Practice to Deceive Page 18
Oh, man.
“Ninety days, pal. Ninety days minimum,” the ACA said, holding up nine fingers in case I was confused.
“I was acting within the scope of my employment as a private investigator,” I claimed quickly.
“That’s your defense?”
“It’s the best I can do right now. Give me a few minutes.”
The ACA surprised me by smiling. “Are you always such a smartass?” he asked.
“Only when I’m frightened,” I admitted freely.
The ACA regarded me for a moment. Then he smiled some more. Then he shook his head. Then he said, “You’re not in jail because I already thought out your position in this, and it just might have some merit. And because you did us a favor with your information about the briefcase. It was something we had not considered,” he said, glancing at McGaney and Casper.
“That’s what you get when you take a veteran investigator off the job and replace her with a couple of trainees,” I told him. “These guys, they couldn’t find Canada on a map of North America if you spotted them Mexico.”
I did not look at McGaney and Casper, but I could feel their eyes burning holes in my back.
“There are approximately twenty minutes unaccounted for after Field left his bank,” the ACA said. “We’re trying to determine where he went. Do you know?”
“Levering had a mistress,” I volunteered.
“Crystalin Wolters, age twenty-two, Cathedral Hill Apartments,” McGaney recited behind me. I wasn’t surprised. I was joking when I said they couldn’t find Canada. Sort of.
“My money’s on Amanda,” I announced.
“How much?” McGaney asked, like he was looking to cover my bet.
“Mrs. Field was shopping with her daughter when Field was killed,” Casper said.
“Who says?” I asked.
“Her daughter,” said McGaney.
“And two video cameras at the Rosedale Shopping Mall,” Casper added.
That stopped me for about three seconds. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I figured she paid to have it done, anyway. Michael Zilar.”
“Whom nobody has seen or heard from,” McGaney said.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not out there,” I reminded him.
The ACA was smiling again. “An upper-middle-class woman from St. Paul, outraged that her husband is having an affair, hires a professional killer from Chicago, brings him to the Twin Cities, and has him shoot her husband in her own living room. Is that your theory?”
“It’s done all the time,” I replied.
“Uh-huh. And exactly why did she also have you shot? I forget.”
“I indirectly told her about the affair.”
He continued smiling, adding a head shake.
“Kill the messenger,” I added. “Haven’t you ever heard that phrase before?”
The way he and the detectives looked at me, I had a feeling they weren’t impressed by my deductive reasoning. Truth be told, neither was I. Amanda could have killed me and probably would have gotten away with it, but she didn’t. That had to count for something. I decided to try a new theory.
“Has anyone interviewed Field’s secretary?”
“Penny Portia?” McGaney asked. “She’s clean.”
“Sure of that are you?”
He didn’t say if he was or wasn’t.
“She might have the money,” I volunteered.
McGaney yawned.
“How did you get so smart?” the ACA asked me.
“It’s amazing what you learn just by paying attention,” I answered, trying to bluff my way through.
“Well, pay attention to this. You are not to go near Mrs. Field again. Or her daughter. You are not to contact them in any way. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“You violate the restraining order again and it’s no longer a misdemeanor. Uh-uh. It becomes a gross misdemeanor. I’ll put you away for a year and make you serve every blessed day.”
“I understand.”
“You had better because honest to God, I get another phone call, you are his-tor-y.”
THERE WERE SEVENTEEN messages on my answering machine. A few callers wanted to buy my house or my car or my baseball cards featuring the 1927 Yankees. One was confirming a dental appointment I hadn’t made. Another wanted to thank me for volunteering to go door-to-door to collect money for the Clean Water Act and asked when they could get their materials to me. Five callers had read my file at the dating service and wanted to arrange dinner—all of them were men. A plumber, cable TV technician, and an interior decorator complained that no one had been home to receive them as promised. And a member of a storefront church said he could feel my pain and wondered when he could come over and comfort me.
The tape was rewinding when the telephone rang again. I answered it.
“This is Finnegan Siding. You called about an estimate for your house.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Sir, we have your name and—”
“Listen. I have stucco walls. Why would I want fucking aluminum siding?” I was shouting now.
“Sir, there is no reason to be abusive.”
I hung up the phone. The doorbell rang. I opened the door. A delivery man from a home shopping service stood on the other side, holding a box of groceries.
“Your order, sir.”
“I didn’t order anything! Get away from me! Goddammit!”
I slammed the door. My breath was coming fast. I pressed my head against the wall. “Relax,” I told myself. I’ve always found it easier to control my emotions in a crowd than when I was alone. When alone, it required more effort, somehow. Often, I answered my anger or frustration by shooting hoops in my driveway. Only my wounds wouldn’t permit it. So instead, I stood there, reciting the roster of the 1987 Twins by position: “Bert Blyleven, Tim Laudner, Kent Hrbek, Steve Lombardozzi, Greg Gagne, Gary Gaetti …”
The phone rang again. I let the machine answer it: “Mr. Taylor? This is Hakala Painting and Supplies. You told one of my salespeople that you wanted to paint your house purple? Really? Purple?”
“You sonuvabitch!” I screamed at the machine. “You goddamn, mother-fucking sonuvabitch!”
“I’m going to hold this job order until you call me,” the voice on the machine continued.
IT TOOK ME three trips to deposit my recyclables on the curb. Usually it took only one, but the damn crutches … I wasn’t a happy man, and hobbling back to the house after the third trip, I couldn’t help wondering what mischief my assailants had scheduled for that night. I was shivering when I mounted my front steps. The temperature was dropping along with the sun. That’s when I had an idea.
THE MOON WAS bright. You could read your watch by it and I did. Two-thirty A.M. I stretched and felt the pain of inactivity; it was a pleasure I did not expect. But I enjoyed it only for a moment, and then hunkered down among the lilac bushes that I had allowed to grow fifteen feet tall along my driveway. The air was crisp and cold; my fingers were numb, even in my pockets. I wasn’t wearing gloves so that I could work my gun. But the rest of me was toasty warm in a black-and-gray snowmobile suit and Sorel boots. It felt like old times, running all-night stake outs on various miscreants. Boring and exciting at the same time.
Ten years a police officer, four in Homicide. How many stake outs? Who knows. The memories came back as I sat quietly, watching the few cars that traveled the street where I lived. I remembered my first homicide case. It was the case that turned me into a true investigator. A five-year-old child had been stuffed inside an old refrigerator in the garage by his mother who claimed the child had been abducted from a local playground; who cried herself into a hospital room for fear of his safety while literally hundreds of her neighbors searched the area. That was when I truly became aware of the magnitude of human corruption—of what, as individuals, we are capable of doing. And from that day until this, I’ve accepted nothing at face value. I never assume someone is incapable of anything.
“Freeze!” I yelled just like in the movies, holding the gun unsteadily, my weight leaning on the crutch.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice squealed. The driver was a woman. “For God’s sake don’t shoot.”
“Turn on your flashlight,” I commanded. She did, pointing it at my face. “Get it out of my eyes,” I ordered. “Point it at the ground.” She did.
“You can’t shoot me for this! You can’t shoot me for this!” she repeated.
“What do you want here?” I demanded.
“Your cans. Just your cans.”
“My what?”
“Your cans. Your aluminum cans.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
I started waving the gun around like it was a wand. “Why?”
“For the money. Why d’you think?”
“Shine the flashlight at your face,” I told her. She did. She looked about sixty. Someone’s grandmother.
“For the money?” I asked.
“You know how much aluminum cans sell for in the Twin Cities these days? Eleven hundred bucks a ton.”
“So you go around stealing people’s cans?”
“Well, it’s not exactly stealing. After all, you are throwing them away.”
“I’m putting them out to be recycled.”
“That’s what I’m doing with them.”
“You’re stealing my cans!” I insisted loudly.
“And you’re pointing a gun at me. Which is worse?”
She had me there. I deactivated the Beretta and returned it to the pocket of my snowmobile suit.
“Go away,” I told the woman.
“Sure,” she said, then reached for the grocery bag filled with empty pop cans.
“Leave my cans alone!” I shouted at her. “I catch you around here again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“You know, you have a real attitude problem.”
“Just go away,” I told her.
She moved to the open door of her pickup. “Some people’s children,” she muttered.
“Hey!” I called.
“What?”
“How much do you make doing this?”
“About twelve hundred bucks a week.”
If you live long enough, you’ll see everything. I waved her on, watching her red taillights disappear as she turned a corner, her headlights off. Probably looking to loot someone else’s recycling bins, I decided.
“Twelve hundred a week,” I repeated to myself. “Man, am I in the wrong business.”
I CALLED IT a night and went to bed. When I woke the next morning, my aluminum cans were gone. And a huge white swastika was spray painted across my front door.
SIXTEEN
I HAD TO wait until noon, until the temperature reached about sixty degrees, before I could paint over the swastika. There was a can of brown exterior paint in my basement left over from the last time I painted the doors and trim, but not enough. I had to buy another quart, and even then I ran out—the damn swastika required three coats. I was just finishing when Cynthia arrived. The way she drove into my driveway—fast—and the way she stopped at the top of the horseshoe in front of my door—really fast—startled me, and I instinctively reached for the Beretta. When I recognized my visitor, I hid the gun beneath a rag next to the paint can.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Cynthia informed me even before saying hello. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I took my phone off the hook.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to take any calls.”
“Why didn’t you let your machine pick up?”
“Because I didn’t want to. Is that OK with you, Counselor?” I was angry now. Angry at her. Angry at everyone. But mostly I was angry at the stalker. Why didn’t he show himself?
Cynthia studied me for a moment, gauging my mood. I don’t think she liked what she saw. She took a step backward and folded her arms across her chest, a defensive posture.
“You’re painting your door,” she informed me, just in case I hadn’t noticed.
“It needed it,” I replied, finishing the job with a couple of short strokes.
“You can still see the swastika,” she said.
“No way. Really?”
I backed away from the door and gave it a hard look. She was right. “Sonuvabitch!” I yelled, throwing the brush at the steps, splattering the top step with paint.
“Oh, that was good, that was smart,” Cynthia told me.
“What do you want?” I asked, surprised at how the words spilled out with a snarl. “I told you to stay away.”
“I thought you might need help,” she replied calmly.
“Help doing what? Messing up my life? I can manage that all by myself.”
“I’ll say.”
“I’m not in the mood for visitors, all right?” I said as I bent to the paint stain, trying to wipe it up with the rag, leaning on my left hand, the rest of my weight on my right leg and my left leg straight out.
Cynthia noticed the awkward position and asked how my leg was. She didn’t mention the gun, left uncovered when I grabbed the rag.
“The leg is fine,” I told her sharply.
“How about the rest of you?”
I tossed the rag down, straightened up, and turned toward her. “I’ve been better,” I admitted.
“This guy, this, this—”
“Stalker,” I said.
“He’s giving you a hard time,” Cynthia said.
“Very hard,” I agreed.
“Why? Revenge because of Levering, do you think?”
“I don’t know anymore. I thought I did, but now I’m not sure.”
Cynthia unfolded her arms and moved to the base of the steps. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said as I put the cover back on the paint can, rapping it home with the butt of the Beretta. Cynthia said nothing, and her silence caused me to look back at her.
“It gets worse,” she said.
“What?”
“I received a call from Monica Adler this morning,” she said. “Monica told me that the Field family is filing suit against you for intentional infliction of emotional distress. Jesus, Taylor, you violated a restraining order. What were you thinking?”
“Truth is, I forgot all about the damn thing.”
Cynthia sighed and turned her head away, like a woman who had just discovered that her daughter was dating an idiot.
I sat down. “How much are they asking?” I wanted to know.
“What difference does it make? Whatever it is, you can’t afford it.” Cynthia sat on the step next to me. I scooted over to give her room. “Besides,” she added, “even if it’s only a nickel, Monica said she’s going to make sure that the Department of Public Safety is informed of the verdict. You could lose your license.”
“If they win,” I reminded her.
“They’re going to put a shattered, weeping widow on the witness stand and have her recite all the terrible things you did to her and her family in front of six middle-class jurors who would rather be somewhere else. What do you think is going to happen?”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“What can I do?”
“You can prove Levering Field was a thief; you can prove that you had just cause for what you did.”
“Then they’ll drop the case?”
“No. Then we’ll have a shot at convincing at least one juror that you’re not a sadistic maniac.”
“No problem,”
I told myself, not really believing it. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples with paint-stained fingers. What a headache. “It all seemed like such a good idea at the time,” I said.
“It was never a good idea,” Cynthia countered.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to say it.”
“Say what?”
“I told you so.”
Cynthia didn’t reply.
“I did what I had to do,” I insisted.
“Baloney,” Cynthia told me, making the word sound like one of the more vulgar obscenities. “There were other things we could have done to collect Mrs. Gustafson’s money. Only you had to be clever and cute. You decided that since Levering Field was abusing the system, you would go ’head and ignore it altogether. To hell with the law, to hell with common decency.”
“I don’t need you to tell me I made a mistake.”
“You didn’t make a mistake,” Cynthia reminded me. “Two plus two equals five, that’s a mistake. You made a considered decision. You were going to get the job done; get the job done and not worry how, just like Daddy wanted. Well, you got the job done. And now someone’s doing a job on you. How does it feel?”
I didn’t need this, I really didn’t, Cynthia coming over and telling me what a jerk I’ve been. Hey, I know what kind of jerk I’ve been. And I sure as hell didn’t need her to blame my father for my actions. I’m responsible for my actions. Me and no one else. Yeah, I know all about childhood. Your childhood makes you; the things you learn as a child stay with you always. I understand that. But the things my father taught me, they were all good things, positive things. Honor. Loyalty. Pride. He taught me that a man’s word is his bond. He taught me that winners never quit, and quitters never win. He taught me you do what you have to do.… Ahh, dammit to hell!
“You’re one to talk!” I lashed out. “You’ve lived such a perfect, pristine life, right, Counselor? You’ve never done anything to be ashamed of.”
“What I did, I did to myself!” she yelled back at me. “What you did, you did to someone else.”
“Now I know why you always dress in black and white,” I told her.
“Fuck you!”
“Levering Field was dirty,” I insisted. “He deserved everything that happened to him.”