City of Saviors, page 21
My eyes stung with tears and something heavy lifted from my heart.
She pulled me into a tight hug, then kissed my forehead. “I mean every single word.”
“I know,” I said, “and thank you, but I really need to go.”
She cocked her head. “But . . . we’re having breakfast. Why are you acting surprised?”
I attempted to smile. “Because I am.”
“You shouldn’t be. I told you we were coming over today.”
I shook my head. “No.”
Mom and Martin considered each other with exasperation. Mom’s lips thinned before she said to me, “Elouise, you and I agreed last week, and then, on my last text message, I said, ‘see you Saturday,’ and today is Saturday, sweetheart.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and found her last text. My cheeks numbed—there it was. “Oh. Yeah.”
Martin wandered over to the wall where I’d hung my Medal of Valor and framed commendation. “Really proud of you, Elouise. Georgie, you gonna . . . ?”
Mom cleared her throat and forced a smile to her lips.
A flare shot through my heart and pierced my soaring lightness. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did Victor Starr—?”
“No,” Mom said, shaking her head. “Nothing like that.”
Martin picked up the bottle of Cabernet from the coffee table that Lena had enjoyed before dinner back on Tuesday. He walked it to the kitchen, and placed it into the recycle bin with the other empties.
“Sounds like a lot of bottles in there,” Mom said with a nervous laugh.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“But you’re the only one living here,” she said. “How many bottles—?”
“Lena stays over a lot,” I said. “Like she stayed over Tuesday night. And sometimes, Colin . . .” Couldn’t complete the lie—Colin didn’t even drink wine.
“I know you and the girls enjoy your reds,” Mom said, “but you guys really need to slow down. You’re not the same as before the accident.”
“It’s just four empties, sweetheart,” Martin said even though he gave me the Dad Eye.
Mom pointed to the roller-ball bottle of Icy Hot and the tubs of Advil and Tylenol on the coffee table. “You have an entire pharmacy in your living room. Are you still in a lot of pain?”
“Not really. They’re just sitting there. I haven’t had—”
“Elouise, do you really take me for a fool?”
“I haven’t cleaned up in a while,” I explained. “But when I do pop pills, I don’t chase them with wine. The 2010s ain’t cheap, so I drink Everclear and liquid crystal meth.”
Mom pointed at me. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“And don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of addict,” I shouted. “Yes, I take meds every now and then, but I—” I been clean now a whole week. In that movie, I was now Bernice Parrish’s crackhead buddy.
Mom rolled her eyes. “I guess I am a fool. You couldn’t even remember that we were coming over today.”
“That’s because I’m busy,” I explained. “Not because I’m high or drunk. You know what I do for a living—regular interactions can be distracting and all-consuming.”
Mom held her hands to her lips, prayer-style. “Every time I visit you, I notice more bottles of wine and more medications. Every time I visit you, you look worse.”
I snorted, then folded my arms. “Thanks, Mom. That helps.”
“Roll your eyes if you want,” she said, “but you look like hell. And it’s because of your accident, yes—”
“Mom, listen—”
“No,” she snapped, then pointed at me. “You listen. I did not raise you to be . . . this. Despite our horrible situation, I raised you better than—”
I raised my arms. “Can I get a break, for once? I’m just getting back to normal—”
“You’re far from normal,” Martin said.
I glared at him, then turned back to my mother. “I just got divorced. I just moved here—”
Mom was shaking her head. “I refuse to let you do this.”
My shoulders slumped, and I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Do what?”
She didn’t respond.
“Do what?” I asked, louder this time. “Tell me how I’m disappointing you. Tell me how I’m ruining my life.”
She clamped a shaky hand over her mouth. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she was too pissed off to cry.
Martin rubbed the small of my mother’s back. “We just don’t want you—”
“Is this any of your business, Martin?” I wanted to laugh—because now, I sounded like a fourteen-year-old. My life had become an ABC Afterschool Special.
“I know I’m not your father,” Martin said, “but I don’t want you—”
“ODing on Tylenol?” I asked, blinking. “I don’t have time to stand here and discuss my imaginary substance-abuse problems. If you want the truth, I’m not taking enough drugs because I don’t wanna be a fucking stereotype. If you wanna know the truth, I wish I could take as much Vicodin and Percocet as I want and without judgment from anybody because hurting every day is bullshit. But I can’t, okay? And yet, I still lose because here we are.”
Tears rolled down my mother’s cheeks, and that made me shut up.
Martin pulled Mom into his arms, and whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
My feet had grown roots into the carpet. Helpless and horrified, I stood there, pulse pounding, watching my mother cry as though I already lay beneath dirt and sod.
Not wanting to look at her, I looked everywhere else. At the last unpacked box. At the Pop-Tarts’ silver wrapper on the breakfast counter. At the empty wine bottles in the recycle bin. There were no crack pipes or heroin-tinged aluminum foil scraps on blood-spotted, vomit-stinky carpet. The guns in my leather holsters were legal. The drugs in my system? Prescribed, and I’d denied myself their curative goodness for weeks and weeks. And I hadn’t had sex in ohmylord, don’t know how long. So why did I now feel like a pissed-off crack ho in my $700,000 beachside condo? Why was my mother crying?
Mom pushed away from Martin. “I think that we, as a family, must address this. You, me, Tori, your father—it’s all related. I haven’t said anything to you about my worries because you’re an adult.”
I snorted again, then closed my eyes.
“But I’m saying something now,” Mom said, “before it’s too late.”
“Too late for . . . ?” I asked.
Her eyes found mine. “I wasn’t the best mother sometimes. I know that. Between your father leaving and your sister . . . That’s no excuse. I should’ve been more present. When Greg was acting up, I shouldn’t have insisted that you work it out.” She squared her shoulders, then said, “I’m so sorry, Elouise. For everything.”
She needed to say these things. I had waited for her to say these things. But not at seven in the morning. Not after having a night with no sleep.
A woman in white pants. A man in leather thongs. A drunk, meth-head cop carrying a Glock . . . Eugene Washington was doing better than all of us.
She dabbed her wet face with a napkin she’d plucked from the breakfast counter. “We will go to family counseling. We’ll go together. You are an adult—you can say no, but I think this is important.”
With weak legs, I wobbled before her. “Whatever you wanna do, Mom.”
She nodded as she stroked my hair. “I’ll find us help, okay? We’ll get you—us—healthy and happy again.” Her stroking my head had scraped the new scab on my scalp. I clasped Mom’s hand in mine, and the pain caused by her touch eased . . . but not completely. “Whatever you want, Mom. Whatever you want.”
I’d say anything to stop the pain.
34
AS I BUCKLED THE SEAT BELT IN THE PORSCHE, THEN STARTED TO CRY AGAIN FOR NO reason, I should’ve climbed back out of the car. When the world turned fuzzy and flames crunched at so many parts of me, I should’ve taken my black ass back into the house and called somebody—Mom, Lena, the mayor—to help me.
I didn’t.
I just . . . sat. And cried. And burned.
Outside, the sun had gone from glow to psychedelic blister. Everything glinted—chrome car bumpers, windowpanes, the surface of the lagoon—and no one seemed to notice. Joggers trotted around the water. Old people moved slowly with dog leashes or canes. Toddlers waddled in front of their mothers.
Didn’t they see? Couldn’t they feel that?
“Make it stop,” I whispered, not even sure what ‘it’ was but knowing that whatever ‘it’ was left me weak, achy, and so tired.
So . . . tired . . . so . . .
My iPhone caw-cawed from the ashtray.
I jerked in my seat, then wiped drool from my cheek.
The phone played Colin’s ringtone again. That noise pierced my skin, now as thin as rice paper.
I’d fallen asleep.
“You coming in or what?” Colin asked.
“Yeah.” That one word sounded strained, too try-hard. “Had a hard time sleeping. Well, I didn’t sleep. Oh. So, I’m also late because my mom and her boyfriend stopped by thinking it was the best time for an intervention.”
I told him about the greeting card, the worrying clink of empty wine bottles, and the cocked eyebrows at the pill vials. “She started crying,” I said, “then asked if I’d go to family therapy and church with her.”
“And you said . . . ?”
“I told her okay just to get out of there.” I sighed. “So, what’s happening?”
“They’re starting the actual dig this morning.”
“I know.”
“It’s cooled down some,” Colin said, “so we’ll be able to get some work done.”
“I’m in the car, Taggert. Relax—the fuckery will still be going on in twenty minutes.”
The Porsche’s dashboard clock claimed it was now a little past nine o’clock and ninety-one degrees.
I’d spent two hours sleeping in my car, still buckled up in the driver’s seat, head flung back, mouth open, spit flowing back to my ear, dentist-visit style.
Thanks to the nap, I didn’t feel as fragile as a chipped teacup—but I still felt . . . fractured. Like that broken-necked seagull I had flung into the Pacific Ocean just hours ago.
“You got this, Lou,” I whispered. “You got this. You’re good. It’s cool.”
Sure.
I landed at my desk close to ten thirty, the latest I’d clocked in since voting on Election Day 2008 and standing at my polling place in a line that snaked all the way to Zanzibar. And I just . . . sat there, staring at my computer monitor, thinking about nothing, caring about less.
The shifty-looking crackhead bleeding all over the carpet? The weeping babymomma collapsed near the water cooler? Didn’t care. So what?
Colin was staring at me. Then, Pepe’s and Luke’s eyes joined his from their desks.
I still didn’t care. I was okay with just sitting, letting them look.
My partner tossed his LAPD Koosh ball at me. “You okay over there?”
I forced myself to smile. “Umhmm.”
Luke and Pepe came over to Colin’s desk. “She okay?” Pepe whispered.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Colin whispered.
“You should tell her—”
“I can hear you,” I said, staring at the computer monitor. “And I can still talk. See how I’m talking?”
“Lou, are you okay?” Luke asked, his brow furrowed.
“Yes. I am okay.”
No, I wasn’t. Half of me lay on the beach and the other half sat in the car, and dribbles of me dotted the asphalt like spilled gravy between the two locations. And my stomach growled—I’d fed it nothing even though Mom and Martin had brought me bagels and fixings.
“Is AFIS back up?” I asked.
Luke said, “Not yet.”
The red voice-mail light on my phone was blinking. When did I get a call? I winced as I jabbed the button to listen to the message.
“Detective Norton.” A deep voice boomed from the phone’s speaker. “Good morning. This is Oswald Little. Isaac Underwood told me to give you a ring.” He had a lilt and rhythm in his voice, more “gud maanin” than “good morning.”
Colin had grabbed his notepad and rolled over to my desk.
“My mother passed last week,” the man was saying, “and I been down here in Belmopan since June, just to be wit’ family. I’m still shocked that my old friend Gene has passed. I’ve known him for a long time. I wish I could make it for the services, but no. It takes great effort for me to travel anywhere—I’m sure Ike’s told you of my condition. As far as my hands are concerned, blame it on adventurous eating in Seoul. A dish didn’t agree wit’ me. I got so very, very ill, and then I had a decision to make. So: off wit’ my hands and feet. But the Lord, He continues to bless.”
In his world, the ocean crashed against the shore, and children shrieked as they splashed around in water.
“I’ll be down here for another month or so,” the man said. “Takin’ care of family business. Hope that’s not a problem. You can call me if you must, but Ike—he can tell you everything you need to know.” He rambled off his phone number with the country code 501 for Belize, then bade farewell.
Colin leaned back in his chair. “Whatcha think?”
I shrugged. “How do we know that’s actually Oz Little?”
“Guess we don’t.” He placed his hands behind his head, then studied the cork ceiling. “But how do we find out for sure? Ask him to FaceTime or Skype? I’m down for a trip to Central America, if you wanna go.”
“That’s an option. Here’s another.” I grabbed the receiver, then flipped in my notebook to yesterday’s entries. “Let’s ask someone who’s had his ear talked off by Mr. Little and would know his voice.”
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Rodney Riley sat in my guest chair. The mason—an emergency room physician in his other life—looked crisp in his blue scrubs and spotless white Adidas. His eyes were closed as he tried to listen to the voice mail for the third time over a weeping woman shouting, “He ain’t done nothin’, I swear, he ain’t. I put that on my babies!”
Colin and I held our breath and watched Riley tilt his head and bite his lips.
The voice-mail recording ended with Oswald Little reciting the same phone number Ike had offered me last night.
Riley opened his eyes, then shook his head. “Nope. That’s not him.”
Colin and I exchanged glances. “How can you tell?” he asked.
Riley chuckled. “Oz’s favorite saying is, ‘Sleep wit’ yo’ own eye.’ ”
“Which means?” I asked.
“Rely only on what you know for sure, not what other people tell you.” Riley pointed to the phone. “And this guy, he’s telling you to do the opposite. That you should trust in what this fellow Ike says. And Oz’s voice isn’t that deep. And then, there’s the accent—Oz is Belizean, you know.”
I cocked my head, then said, “This caller had an accent. Plus, Oz has lived in America for decades now. He may have—”
“No. I’m telling you: Oz’s accent is thick,” Riley said. “Even living here and picking up our speech pattern, he still sounds like he got off a plane from Central America—maybe not two days ago but a week ago. This guy . . .” He pointed to my phone. “This guy sounds like an American who vacationed in Belize for a week. Trust me: whoever called you? He ain’t Oz.”
35
COLIN NAVIGATED A BLEACHED-OUT BUT STILL BUSTLING KING BOULEVARD. WE didn’t talk much during the drive—every time I uttered a word, my teeth rattled in my head, and the whites outside the car got whiter. I needed to bank all my wits and strength to simply exist today. I needed silence.
But the radio crackled and calls filled the cabin.
. . . shots fired.
. . . suspect is a black male . . .
. . . stabbing . . .
. . . suspect is a Hispanic woman . . .
Colin turned down the volume.
I looked at him, then laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“We’re dressed the same today.”
He gazed down at his gray slacks and black polo shirt, then at my gray slacks and black shirt.
“We’re twinsies,” he said.
“It’s just like high school,” I said.
“Except with more guns.”
I smirked. “What high school did you go to?”
A block away from Eugene Washington’s house, we heard the jackhammer breaking through concrete. Colin smiled. “What’s her face and the big white girl must be thrilled with us.” His grin widened.
“You’re a little overjoyed that our efforts are disturbing the peace, huh?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “But once we find Jimmy Hoffa in Washington’s basement, their property values are gonna skyrocket.”
“We’re not gonna find Jimmy Hoffa,” I said, “cuz Gene Washington ate him.”
“That’s just . . .” Colin shuddered. “What . . . ? How . . . ?”
“The Donner party. Those guys in the plane crash in the Andes . . .”
“But that’s desperation,” Colin said. “That’s eat or die. Washington—”
“Ate people when there’s soul food less than a mile away?” My phone rang—Bernice Parrish. I didn’t answer because I knew what she wanted. And her voice-mail message confirmed that she wanted her gold.
Patrol officers had set up sawhorses at the intersection before the house. Lookie-loos had camped out with cameras and curiosity. Two news crews had parked, and both reporters scribbled notes into their little pads.
After being waved through, Colin rolled past a criminalist van, a coroner’s wagon, patrol cars, and LAPD trucks loaded down with heavy equipment.
My nerves were Christmas-morning giddy, seeing all this activity surrounding my case. “Man, I hope there’s a body in there somewhere.”
Colin threw the car into park. “If we don’t find anything, I’m blaming the dog.”
A plastic blue tarp now covered the entrance to the open garage. Men in khakis, work boots, and face masks waited in the corner as workers shoveled rubble from a spot that had been taped off. White light from portable stands illuminated the dusty air.
