Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

He dressed in the living room. He knew he should probably shower before leaving; if Rebecca wasn’t busy, she might get close to him before he could get into the shower at home. And she’d smell what he’d been up to.

Battaglia pulled his shoe on over his sockless foot. She might ask him about that, too. Still, a missing sock was easier to explain than the scent of another woman’s sex on him. If she caught a whiff of that-

“Fuck it,” Battaglia muttered. So what if she did? Maybe he wanted her to. Maybe that would push things in the direction he wanted them to go-irrevocably toward divorce. He knew Rebecca could forgive him many things, but he was pretty certain that screwing around on her wasn’t one of them.

He pulled the front door shut behind him. Out of habit, he checked to ensure it was locked. Then he turned and trudged toward his Chevy.

He headed home, already rehearsing the lie he might have to tell. Which one would it be this time?

I got popped with a late burglary call with a ton of evidence to put on the books.

I had to back up a day shifter on a late domestic violence situation.

The sergeant had me babysitting a natural DOA until the detectives sent someone from Homicide to confirm.

Or how about: I used to be the star third baseman and you were the brain. Now I’m the star patrol officer, but you’re getting way too smart for me with this poetry and college classes and shit, so I decided I’d start fucking my coworker B.J.

Maybe he should just tell her. They weren’t a good fit anymore. They’d grown apart. She didn’t excite him. Whatever. It wasn’t like divorce was the worst thing that could happen. Hell, he knew a dozen guys on the job who’d been through it. Women, too. It was a bear at first, and there was a considerable financial hit, but people survived it. Kahn was living proof-he had at least three ex-wives.

Battaglia frowned. Now he was comparing himself to Kahn? That was a sad day.

Besides, what about the kids? He thought of Maggie and little Anthony. The idea of hurting his kids made his stomach tighten. But plenty of kids went through it, didn’t they? It wasn’t like he was moving to Turkey or something. Divorce might not be good, but it wasn’t death. He could see them on the weekends. Hell, he might end up being an even better dad than he was now. And he was sure B.J. would-

No. Battaglia stopped. He might be able to talk himself into believing that he and Rebecca weren’t right for each other. He might even be able to find a way to believe that falling into bed with B.J. was inevitable or excusable. But he would never even try to convince himself or anyone else that getting a divorce was somehow going to be a good thing for Maggie or Anthony.

The image of two badly burnt bodies lying on the grass outside of the house on Grace sprang unbidden to mind. He clenched his jaw but couldn’t force it from his mind.

Is that what he was doing to his family? Setting the house on fire? Burning up a life that they all shared?

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Or why he was doing it.

Before he knew it he was pulling into his driveway. He turned off the engine and sat in the truck, staring at the white house with its dark trim. He remembered how excited Rebecca had been when they found it. “This is our home,” she’d said. “This is where we’ll grow old together.”

He didn’t think much about the statement when she made it. It was just some mushy chick thing for her to say. But now Battaglia shook his head. She probably believed it, but he doubted her prediction would come true now.

The whine of a garage door opener kicked in and the white door rose slowly. Rebecca’s green Subaru backed out. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Little Anthony’s hands reached into the air above him. That made Battaglia smile. The little guy loved the garage door opener.

Rebecca spotted him in the driveway and stopped. She pressed the button and rolled down the passenger window. “Hey,” she said, smiling.

“Hey.”

“You’re home late,” she said.

He looked for suspicion in her eyes, but found none. “Late call,” he said.

She seemed to accept his answer, giving him an easy nod.

“Where’s Maggie?” he asked, not seeing her in the Subaru.

“Having some Grandma time,” Rebecca said. “Mom’s taking her to Riverfront Park to go on the carousel and feed garbage to the mechanical goat.”

It was Battaglia’s turn to nod. “Where are you going?”

“Grocery shopping. You need anything?”

He shrugged. “Maybe some beer.”

“Already on my list.Anything else?”

He thought about it and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll probably already be asleep,” Battaglia said.

“I figured.” She gave him a sly smile. “But if you’re still awake when the Great Bambino here goes down for his morning nap…”

Guilt stabbed him in the gut. He forced a weak smile. “Yeah, sure,” he said.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Yeah sure?” she repeated. “Jeez, Anthony. Don’t sweep me off my feet or anything.”

“Sorry,” Battaglia said. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Well, then, get some sleep,” she said, her tone turning brisk. “I’ll see you later.”

“Rebecca-” he started to say, but she pushed the button to roll up the window. He didn’t bother trying to talk through the glass. He kept staring at her as she backed out of the short driveway and onto the street. Then, as she pulled away, she gave him a little wave.

All is forgiven, he thought. That’s what her wave meant. She probably wouldn’t check to see if he was still awake come nap time, but she wouldn’t be mad at him when he woke up, either. He knew that because he knew her.

Battaglia started the truck and pulled it into the garage. In the bedroom he undressed, mixing his clothes in with all the other dirty clothes in the hamper. Then he climbed into the shower.

By the time he got out, sleep was gnawing at the edge of his consciousness like a gray mist. He settled into bed, trying to push away thoughts of Rebecca, burning houses, or hairless porcelain dolls lying on the grass. It didn’t work. So instead he thought about B.J. The memory of scents and sensations from just a couple of hours ago invaded his mind, and he carried them with him into an uneasy sleep.

1549 hours

Katie MacLeod rubbed her tired eyes. She glanced up at Renee, who was engrossed in a police report, probably her hundredth of the day.

“Do you really do this all day, every day?” Katie asked.

Renee smiled without looking away from the report. “It’s the only way I know to do good analyst work.”

“How do you remember all this stuff?”

“I only remember the important things,” Renee said.

“How do you know what’s important?” Katie asked, motioning at the huge stacks of police reports. “There’s a ton of information.”

Renee paused, crinkling her brow. “I guess I don’t rightly know how. Things sort of jump out at me, I suppose. I read through the reports and things just seem to… connect somehow.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Katie joked.

“It’s not magic. Or if it is, you could do it, too.”

“I don’t have this kind of brainpower,” Katie said.

Renee shrugged. “I think it’s the same way you know when a suspect is lying even though you can’t prove it just yet.”

Katie considered. “Yeah, okay. But it’s still a special knack, what you do.”

“Thanks.” Renee pointed at the stack in front of Katie. “Now get back to reading.”

Katie chuckled. “A stern taskmaster, too, huh?”