J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“Yes, I know.”

“-but things have changed for me. I found my faith, Roland, and that really helped me. I wanted to share that with you. I still do. But I’m not going to drag you kicking and screaming-I already tried that, right? And now, with my new job, I’ve found this inner strength I didn’t even know I had. I feel like I’m finally back on course, finally doing what I’m meant to do. And it worries me, baby, because we’re not on the same page.”

Charlotte and I, we’re good at fighting. We have some experience. Inside me I can feel the old anger stirring. This could go in so many directions, most of them bad. If we’re not on the same page, then maybe it’s because she turned hers. I could say that, but I don’t want to.

“We’re not so far apart.”

“In some ways-and this sounds terrible, I know, but in some ways I feel like we’re more apart than we were. We’re living separate lives.”

This hits me like a blow.

She moves her other hand over, clasping mine in both of hers. “Don’t take that the wrong way, baby.”

“It sounds like you’re leading up to something.”

“I’m not. Don’t even say that. But I am worried about you, Roland. I’m not going to hide that. And the thing that prevents me being happy with what’s happening in my life is the fear that, in doing all this, I’m leaving you behind. I’m not-but I’m afraid you feel that way.”

“I don’t feel that way,” I say.

“Baby,” she says, “at least try to sound convincing.”

Her talk has drawn a curtain on the evening, which might have turned out so well. I’m not a big believer in talking. Maybe I’m just weak. Confiding my secrets, even with the woman who’s endured so much by my side, does not come easily. Not that I try particularly hard. Silence does come easy. It’s when I open my mouth that the trouble starts.

But she deserves more than silence.

“I think you’re wrong,” I say, “but I don’t want to argue. You’re happy with the job and that’s fine with me. I’m glad for you. But I miss you, Charlotte. What else do you expect me to say? I wish you were around like you used to be-and I realize how hypocritical that is, considering the hours I work.”

“It is,” she says softly.

“The truth is, I worry about myself, too. Jerry died in my arms. I was covered in his blood, Charlotte, from trying to save him. And you know what? I don’t feel anything. I’m angry, sure, but what else is new? Something like that, it should scar me for life, right? They made me take leave because, given what I’ve been through, I’m supposed to need it. But I don’t. I really don’t. Now, what does that say about me?”

She leans over, presses her lips against my cheek. “It says you’re hurting. You just don’t want to admit it. You think you always have to be strong, but you don’t.”

“I’m not going to let it rest,” I say.

She sits up. “Let what rest?”

“The case. Bascombe told me I have to lay low until the Internal Affairs investigation blows over. He seems to think that if I do, they’ll eventually drop it. Think about that. If I go after the people who killed Jerry, then I’m in trouble-”

“The man who killed Jerry is already dead.”

“-but if I let it go, then I can move on with my career. And I get a vacation, too. A reward for looking the other way.”

“I’m sure that’s not what Bascombe meant.”

“The reason I’m telling you is, I want you to be prepared. I’m not planning to leave the job, but they might kick me to the curb all the same. And then we’ll buy a shiny silver Airstream and drive to Santa Fe like a couple of old-timers, because I’ll finally be ready to shake the dust of this city off my shoes.”

She likes the sound of this and lets me know. We go inside, pulling the back door closed, and the hem of her sundress is already in her hands, and she’s not thinking anymore about the possibility of my hurting myself.

But she should be.

According to the plaque, eleven thousand gallons pour over the sixty-four-foot-high Water Wall every minute, crashing down in sheets onto the angled steps below. To approach, you pass under a gabled archway “reminiscent of an ancient Roman theatre stage.” (That spelling of theater makes me smile.) The landmark fountain went up around the same time as Philip Johnson’s Transco Tower, which looms nearby, and ever since it’s served as a backdrop for countless tourist snaps and wedding portraits. I remember Mack Ordway once saying that the ideal Houston suicide would consist of a dive off the Tower culminating in a face-plant before the Water Wall. In addition to a death wish, you’d need a set of wings to cover that distance. But gazing up with the massive fountain at my back, it almost seems possible.

I pace along the edge of the water, letting flecks of cool water dissolve on my face. It feels good in the morning heat. Apart from a couple of office workers in shirtsleeves and loosened ties eating breakfast burritos under the gables, I’m alone for the moment. I gaze upward at the slice of sky framed by the top of the circular wall, the voluminous edge of a smoke-white cloud backed by the clearest of blues.

“You’re here early.”

I turn at the sound of Bea Kuykendahl’s voice, barely audible above the roar of the water. She wears jeans and a cotton blazer to cover her gun. A gust of wind agitates the short blond spikes of hair into a temporary ridgeline.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” I say. “I’m on an involuntary vacation.”

“I see you’re still strapped.” She nods at my own jacket.

“I’m still a cop, after all.”

She has to get close for us to hear each other without shouting. It would be too strange, standing face-to-face, so we end up side by side, gazing into the water with our backs to the outside world. I have a feeling I know why she chose this as a meeting place. It would be hard to get good sound if you were trying to listen in. Maybe she thinks I’m wired. Maybe she thinks one or both of us might have been followed here.

Or maybe I’m letting my imagination run free.

“When you told me NCIC spit out a match on Brandon,” she says, “I didn’t believe you at first. I had to double-check it for myself.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. The only reason I brought you into this is because I expected. .” Her voice trails off. “My information was different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I thought the whole point was that you saw we were looking for a match with your undercover agent. We got it, so you had to intervene. If you could rig the results so that the cover story was confirmed-”

“You really think I have that kind of power? A special agent at the Houston Field Office?”

“Maybe,” I say.

After doing a little checking, I’ve come to have a new appreciation of Bea Kuykendahl. Her age and appearance are deceptive. According to my sources, she’s something of a prodigy, wielding more influence in the world of Gulf Coast criminal intelligence than I would ever have imagined. Her latest assignment included carte blanche when it came to picking her own personnel and putting them into action.

“I’m flattered, but really, that’s not even funny. What I’m saying is, I had information that the computer would come back with Brandon’s real identity.”

“Who says it didn’t? Everything about this guy checks out.”

Everything but the main thing, namely, the link between Brandon Ford and the headless corpse left in the shadow of Allen Parkway. But I say nothing about that. I’m here to get information, not dole it out.

“You’re making a fundamental mistake,” she says, cutting off my objection with a flick of the hand. “Listen to me. You’re assuming that if somebody’s undercover, then the story will be flimsy and won’t check out. If it was thrown together at the last moment, then maybe. But exactly how far back did you really go?”