C Corwin - The Cross Kisses Back

“Which you should have,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later we were still waiting and Aubrey was hissing the f-word again.

Another police car pulled in. Its lights were not blinking. The two officers conferred for a minute or two, then strolled side by side to Aubrey’s car. “Would you please step out, Miss McGinty?” the newly arrived officer said. “You too, ma’am.”

We got out. The friendly chubby officer gave Aubrey her license and registration and retreated to his car. We were alone with the new officer.

We recognized him immediately. It was 3rd District Commander Lionel Percy. He was not a tall man but he was muscular. He was wearing his hat but you could see around his temples that his head was shaved. His uniform was impeccable, as if he’d just taken it out of the dry-cleaning bag.

“How lucky can a man get,” he said, “the famous Aubrey McGinty running red lights in my district.”

“Let me guess,” Aubrey answered. “You’re going to put the fear of God in me.”

“It is good to fear God,” he said.

Aubrey smiled and tucked her fingers under her arms defiantly. “Especially when he’s in uniform?”

“Cute,” he said.

“And so are you,” she said, trumping him again.

I could see the frustration in Percy’s eyes. He’d undoubtedly been waiting for this chance to intimidate Aubrey for weeks. Her stories on the police reorganization plan, and then on his district’s prostitution problem, had caused him a lot of grief with the mayor and City Council. And now he had her trapped in an abandoned gas station, on a dark empty night, and lo-and-behold, she was giving back better than he was giving. He must have been going nuts inside.

Percy tried again. “You know Miss McGinty, I’ve been a police officer in this city longer than you’ve been alive-”

“Which ought to bring you pretty close to retirement age,” Aubrey said.

“-and I’ve suffered through my share of newspaper reporters. Squeaky clean white kids from the suburbs. For you, the inner city is just a place to play make-believe. Write about all the shitty things the degenerate city people do to each other. Prove your moral superiority. Make mama and daddy proud. Win a bunch of journalism awards you can roll up and diddle yourself with.”

“That’s pretty much why I do it,” Aubrey said.

“Write what you want, Miss McGinty. The mayor’s going to howl and the council’s going to squeal, and the chief’s going to salute and click his heels. But nothing’s going to happen. Lionel Percy is, and will remain, commander of the 3rd District. And you’ll be left dangling out there all alone, lots and lots of people mad at you.”

Aubrey slowly opened her car door and leaned on it. Even leaning she was taller than Lionel Percy. “And you won’t come riding to my rescue? How disappointing.”

I hurried around to my side of the car. Our doors slammed at the same time. Aubrey put the key in the ignition and closed her eyes. “Please start,” she said.

The Escort did start and we chugged away. “Now wasn’t that something,” Aubrey said coolly. Her long legs were shaking.

Monday, July 3

Aubrey started calling Marysville at a quarter to eight Monday morning. She was hoping that some efficient soul in the warden’s office would pick up the phone before starting time. She did not want Tish Kiddle talking to Sissy before she did.

At three that afternoon she was still trying to get past the voice mail. At five she finally spoke to a real live person and made her request for a visitation.

TV 21 did a follow-up story on its six o’clock, news. Tish had nothing new, just old footage of Buddy Wing staggering backward into the fake palms. “What are the police saying?” anchorman Bill Callucci asked Tish as she stood in the empty parking lot at the Heaven Bound Cathedral. “Well Bill, in an exclusive interview with TV 21, Hannawa Police Chief Donald Polceznec told us exclusively that his department has no plans to reopen their investigation-at this time.”

“So they might reopen it in the future?” asked anchorwoman Jamie Stokes.

“That’s clearly a possibility,” Tish answered.

“And you’ll keep us posted?” Bill Callucci asked.

“Will do,” answered Tish.

Tish’s lazy reporting delighted Aubrey. Tinker, too.

Aubrey’s story for Tuesday reported that while police stated publicly they had no immediate plans for reopening the case, the Herald-Union had learned that Chief Polceznec had asked the department’s top homicide detective Scotty Grant to review Tim Bandicoot’s statements to see if a further investigation was warranted.

Tuesday, July 4

Having to wait out the holiday drove Aubrey crazy. But actually it was something of a blessing. It gave her a long, uninterrupted day to start writing her series. I spent the day at home, weeding and napping, and after the sun went down, listening to the dogs in the neighborhood bark every time some damn kid lit a cherry bomb.

Wednesday, July 5

After a long day of furious writing and frustrating phone calls, Aubrey finally heard from the prison. “Sorry,” the woman in the warden’s office said. “Sissy James does not wish to see you at this time.”

Aubrey went immediately to Tinker, who immediately took her upstairs to see Bob Averill. An enormous decision had to be made. Should the paper go ahead with a full-blown series as planned? Without Sissy’s admission that she didn’t kill Buddy Wing? Or would it be wise to scale things down? Run a story here and there? Over the months pile fact upon fact like a many layered Dobosh torte, until the police were forced to reopen the case?

During their meeting, Bob excused himself on the pretense of having to use the restroom and called me in the morgue. “This is very important, Maddy. When you went with Aubrey to Mingo Junction-you personally heard Sissy’s cousin say that she was there all weekend?”

“I was standing right next to Aubrey,” I said.

“You’re absolutely sure? We could look awfully foolish if our journalistic ducks-”

“They’re in a row, Bob.”

“So, you’re sure?”

“Good gravy, Bob.”

So the decision was made. We’d still go with the full-blown series, starting on the following Wednesday. That would give Aubrey one week. If she got through to Sissy James, good. If she couldn’t, then we’d go with what we had.

Thursday, July 6

I put in an extra hour at my desk doing nothing then drove home. I covered a frozen chicken patty with bottled spaghetti sauce and Parmesan cheese and baked it in the oven for fifteen minutes. I poured a warm can of Squirt over a tumbler of ice cubes. I had my dinner on the back porch, watching what I hoped were rain clouds rolling in from the west. My lawn and flower beds desperately needed a soaking.

I felt so alone sitting there. And angry at myself because I did.

I’d lived by myself since 1963, when Lawrence and I divorced. The first few years were terrible but I got so used to being alone that little by little I convinced myself I liked it that way. Now Aubrey McGinty had sucked me into her life. She’d filled my evenings and my weekends. She’d filled my head, and I suppose even my heart, with a sense of adventure, a feeling of family.

I took my tray into the kitchen and checked the cupboard to see how many tea bags I had left. I had enough for six months. I drove to Ike’s for more.

“Morgue Mama,” he sang out.

“One for here, Ike, and a couple boxes for the road.”

I was still there at nine when the rain hit. When Aubrey’s little white Escort pulled to the curb.