C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

“As much as I can be,” I said.

“I mean now. I’m just down the street, and I can see two cruisers at your house.”

“Oh that,” I said. “We invited the deputies in for Thanks-giving. Why don’t you come, too?”

I knew Cody had no place to go except his cop bar, where they put on a spread for single, divorced, and on-duty officers.

“Are you kidding?” he said.

“No. Come on-we’ve got plenty of food.” I looked to Melissa, mouthed “Cody,” and she nodded emphatically. She seemed to be enjoying this. She took a long drink from a glass of what looked like orange juice.

“Can I bring somebody?” Cody asked sheepishly.

“Of course you can. Who is she?”

“If only,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Torkleson. Can I bring him along? I guess his wife and daughter are in California.”

“The more the merrier,” I said. “Melissa loves cooking for a herd of cops, don’t you, honey?”

“Oh yes,” she said loudly enough Cody would hear.

Cody said, “Give me a half an hour.”

I closed the phone and walked over to the stove to look inside some of the pots. “Smells good,” I said to Melissa.

“Considering the eclectic mix of stuff you guys brought home, it’s the best we can do,” she said.

I reached behind the micro wave and pulled out a half-full bottle of vodka.

“Since when do we keep this on hand?” I asked. Melissa had always been a “glass of wine with dinner” kind of woman. The last time I’d seen her with a drink was back in college, and even then she didn’t appear to really like it.

She looked stricken that I’d found the bottle.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m just a little surprised you felt the need to hide it.”

“You must be joking,” she said. “I wouldn’t leave it out in the open. What would everybody think?”

“They’d think we’ve had a really wicked month,” I said.

“When you go to bed I sometimes come down here in the kitchen,” she said. “I have a drink or two and try to figure out what we did to deserve this. Sometimes I take my drink upstairs and just sit by Angelina’s crib and look at her and cry. Sometimes I come in and look at you, too. The only thing I can come up with is that we’re cursed.”

“No,” I said, “we’re being tested.”

“Then I guess I’m flunking the test.”

“Not at all,” I said, brushing her cheek with the back of my fingers.

She asked me, “Are we disintegrating?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I PAUSED for a moment before going back into the family room and looked through the angled slats on the kitchen door at Sanders and Morales. Both had their backs to me and were preoccupied with Angelina and the football game.

I thought: I could knock them out from behind, and we could gather up our daughter and get in the Jeep and go.

The kitchen was filled with heavy objects I could use- cast-iron skillets and pots, a rolling pin somewhere, that damned big mixer. For a few seconds my heart raced as I envisioned the scenario. I’d hit Sanders first because he was the closest, then go after Morales before he could stand and draw his gun. But knocking them out? I winced. That only happened on television and in the movies. What if the blows just opened up gashes, and one or both cops remained conscious?

No, I thought, the only way to ensure our escape would be to take them out. I glanced over my shoulder at the block of knives. That Santoku knife was sharp, substantial, and seven inches long. I could slit Sanders’s throat and go for Morales’s neck to cut it open or, if necessary, plunge the blade into his temple or heart. That might be possible, I thought. But could I do it in front of Angelina? Would she scream and be forever scarred?

That’s when Sanders gathered Angelina up and sat her on his lap. And Melissa said, “Jack, could you go get the leaf for the table?”

CODY SHOWED UP with Torkleson, a baked ham, and a case of beer.

In the kitchen I whispered to Melissa, “What safer place for an accessory to a qua druple homicide to be than at a dining table surrounded by policemen?”

She said, “I don’t find that funny.”

MELISSA THREW HERSELF INTO preparing the meal. The glass of vodka and orange juice that always seemed to be full explained at least a measure of her vivacity. She clucked at me again for our odd choices of canned food and the fact that we had enough beer to serve a battalion. Cody and Torkleson seemed to get along well with the two deputies, and the four of them talked shop, their voices getting louder as they drank more and more beer. I felt ashamed for my murderous thoughts, and for a while had trouble looking Sanders and Morales in the eye.

Finally, Melissa announced to all of us that dinner was ready, and we shambled in and took our places at the table. Melissa said a prayer, and I glanced up to see all four men with their heads bowed.

As for me, I wasn’t on very good terms with God just then.

THE TALK AT THE table turned inevitably toward the multiple homicides at the Appaloosa Club last night. I could feel my heart start to beat harder, but I feigned uninformed interest and kept my head down. The one time I looked up, Cody and I exchanged a fleeting glance.

Torkleson said, “If I hadn’t traded shifts with McCoy and Scruggs, it would have been my case. Those poor guys. The mayor is all over us because of the Eastman murder, and now this. Man, the heat those guys are under.”

“Any ideas who did it?” Morales asked.

Torkleson shrugged. “Some blond chick says she was there. She told the Scruggs it was a single shooter-a huge hairy guy with a beard and a long coat.”

Meaning Garrett Moreland had not talked to the police, just like before. Either he was scared, or he had something serious to hide. I recalled how calmly he had sat there at the table cradling the mug in his hands when Jeter approached him and called out his name.

“Bullshit,” Sanders said, then acknowledged Angelina in her high chair. “Sorry,” he said to Melissa.

Torkleson agreed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. One guy doing all that? It’s hard to believe. I don’t know if the blonde is credible at all. She says the big hairy guy just pulled a shotgun out of his coat and started blasting.”

Morales said, “She says this big hairy guy just let her leave? Her and nobody else? Come on…”

Torkleson said, “She claims she thought her friend was right behind her out the door, but it turns out her friend was one of the victims. Shot three times in the chest.”

“A big hairy guy?” Sanders said. “Sounds like she’s been watching too many movies. This thing has ‘gang’ written all over it.”

Cody nodded. “You’ve got that right.”

Torkleson said, “That’s what we’re thinking, too. Two of the victims were local leaders of Sur-13. It’s like somebody was trying to cut the head off that beast, probably the 32 Crips or Varios. Maybe the Crenshaw Mafia, who are gangster Bloods-we’ve heard they’re moving in from Southern California. No way this was random. It was a power play. And get this: One of the shooters used a ten-gauge shotgun. That’s serious hardware. I thought those guys stuck to nines and the occasional AK-47.”

But they didn’t get Garrett, I thought. I wondered just how deep Garrett was involved with the gangsters. Then I thought: He could be a leader, too. It could have been a meeting. That made me think differently about Garrett.

“A ten-gauge. Jeez,” Morales said. “I bet that made a mess.”

Torkleson said, “From the photos I saw, well…” He glanced over at Melissa, who was rapt but very pale. I’d not told her any of the details of what had happened in the Appaloosa Club, only that things had gone horribly wrong, and Garrett got away. She looked at me, trying to read me.