Old Wounds

CHAPTER 4 SURPRISE MEETING

CHAPTER 4

SURPRISE MEETINGHouston, Texas

Ron’s car was parked in the driveway, which was the first good news I’d had all day. I calmed myself before going in, determined to make things work, maybe even mend the rift between us. The lights were off upstairs. He might be asleep, but more likely pretending. I began to climb the steps, then stopped. I was tired and didn’t want to risk another fight. Or was it cowardice causing me to rationalize? Afraid to face the drug problem? Not convinced Ron was doing drugs, but knowing in my heart he was.

A bottle of Cannonau di Sardegna called to me from the wine cooler. As much as I wanted to open it, I didn’t. I took a shower instead, trying to wash the filth off. I felt slimy, like the scum I arrested. My hands and arms shook, and my gut churned. I turned the faucet to make the water hotter, hoping the shock would stop the shaking. It didn’t work.

After a few minutes I got out, dried off and dressed. I put on a sweater to stop the shivering. I still felt dirty, so I opened the wine, sat in the dark and drank. A couple of hours later I dropped the bottle in the trashcan and went to bed.

Dreams haunted me—the shocked expression on the faces of Rico’s men, the smell of fear on the kids in the van. Worst of all was the terror in Rico’s eyes when he knew he was about to die. By five A.M. I concluded there was no sense lying in bed awake. I got up, showered again and got coffee. I left Ron a note, which took me damn near twenty minutes to write, then I worried all the way in to work whether I’d said the right things. Twice I almost turned around to go rip it up, but laziness disguised as common sense got the better of me.

My body screamed for more coffee but I figured I’d get more once I got to the station. I called the department shrink and left him a message, requesting an appointment at eight o’clock. I guessed I was fortunate it was a department shrink, as a real one might take a month or two to get an appointment.

As fate would have it, an accident on the freeway caused traffic to come to a standstill. About every three minutes I found myself looking at my watch. I chose the watch even though there was a dashboard clock because Mary had given me this watch the Christmas before she died, and I wanted to make use of it, didn’t want it to become just another watch.

I had a thing about not wanting to be late, even though it was the shrink and my inclination was to not care. I should have stuck to the dashboard clock or the one on my iPhone, because every time I glanced at the watch on my wrist, I got depressed. The watch held a special place in my heart. In the past, I counted on Mary for advice. She always had great suggestions on how to handle Ron, and how to deal with neighbors. When we were browsing at the book store, she’d suggest what books I should read, and she was usually right. She even recommended movies to watch. Now I had no one to talk to about anything. If I didn’t watch out, I’d be seeing a shrink about that, too.

I blamed a lot of things on the church. The paranoia about being late was one of them. Those damned nuns used to position themselves by the doors with a yardstick or pointer in their hands, waiting to whack anyone who was late—and them, with their internal “nun-clocks” set to know what time classes started down to a millisecond.

When I was in second grade I began wondering if they had invisible watches so I put it to the test. At recess I asked Sister Frances what time it was. She said ‘you have thirty seconds left.’ I grabbed her wrist to see if I could feel the watch. The next thing I remembered was two sharp whacks to the back of my head.

I learned two things that day: Nuns really did have a “nun-clock,” and you should never grab a nun by the wrist. My head hurt for a week. By the time I got out of third grade I was never late for anything again.

I did a little bobbing and weaving to skirt the traffic, and soon found myself inching through the skyscrapers, the sun shining off the mirrored glass blinding me. I’d been a lot of places, but Houston might have been the cleanest, neatest city I’d ever been to. That thought brought Philadelphia to mind, with its narrow streets littered with cheesesteak wrappers, hawkers on the corners selling pretzels and hot dogs, and an inner city that bustled with people of all ethnic groups. The memories made me realize that comparing Philly and Houston wasn’t fair—one was old and blue-collar tough, and the other built brand-spanking new from oil money.

My ruminations ended as I pulled into the station parking lot. I was half an hour early; Sister Frances would have been proud. I checked my messages when I got in. The shrink had called and postponed my appointment, so I got to work reviewing case files.

Halfway through the stack on my desk, Cindy called.

“Hey, darlin’.” I tried my best Texas accent, which wasn’t very good.

“You still don’t say it right, Gino. It’s haaaay darlin, with the hey drawn out.”

“Okay, so what do you want?”

“Now that’s the South Philly detective I’ve grown to love.” She paused. “Coop wants to see you in thirty minutes, and you know she’s as particular as you about being late.”

I took Cindy’s advice and, at 8:45, I started for Coop’s office. I stopped by Karl’s desk and handed him a piece of paper with the plate number from last night written on it. “Run this for me, will you, Karl?”

“I’ll have it for you later.”

I arrived at Coop’s office ten minutes early and, as I approached the last thirty feet of hallway, her door opened. Coop stepped out with a young man who looked vaguely familiar. I was almost ready to say something, but fortunately didn’t, because it struck me where I’d seen him—he was the kid from last night, the one in the back seat of the van.

Fuck! I turned, desperate for a place to hide. I ducked into the men’s room a half dozen steps away. What’s he doing here? How did he know I was a cop?

Footsteps sounded in the hall. I sweated it out in a stall and listened for the sound of footsteps to fade. Then, I waited another full minute at least, then opened the door and peeked both ways. When I felt safe, I turned toward Coop’s office. Cindy was at her desk, typing.

“She in there?”

Cindy looked at her watch. “She’s waiting. You’re just in time—one minute and counting.”

I reached for the doorknob, then turned back to Cindy. “By the way, who was that kid who just left?”

“Some undercover cop from Montgomery County. Why?”

I almost swallowed my tongue. Undercover cop. What the f**k. I managed to compose myself. “No reason. He just looked familiar.”

I opened the door to the captain’s office, a lump in my throat as big as a peach. “Coop, how’s it going?”

She didn’t smile, just held me with her beady eyes. “So on the day when I’m gonna kick your ass you coincidentally decide to call me Coop. Very convenient, Cataldi.”

I mustered all the bravado I could. “Kick my ass for what? I already called psych. I already have an appointment.”

“You know why you’re here, and it has nothing to do with psych.”

I was about to say something when she threw the paper on the desk. I picked it up to read. The headlines blared at me as loud as her voice.

‘Eight dead in one day.’

I read the article without saying a word. It went on to describe the unfortunate death of Officer Dave Skelton, and then listed the seven suspected drug dealers who died, and three of them were not as a result of the unfortunate sting operation. The author of the article posed the question as to whether this was retaliation.

“Well?” Coop asked.

“Well what?”

Coop pushed the paper aside. “Where were you last night?”

“Home, with my kid.”

“Mayor Johnson called the Chief, and he’s all over my ass. That’s one cop and seven dead drug dealers in one day. The national news is going to have a field day with this. We’ll look like the Old West.”

I knew when she said the mayor called that it was really his throat-cutting, back-stabbing wife Cybil. At this time of day, old Rusty Johnson was either asleep or on the golf course, and in either case he wouldn’t have disturbed his pleasure long enough to call the Chief.

“Captain, I’m not sorry Rico’s dead, but what do you want me to do about it?”

She walked around her desk and got within inches of my face. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you went home, maybe tied one on, then got feeling bad about your partner. Maybe you drank some more, then you grabbed one of your spare guns and went out and killed Rico Moreno and his men.”

“You’re a—”

She held up her hand. “Don’t. I’d rather you not lie to me, so please don’t speak.”

I remained silent while she paced.

“Is your boy having drug problems again?”

I almost fell over with that one. How did she know? I waited, probably too long. “A little.”

She slammed her hand on the desk and shoved a pen holder aside. “He either is or he isn’t.”

I swallowed pride, a lot of it. I hated sharing personal information, especially with my boss. “He is.”

“I’m taking you off Narcotics.”

I almost went to my knees. “Don’t do it, Coop. Please?”

She sat behind her desk, fiddled with a folder, then looked at me with those probing eyes. “We had another incident last night. A couple of kids were robbed of drugs and they swear it was a cop who did it.”

I swallowed too hard. The kid must have made me. “That’s a new one—kids report cops for stealing their drugs? Come on, Captain, if you’re looking for a reason to move me out of Narcotics, charge me with something and get it over with.”

She stared for a moment longer, then lowered her head to focus on work that lay on her desk. “Get out of here. Go see your psych. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“Yes, Captain,” I said, and left the office.

I almost ran to Karl’s desk, relieved when I saw him there. I managed to speak with a calm, easy voice. “Karl, that plate I asked you to run, forget about it.”

“I already got it going. I’ll have it back in a few minutes.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I walked away hiding my anxiety with a smile. I should have just run them myself and figured out a reason why if they ever asked. Now there’d be a record of me asking to have them run, and there was no way to explain that. It might come back to haunt me.

Shit!