys like Pete Simmons were an inevitable and expected part of her life.

We went through the living room into an adjoining dining area off the kitchen. The girl who had come in before me was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching Geraldo and reading a copy of Sassy magazine. There was a hard pack of Marlboros beside her and a green Bic lighter and a big clay ashtray that looked like she’d made it in pottery class. She was smoking. Loud music came from the back of the house, but there was a muffled quality to it as if a door was closed. The music suddenly got louder, and a boy’s voice screamed, “I told you to stay out of my room, you little shit! I don’t want you here!” Then the boy came out of the back hall, pulling the younger girl by the upper arm. He was maybe sixteen now, with most of his father’s growth, and she was maybe six. The little girl’s face was screwed up and she was crying. The boy shouted, “Mom, make her stay out of my room! I don’t want her back there!”

Margaret Riggens said, “Jesus Christ, Alan.”

I said, “You’re holding her too tight. Let go.”

Alan said, “Who in the hell are you?”

The little girl was staring at me. “You’re hurting her,” I said. “Let go.”

Margaret Riggens said, “Hey, I don’t need any help with my kids.”

I was looking at Alan and Alan was looking at me, and then he suddenly let go and bent over the little girl and screamed, “I hate you!” He stomped back down the hall and the music went soft as the door closed. The little girl didn’t seem too upset by what had happened. Guess it happened so often she was used to it Probably even a game by now. She rubbed at her arm and ran back down the hall. The music didn’t change pitch, so I guess she went into her own room.

Margaret Riggens said, “These kids,” then stooped down, took a cigarette from her older daughter’s pack, and turned away to sit at the dining room table.

I said, “Maybe it’d be better if we had a little privacy.”

Margaret Riggens used a book of paper matches to light the Marlboro, and put the spent match in a little beanbag ashtray she had on the table. “Is Floyd going to get fired?” Guess the privacy didn’t matter.

“No, ma’am. This is just follow-up on a couple of things.”

“That alimony is all I have. He pays it on time. Every month.”

I took out the little pad I keep in my jacket and made a big deal out of taking that down. “That’s good to hear. The Department frowns on a man if he ducks his responsibility.”

She nodded and sucked on the cigarette. Out in the living room, the oldest girl was sucking on a cigarette, too.

I tried to look sly. “We hear enough good things like that, and it makes it easy to overlook a bad thing. Do you see?”

She squinted at me through the smoke. “I don’t understand.”

I made a little shrugging move. Conversational. “Everybody thinks we’re looking to chop heads, but that’s not true. We hear a guy does right by his family, we don’t want to throw him out in the streets. We find out he’s gotten himself into trouble, we’ll try to counsel him and keep him on the payroll. Maybe suspend him for a while, maybe demote him, but keep him employed. So he can take care of his family.”

She drew so hard on the Marlboro that the coal glowed like a flare. “What kind of trouble?”

I smiled. “That’s what I want you to tell me, Ms. Riggens.”

Margaret Riggens turned toward her older daughter. “Sandi. Shut off the TV and go to your room for a little while, okay?”

Sandi gathered up her things, then went down the same hall the other kids had used. Margaret turned back to me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You and Floyd talk?”

“Maybe once a week. There’s always something with one of the kids.”

“He’s supporting two households, Ms. Riggens. Kids need things. So do adults.”

“Jesus Christ, have you seen where he lives?”

I spread my hands. “Has money seemed a little easier to come by?”

“Ha.”

“Has Floyd maybe hinted around that he has something going?”

“Absolutely not.”

I leaned forward and I lowered my voice. “If an officer crosses the line and someone aids and abets in that crossing, they can be charged. Did you know that, Ms. Riggens?”

She drew on the cigarette and now her hands were trembling. “Are you telling me that Floyd has stepped over the line?”

I stared at her.

She stood up, dribbling cigarette ash. “I’ve had enough with that sonofabitch. I really have. I don’t know anything about this. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about”

“Sit down, Ms. Riggens.”

She sat. Breathing hard.

“I’m making no accusations. I’m just curious. Floyd has a problem with the drinking. Floyd has a problem with the excessive-force complaints. Floyd has money problems. Pretty soon problems become a way of life. You see how these things add up?”

She crushed out the cigarette in the little beanbag ashtray and lit another. The first continued to smolder.

“I’m not accusing Floyd, and I’m not accusing you. I’m just wondering if maybe you’ve heard anything, or noticed a change in Floyd’s behavior, that’s all.”

She nodded. Calmer, now, but with eyes that were still frightened and weak. The look in her eyes made me feel small and greasy, and I wanted to tell her it had all been a mistake and leave, but you don’t learn things by leaving. Even when the staying smells bad.

She said, “He’s been out of his mind ever since that guy died. The past couple of years have been tough, but since then has been the worst. That’s when he went back to the bottle.”

I nodded like I knew what she was saying.

“He was in AA before that, and he was getting better, too. He’d come over sometimes, we’d have dinner, like that.”

“But then the guy died?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, everyone’s still thinking about Rodney King and this black guy dies when they’re trying to arrest him and then the family files a lawsuit and it was awful. Floyd started drinking worse than ever. He was angry all the time, and he’d blow up over the tiniest thing. They told me it was a stress reaction.”

“About how long ago was that?”

She gestured with the cigarette. “What was it? Three or four months?”

I nodded. “Did Floyd feel responsible?”

She laughed. “Floyd doesn’t feel responsible for hitting the bowl in the morning. I thought he was worried about the suit, but then the suit went away and I thought he’d relax. You know those suits cost a fortune. But he still stayed drunk all the time. Eric would call and check on him to make sure he was holding it together. Things like that. Eric was a godsend.” Eric Dees.

I nodded.

“Floyd hasn’t been acting right since then. If he’s gotten himself mixed up in something, I’ll bet that’s why. I’ll bet it’s all part of the stress reaction.”

“Maybe so.”

“That should qualify for disability, shouldn’t it?”

There were about ten million questions I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t ask them without tipping her that I wasn’t from LAPD. I patted her hand and tried to look reassuring. “That’ll be fine, Ms. Riggens. You’ve been a big help, and that will be in the record.”