Michael Connelly - The Poet

"Let me check. And watch that mouth. You don't have to get so testy."

He watched her get up. She wore a short black tube skirt that embarrassingly displayed a network of varicose veins running down the back of her thighs. He realized he had no idea how old she was, a used-up thirty or an over-the-hill forty-five. It seemed that when she bent over to get her purse out of a lower file drawer, she was intentionally giving him the view. She came up with the purse and dug around in it for change. While the large black bag swallowed her hand like an animal she looked at him through the glass with appraising eyes.

"See anything you like?" she asked.

"No, not really," Gladden replied. "You got the change?" She pulled her hand out of the maw of the bag and looked at the change.

"You don't have to be so rude. Besides, I only got seventy-one cents."

"I'll take it."

He shoved the dollar through.

"You sure? Six of it is pennies."

"Yes, I'm sure. There's the money."

She dropped the change into the slot and he had a difficult time getting it all up because his fingernails were bitten away to nothing.

"You're in room six, right?" she said, looking at an occupancy list. "Checked in a single. Still by yourself?"

"What, now is this twenty questions?"

"Just checking. What are you doin' in there alone, anyhow? I hope you're not jerkin' off on the bedspread."

She smirked. She had gotten him back. His anger boiled up and he lost it. He knew he should keep calm, not leave an impression, but he couldn't hold back.

"Now who's being rude, hmmm? You know what you are, you are fucking disgusting. Those veins running up your ass look like the road map to hell, lady."

"Hey! You watch your-"

"Or what? You kicking me out?"

"Just watch what you say."

Gladden got the last coin up, a dime, and turned to walk away without replying. Out on the street, he went to the newspaper box and bought the morning edition.

Safely back inside the dark confines of his room, Gladden dug through the newspaper until he found the Metro section. The story would be here, he knew. He quickly scanned through the eight pages of the section and found nothing about the motel murder case. Disappointed, he guessed that maybe the death of a black maid wasn't news in this town.

He tossed the paper down on the bed. But as soon as it landed a photograph on the front page of the section caught his attention. It was a shot of a young boy on his way down a sliding board. He picked the section back up and read the caption that went with the photo. It said that swing sets and other children's amusements had finally been replaced at MacArthur Park following the long period of their removal while a subway station construction project caused the closure of most of the park.

Gladden looked at the photo again. The boy on the slide was identified as seven-year-old Miguel Arax. Gladden wasn't familiar with the area where the new park was located but he assumed that a subway station would be approved only for a low-income area. That meant most of the children would be poor and with dark brown skin like the boy in the photo. He decided that he would go to the park later, after taking care of his chores and getting situated. It was always easier with the poor ones. They needed and wanted so much.

Situated, Gladden thought. He knew then that getting situated was his real priority. He couldn't stay in this motel or any other, no matter how well he had covered his tracks. It wasn't safe. The stakes were constantly rising and they would be looking for him soon. It was a feeling not based on anything other than his gut instinct. They would be looking soon and he needed to find a safe place.

He put the paper aside and went to the phone. The smoke-cured voice that answered after he dialed zero was unmistakable.

"This is, uh, Richard… in six. I just wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I was rude and I apologize."

She didn't say anything and he pressed on.

"Anyway, you were right, it's getting pretty lonely in here and I was wondering if that offer you sort of made before was still out there."

"What offer?"

She was going to make it difficult.

"You know, you asked if I saw anything I liked. Well, I did, actually."

"I don't know. You were pretty testy. I don't like testy. Whatcha got in mind?"

"I don't know. But I've got a hundred bucks to make sure it's a good time."

She was silent for a moment.

"Well, I get outta this dump at four. Then I got the whole weekend. I could come over."

Gladden smiled but kept it out of his voice.

"Can't wait."

"Then I'm sorry, too. About being rude and the things I said."

"That's nice to hear. See you soon-oh, you still there?"

"Sure, baby."

"What's your name?"

"Darlene."

"Well, Darlene, I can't wait till four."

She laughed and hung up. Gladden wasn't laughing.

In the morning I had to wait until ten before Laurie Prine was at her desk in Denver. By then I was anxious to get on with the day but hers was just starting and I had to go through the greeting and questions about where I was and what I was doing before finally getting to the point.

"When you did that run on police suicides for me, would that have included the Baltimore Sun?"

"Yep."

I assumed it would have but had to check. I also knew that computer searches sometimes missed things.

"Okay, then can you run a search of the Sun using just the name John McCafferty."

I spelled it for her.

"Sure. How far back?"

"I don't know, five years would be good."

"When do you need it by?"

"Last night."

"I guess that means you're going to hold."

"It does."

I listened to the tapping of keys as she conducted the search. I pulled the Poe book onto my lap and reread some of the poems while I waited. With daylight coming through the curtains, the words did not have the same hold on me as the night before.

"Okay-whoa-we've got a lot of hits here, Jack. Twenty-eight. Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"Uh, no. What's the most recent?"

I knew that she could scan the hits by having just the headlines print out on her screen.

"Okay, last one. 'Detective fired for part in former partner's death.' "

"That's weird," I said. "This should have come up in the first search you did. Can you read me some of that?"

I heard her tap a few keys and then wait for the story to be printed on her screen.

"Okay, here goes. 'A Baltimore police detective was fired Monday for altering a crime scene and attempting to make it appear that his longtime partner had not killed himself last spring. The action was taken by a departmental Board of Rights panel against Detective Daniel Bledsoe after a two-day closed hearing. Bledsoe could not be reached for comment but a fellow officer who represented him during the hearing said that the highly decorated detective was being treated with undue harshness by a department he had served well for twenty-two years. According to police officials, Bledsoe's partner, Detective John McCafferty, died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on May 8. His body was found by his wife, Susan, who first called Bledsoe. Bledsoe, officials said, went to his partner's apartment, destroyed a note he found in the dead detective's shirt pocket and altered other aspects of the crime scene to make it appear that McCafferty had been killed by an intruder who had grabbed the detective's gun. Police said'-Do you want me to keep reading, Jack?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

" 'Police said Bledsoe went so far as to fire an additional shot into McCafferty's body, striking him in the upper leg. Bledsoe then told Susan McCafferty to call 911 and he left the apartment, feigning surprise when he was later informed that his partner was dead. In killing himself, McCafferty had apparently already fired one shot into the floor of his home before placing the gun in his mouth and firing the fatal shot. Investigators contend that Bledsoe attempted to make the death appear to be a murder because Susan McCafferty stood to receive a higher amount of death, health and pension benefits if it could be proved her husband had not killed himself. However, the scheme unraveled when suspicious investigators interviewed Susan McCafferty at length on the day her husband died. She eventually admitted to what she had watched Bledsoe do.' Am I reading too fast? Are you taking notes?"