Kovacliska - Dust To Dust Part 4

"They just broke the window?"

"And rummaged through the junk mail on the front seat." "You're sure it was junk? No credit card statements? No cell phone bill? Nothing like that?"

"Nothing like that." "Didn't touch the stereo."

"What's to touch? I drive a Saturn. It's got a radio. Who would want it?"

Speed frowned. "I don't like that they didn't take anything."

"Me neither." She pulled the junk drawer open and dug around for a roll ofduct tape. "I wish they had taken the car. The engine light is coming on. Withmy luck, it has some terminal illness.""You working anything that someone might want to find you?" he asked, comingto the counter where she stood compulsively folding the trash bag into thesmallest square possible.Liska thought of Neon Man, and Cal Springer, and IA, and the um orm Ogden andtwo dead cops. She shook her head, looking down at the bag. "Nothing special."He's standing too close, she thought. I don't want him that close. Nottonight."I hear the ME ruled on your IA guy," he said. "Accident, huh?" Liska shruggeda little and fingered a frayed piece of tape. "The insurance pays out thatway.""You think something else?""Doesn't matter what I think. Leonard says it's closed.""It matters if you're going to keep digging on it. What are you thinking? Thathe bought it because of an investigation? You think some rotten cop lynchedhim? That's pretty f.u.c.king out there, Nikki. What could be going on in theMinneapolis PD that would push someone that far off the ledge?"106 T A M 0 A Q"I don't think anything:'she said impatiently. "And I'm not in on what goes onin IA. It doesn't matter anyway. The lieutenant signed off on it.""So it's closed," he said. "You're out of it. That's gotta be a relief.""Sure," she said without conviction. She could feel him watching her, waitingfor what she wasn't saying."Nikki ..." There was frustration in his voice, and maybe a little longing. Maybe morethan a little. Or maybe she just wanted to think it. He touched her chin andshe looked up at him, holding her breath. Many things about their relations.h.i.+phad turned sour in the last few years, but never the physical aspect. He hadalways-and to her eternal despair, probably would always-excited herphysically. Chermistry didn't care about jealousies or rivalries orinfidelities. "Are you guys gonna kiss?""R.J."' Liska said as Speed exhaled heavily. "You don't ask people questionsEke that. It's rude." so? He hadn't quite rubbed all the camo paint off his face. She bent down andkissed a smudge on his forehead."So I love you," she said. "Time for bed." "But Dad-""Was just leaving," she said, giving Speed a pointed look. Rj. scowled. "Youalways make him leave.""Come on, Rocket," Speed said, scooping R.J. up and over his shoulder. "I'lltuck you and tell you about the time I busted Bi1g a.s.s Baxter."Liska watched them leave the kitchen, part of her wanting to follow. Notbecause she wanted to give any impression they had a normal family life. Shewanted to follow because she was jealous of the rapport Speed had with theboys.That didn't seem a healthy thing to indulge. No more than her need forher ex-husband's touch. She picked up the duct tape and garbage bag and went out the kitchen door,glad for the slap of cold night air."How stylish," she muttered as she taped the bag over the brokenout window.Nothing like a little duct tape to cla.s.s up a car.The neighborhood was quiet. The night was clear and crisp with a sky fill ofmore stars than she could see from this spot in the city. Her neighbor on thisside of her house worked for United Way. On theD U S T T 0 D U S T 107 other side was a couple who'd been with 3M for a collective thirtysome years.

None of them had ever seen a dead guy hanging from a rafter. Standing in the middle of the neighborhood, Liska felt suddenly alone, set apart from normal humans by the experiences she had had and would have. Set apart tonight by violence that had been directed at her.

Someone she didn't know and couldn't identify had her address. She looked down the driveway to the street. Any car going by ... Any pair of eyes watching from the dark ... Any strange sound outside her bedroom window ...

Vulnerability was not a familiar or welcome feeling. It went through her and over her like the chill of an illness. The antic.i.p.ation of fear. A kind of weakness. A sense of powerlessness. A sense of isolation.

She wanted to kick someone. "Alone at last."

Liska startled and spun around, voice recognition coming a split second before she came face-to-face with the source. "Dammi't, Speed! How have you lived this long?"

"I don't know. I expected you to kill me a long time ago." His grin lit up the dark.

"You're lucky I wasn't holding a gun," she said. "I'm probably still lucky you're not holding a gun."

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of the old jacket he was wearing and dug out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He fired one up. "I wouldn't shoot you now," she said. "I want this mi ght to be over.

If I shot you, I'd have to be up till dawn with the arrest and the booking and all of that. It's not worth it."

"Gee, thanks."

"I'm tired, Speed. Can you say goodnight now?"

He took a long pull on the cigarette and exhaled, looking down the driveway to the street as a dark nondescript sedan crept past and kept going. Liska watched it out of the corner of her eye and pulled her coat tighter around her.

"You'll call someone and get that window fixed tomorrow?" Speed said, flaking ash off his cigarette as he gestured toward her car.

"I'm on the phone mentally, even as we speak." "'Cause that garbage bagjust screams white trash." "Thanks for your concern over my safety."

"You're the mother of my children."

T A M.

0 A 0.

"That speaks volumes about my judgment, doesn't it?"

"Hey." He looked straight at her and flicked the cigarette on the snow. "Don't say you regret the boys."

Liska met his gaze." I don't regret the boys. Not for half a heartbeat." "But you regret us."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked wearily. "It seems a little late for remorse and bargaining, Speed. Our marriage has been dead a very long time."

Speed pulled his keys out of his pocket and sorted out the one he needed.

"Regret's a waste of time. Live for the moment.You never know which one will be your last."

"And on that cheery note . . ." Liska turned toward the house.

He caught her by the arm as she went past. He was thinking he might try to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension of his body.

But she didn't want it, and she supposed he could see and feel that too.

"Take care, Nikki," he said softly. "You're too brave for your own good."

"I'm what I need to be," she said.

He found a sad smile for that and let go of her. "Yeah. Too bad I was never what you needed."

"I wouldn't say never," she said, but she didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the ground.

She didn't watch him walk away, but she watched him back out the driveway and

turn onto the street. She stood there until the red glow of his taillights wasa faded memory. And then she was alone again, she thought as she stared at herpatchwork car window. Or so she hoped.She went up the back steps and into the house. She locked the door and turnedout the light. And as she retreated to her bedroom, alone, a dark sedan rolledpast on the street . for the second time. D U S T T 0 D U S T 109 C H A P T E R ANDY FALLON'S HOUSE was a dark spot in the neighborhood, the only glow thereflection of the neighbor's porch lights off the yellow police line tape thatcrossed the front door. Kovac detached the tape and let himself in with the key.There was always alingering sense of violation about a house that had been gone through by acrime scene unit.The place had been probed and examined and trooped through bya dozen or more strangers, without the blessing of the homeowner. Personalitems had been touched, the sanct.i.ty of privacy raped. judgments had beenpa.s.sed, remarks made. All of that seemed to hang in the air like a sour smell.And yet Kovac tried to return to a home after'the fact if it was possible, towalk the rooms and get a feel for who the victim had been before he or she hadbecome a corpse.He started with the living room, with the Christmas tree-a Fraser firdecorated with small clear lights and a red bead garland. It was a beautifultree that had the smell of fake pine scent. Kneeling, he checked the tags onthe few wrapped gifts, noting names. Most were from Andy Fallon, yet to bedelivered to Kirk and Aaron and Jessica ... He would cross-reference the first names against Fallon's110 address book and try to get a line on the friends. He would do the same withthe Christmas cards that filled a basket on the coffee table. Moving on to the entertainment center, he scanned the tides on the spines ofthe videotape ca.s.settes. Miracle on 34th Street. Holiday Inn. It's a WonderfulLife--a movie that began with a man wanting to kill himself, but concludedwith all the usual nauseating sap of a Hollywood happy ending. No angel namedClarence had saved Andy Fallon from his fate. In Kovac's experience, there wasnever an angel around when you needed one.He pa.s.sed through the dining room on his way to the stairs. The room appearedunused, as most dining rooms were.The master bath at the head of the stairs was loaded with the usual a.s.sortment of stuff a man needed on a daily basis.There were no towels in the hamper. Ifthere had been, the towels could have been checked for hairs and body fluids,the detritus sent off for DNA comparisons. If Fallon's death had been an.o.bvious murder--or ruled a murder-he could have had the crime scene peopleclean the drain traps in the sinks, checking for hairs. In his experience,that kind of trace evidence never made a case, but it was always welcomed bythe prosecutors as more rocks in their pile. But this case was officiallyclosed, and no one would be fis.h.i.+ng pubic hairs out ofAndy Fallon's bathtub.A brown prescription bottle of Zoloft sat on a shelf in the medicine cabinet.Antidepressant. Dr. Seiros. Kovac noted all pertinent information and left thebottle on the shelf. Beside it was a bottle of Tylenol and one of melatonin.No Ambien. The smell of death lingered in the bedroom over a layer of room freshener.Theroom had been dusted for latent prints, and a fine, ashy residue was leftbehind on the dresser and nightstands. Other than that, the room was as neatas a new hotel room. The blue spread was smoothed impeccably over thefour-poster. Kovac peeled it back at one corner. Clean sheets. Unlike hisfather, Andy Fallon had no piles, of soiled clothing, no jelly jars with halfan inch of evaporating whiskey. His closet was neat. He folded his underwear and matched his socks in the dresser drawers. On the nightstand beside the bed was a hardcover book about a young man'sill-fated trek into the Alaskan wilderness. Probably depressing enough towarrant an extra Zoloft or two. In the drawer was a -Walkman, half a dozentapes for relaxation and meditation, aD U S T T 0 D U S T couple of honey-lemon cough drops. The table on the other side held an arrayof squat ivory candles in a hammered metal bowl. Matchboxes from variousrestaurants and bars were in the drawer with a bottle of K-Y personallubricant. Kovac closed the drawer and looked around the room and thought ofAndy Fallon.The good son. Fastidious. No trouble. Always striving to excel. Keeping hissecrets tucked away in metaphorical drawers and closets. On the dresser wasthe same photograph Mike had smashed in his fit of grief. Andy's graduationfrom the police academy. Tucked back in a corner, out of harm's way. A memoryAndy Fallon had preserved and refreshed every day of his life, despite thestrain between him and his old man. Sadness ran down through Kovac like a slow rain, draining energy. Maybe thiswas why he'd never tried harder to be something beyond a cop. He'd seen toomany families torn like rotten drapes. Ruined by unrealistic or unrealizedexpectations. No one could ever let well enough alone. It was human nature towant more, to want better, to want what was out of reach.He filled his lungs with air and paused as he started to leave the room. Thefaint scent of stale cigarette smoke caught his nostrils. From his ownclothes, he thought at first, then tested the air again. No. It was a scentbeneath a masking scent. A woodsy air freshener over burnt tobacco. Faint b.u.t.there. There were no ashtrays in the room. No half-empty packs. He hadn't seen anyevidence of a smoker in any other part of the house. The crime scene peopleweren't allowed to smoke at a scene. . Steve Pierce was a smoker. Kovac thought again of his impression that Piercehad something heavy sitting on his chest. He thought of the doe-eyed Ms.Daring.His attention turned back to the bed. Neatly made. Clean sheets. Hadn't evenbeen sat on. Didn't that seem strange? Fallon had been found hanging just afew feet from the bed with his back to it. It seemed to Kovac a man mightprepare the scene for his suicide or for a s.e.x game, then sit down to think itthrough before putting his head in a noose.He went and stood in the spot where Fallon's body had been hanging and checkedthe distance to the bed. Only one or maybe two small steps apart. He scowledat his reflection in the full-length mirror. Sorry.112 T A M The word was still there. They had found the marker that had probably beenused to write it. Nothing special. A black Sharpie permanent marker left lyingon the dresser. Kovac made a mental note to call and ask about fingerprints onit. They had made a ten card of Pierce's prints Tuesday in the kitchendownstairs-for elimination purposes. Standard op. Pierce hadn't been happyabout it. Because he knew his prints could be found in this bedroom? On thefront of the nightstand drawer with the K-Y lube in it? On a bedpost? On themirror? On that black Sharpie?It wasn't a tough scenario to put together: Pierce and Fallon were secretlovers who liked to play on the dark side. The game went wrong, Fallon died,Pierce panicked. Or maybe it wasn't as innocent as that. Maybe Fallon wantedPierce to make a conirmitment and dump the fianc6e. Maybe Steve Pierce hadseen his cushy future at DaringLandis circling the drain as Fallon threatenedto expose him. Maybe Steve Pierce had come backTuesday morning to check his tracks, then called the cops and put on the face of the shocked best friend.He took one last look around the bedroom, then headed back downstairs. In thekitchen, he checked the cupboards for prescription bottles. None. Nor werethere any used gla.s.ses on the counter. The dishwasher had been run with half aload: three plates, some silverware, an a.s.sortment of gla.s.ses and coffee mugs.Two winegla.s.ses. Off the kitchen,a washer and dryer sat in an alcove behind apair of louvered doors. Inside the washer: towels and sheets, molded to thesides of the tub. Either Andy Fallon had wanted his house in order before he died or someoneelse had wanted it in order afterward. The second possibility made Kovac'snerves hum. There were two bedrooms on the main floor, down the hall from the stairs tothe second story.The smaller was a guest room that held nothing of interest.The larger had been converted into a home office with a modest desk,bookshelves, and a couple of filing cabinets. Kovac clicked on the desk lampand went through the desk drawers, careful to see but not to disturb.A lot of cops he knew kept old case files. He had a bas.e.m.e.nt full himself Ifthere was a G.o.d, Andy Fallon would have kept a duplicate file on hisinvestigation of the Curtis murder. If he had, chances were goodv he wouldhave it filed under C like a good little a.n.a.l retentive IA automaton.D U S T T 0 D U S T 113 The first of the file cabinets held personal financial information and taxreturns. The second was the jackpot drawer. Neatly orderedI in manila folders, the tabs marked with last names printed i careful blockletters followed by eight-digit case numbers. None bore the name Curtis. NoOgden. No Springer.Kovac sat back in Andy Fallon's desk chair and let it swivel and dip. If theCurtis investigation had been Fallon's obsession, there should have been afile. The file cabinets hadn't been locked. Anyone could have pinched thething and walked off with it. Grgden came to rmind, though he didn't seem asthough subterfuge would have been among his strengths. Busting concrete blockwith his forehead, yes. Clever sleight of hand, no. But then, there was notelling who might have been in and out of the house between Fallon's death andthe discovery of his body.There was too much time unaccounted for, too manypeople in the neighborhood who minded their own business.He played angles and odds in his mind, trying to scheme a way to get at theactual IA file, but nothing good came to mind. Every path was blocked by thelovely Lieutenant Savard. He couldn't get to the file without her, and she hadno intention of letting him past her guard. In any respect.He could see her plainly as she had looked standing beside the desk in heroffice. A face right off a Hollywood glossy from the days of black-and-whiteand Verom*ca Lake. And he somehow knew that what lay beneath those looks was amystery worthy of any of the great detectives, real or fictional.That drew himin as much as the looks. He wanted to slip in the secret door and find outwhat made her tick. "Like you got a shot, Kovac," he mumbled, amazed by and embarra.s.sed at himself"You and the IA lieutenant.Yeah, that could happen." It struck him then, as hewasted time with thoughts of a woman hecouldn't have, that there was something rmissing from Andy Fallon's desktop.There was no computer. The printer cord with its wide, multi-pinned connectorlay there like a flat-headed snake, its other end J oined with an ink-Jetprinter. Kovac checked the drawers again, finding a box of blank diskettes. Hepulled the drawer with the case files and found that each folder contained adiskette. He went to the bookcase and found, in the collection of instructionmanuals for phone/fax, for printer, for stereo equipment, a manual for an IBMThinkPad laptop computer.

"So where is it?" Kovac asked aloud. 0 A G As he considered possibilities, a sound pierced his consciousnesssharp,electronic, coming from another part of the house. A beep followed by thecreak of a floorboard. He flicked off the desk lamp, plunging the room intodarkness. His hand went automatically to the Glock in his belt holster as hemoved to the door, waited for his eyes to adjust, then slipped into the hall.Out of habit he had turned out the lights as he left each room during hissearch. Not wanting to attract attention from the neighbors. The only lightnow was muted and white, coming in through the gla.s.s panes in the front door.Enough to backlight the figure of a person.Kovac pulled the Glock and leveled it in his right hand, located the halllight switch with his left.The figure near the front door lifted a hand close to the face. Kovac held hisbreath, waiting for the click of a trigger."Yes, it's me," a man's voice. "I'm at the house. I-" "Freeze! Police!" Kovacyelled, hitting the switch.The man started, letting out a cry, eyes going wide, then squinting againstthe light, free hand coming up as if to ward off bullets. A tinny voicesquawked out of the cell phone in his hand."No, it's all right, Captain Wyatt," he said, slowly lowering his free hand.The cell phone was still pressed to his ear. "Just one of the city's finest,doing his job-"Kovac took a good long look at the man before him, keeping the Glock outbecause' he was p.i.s.sed now and wanted to show it. He recognized the face fromthe party. Mr. Too Handsome with the black hair and the smell ofAce Wyatt'sa.s.s on his breath. "Hang up the phone," Kovac ordered crossly. Too Handsome stared at him. "But.i.t's-" "Close the G.o.dd.a.m.n phone, Slick.What are you doing walking in here?This is asecure police scene."Wyatt's man clicked the little phone shut and slipped it into the inner breastpocket of an expensive charcoal topcoat. "Captain Wyatt asked me to meet himhere.You might think that would be reason enough-""You might think wrong, Slick," Kovac snapped, coming forward, gun still inhand. "I could have blown your pretty head off. You never heard of adoorbell?" "Why would I ring the bell at a dead man's house?" "Why would you come here atall?" D U S T T 0 S T "Captain Wyatt's on his way with Mike Fallon. Mr. Fallon has to select burialattire for his son," he explained, using the kind of tone one might use onignorant hired help. "I work for Captain Wyatt. Gavin Gaines is my name, incase you get tired of calling me Slick."The smile was a little too self-amused, Kovac thought. Collegeeducated p.r.i.c.kswere his least-favorite kind. "Should I a.s.sume the position?" Gaines asked, hands out at his sides. Outsidea car door slammed. "Don't be a smarta.s.s." Kovac slid the Glock back into its holster. "Like youcan help it.What exactly do you do for Captain America?" "Personal a.s.sistant,public relations, media liaison. Whatever he needs."Translation: toady, gofer, suckup."He needs you to help get Mr. Fallon in the house," Kovac said, going to thedoor and opeming it. "Or win that muss the look?" Gaines gritted the perfectteeth. "Like I said, whatever he needs. I live to serve."It took the two of them to negotiate the steps with Fallon, Mike hanging onthem, deadweight. Worse than when he had been drunk, Kovac thought. Grief had somehow increased his body ma.s.s; the desperation of it had sapped his strength. Ace Wyatt brought the wheelchair.

"Sam, I hear you nearly took out my right hand here," Wyatt joked. Mr.

Congeniality "If you're paying him per brain cell, he probably owes you some change back,"

Kovac said. "He's a little short in the commonsense department."

"What makes you say that? It's not as if Gavin was walking into a crime scene.

He had no reason to expect anyone to be here.Why are you here, by the way?"

"Just doing the usual walk-through," Kovac said. "Looking for pieces."

"You know Andy's death has been ruled an accident:' Wyatt said in a hushed tone, his gaze on Mike Fallon sitting slumped in his wheelchair. Gaines stood farther into the room, waiting with his hands folded in front of him and a thousand-yard stare going off in the direction of the Christmas tree. A look he'd probably picked up watching actors play Secret Service agents in the movies.

"So I heard," Kovac said. "That was big of you, Ace, moving things along the way you did."

Wyatt missed the bite in Kovac's voice. "Well, what was the point of prolonging Mike's misery? Whose interest would be served caning it suicide?"

"The insurance company. f.u.c.k 'em."

"Mike gave the department everything," Wyatt said. "His legs. His son. The least they can do is pay out the benefits and put a better face on it."

"So you've seen to it."

"My last great act as captain." He flashed a tired version of the famous smile. His skin looked a little jaundiced under the hall light, and the lines at the corners of his eyes seemed chiseled deeper than two nights ago. No makeup.

His last great act. Fitting, Kovac thought, considering the case that had launched Ace Wyatt's stardom within the department had been the one that had brought Mike Fallon down.

"Where's my boy?" Mike roared. Wyatt looked away.

Kovac squatted beside the chair. "He's gone, Mikey. Remember? I told you."

Fallon stared at him, face slack, eyes vacant. But he knew. He knew his son was gone, knew he was going to have to face it, deal with it, carry on. But if he could pretend for just a little while ... An old man should be ent.i.tled to that.

"I can take care of selecting the clothes, if you'd like, Captain," Gaines offered, moving toward the stairs.

"You want that, Mike?" Kovac asked. "You want a stranger picking what your boy wears to the hereafter?"

"He won't go," Fallon mumbled, bleak. "He took his own life. That's a mortal sin.,, "You don't know that, Mikey. Might have been an accident, like the ME said."

Fallon stared at him for several seconds. "I know. I know what he was. I know what he did."

His eyes filled and he started to shake. "I can't forgive him, Sam," he whispered, clutching Kovac's forearm. "G.o.d help me. I can't forgive him. I hated him. I hated him for what he was doing!"

D U S T.

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D U S T 117.

"Don't talk that way, Mike," Wyatt said. "You don't mean it."

"Let him say what he needs to," Kovac said shortly. "He knows what he really means."

"Why couldn't he just do like I said?" Fallon mumbled, talking to himself or his G.o.d-the one who kept a bouncer at heaven's gate to keep out gays and the suicidal and whoever else didn't fit within the confines of Mike Fallon's narrow mind. "Why?"

Kovac touched the old man's head. A cop-to-cop benediction. "Come on, Mikey.

Let's go do it."

They left the wheelchair at the foot of the stairs. Again, Kovac and Gaines carried Mike Fallon.Wyatt brought up the rear of the procession.They set the old man on the edge of the bed with his back to the mirror that bore the apology for his son's death. But there was nothing to do about the smell-a smell every cop knew too well.

Mike Fallon hung his head and began to cry silently, lost in the torment of wondering where it had all gone so wrong for his boy. Gaines went to the window and looked out.Wyatt stood at the foot of the bed and stared at the mirror, frowning.

Kovac went into the closet to pull out a couple of Andy Fallon's suits, and wondered who would do the ch.o.r.e for him when the time came.

"You like one of these, Mike?" he asked, coming out of the closet with a blue suit in one hand and a dark gray in the other.

Fallon didn't answer. He stared across the room at the photograph on the dresser. The one of Andy's graduation from the academy. A frozen split second of pride and i OY.

"A man should never outlive his kids," he said bleakly. "He ought to die before they can break his heart."

119 T A M 1.

0 A G.

C H A P T E.

A M A N S H 0 U L D never outlive his kids. He shouldn't have.

He hadn't.

He can see the scene unfold before his eyes, as plainly as if two decades hadn't pa.s.sed: The still night. The squeak of his shoes. The sound of his own breathing.

The house seems huge. A trick of the adrenaline rush. The back door stands ajar.

In the kitchen.White fluorescent under-counter lights humming like high-voltage wires. Pa.s.s through into darkness. Rooms dark, moon bright and beaming through windows. A silence that presses like fingers against his eardrums. Seconds that pa.s.s in slow mot'

ion. He moves with athleticism. (The feeling is vivid, even though he hasn't been able to feel anything below his waist for twenty years. He remembers the tension in each and every muscle of his body-his legs, his back, the fingers of his left hand curled around the grip of his gun, the contractions of his heart.) Then there it is. Surprise at the sight of something he can't quite remember.

Death in a sudden blue-white flash. An explosion so loud-The power of it knocks him backward even as he shoots in reflex.

119.

Officer down.

Blind. Deaf Floating. Disbelief Panic. Release. I'm dead.

He wishes he had stayed that way.

He stares in the darkness, listens to his own breathing, feels his own frailty, feels his own mortality, and wonders for the millionth time whyhe didn't check out that night. He has wished it often enough but has never done anything about it, has never found the nerve. Instead, he's stayed alive, steeping himself in bitterness and booze and drugs. Twenty years in purgatory.

Never emerging because he won't look the demons in the face.

He faces one now. Even in his drugged state, he sees it clearly and recognizes it for what it is: the Demon of Truth. The Angel of Death. It speaks to him calrrdy and quietly. He sees its mouth move, but the sound seems to come from within his own head.

Time to die, Mike. A man should never outlive his kids.

He stares at his old service revolver, a squat .38 with a big scar on the b.u.t.t where the bullet that severed his spinal cord had cut deep on its way to his