Call of Duty

by Larry D. Sweazy

1

Everybody warned me that retirement would be like insomnia. I'd walk around in a stupor, feeling like I wasn't sleeping, like I wasn't living. They were right. For once, they were right. But I'd be damned if I let them know that.

After three years off the job, I'd lost track of the days. I tried to keep my routine, shower first thing, eat breakfast, go to the gym, but that didn't last. I didn't have any place to go, didn't have a reason to stay in shape. Besides, I don't function real well in the morning. Never have. Working vice will do that to you—make you loath the daylight—among other things.

The morning I got the call was a particularly ugly one. I'd spent the night before at Marty's Tavern, just around the corner from my apartment, watching a Sox game. I got carried away, slammed back one too many, as I cheered on a hopeless team for a hopeless play off spot. You'd think I'd know better, but even when I'm cheering, I really don't give a shit one way or the other who wins or loses. Either way, it's cause for another drink.

I was just ticking away time, clinking ice cubes, waiting for my one-way ticket to hell. I know I'm nothing but a used up cop, drowning his sorrows in scotch—but the way I see it, there's a long line of creeps off the street because I wore the badge. I earned most of my sorrows.

2

It was probably eight, maybe nine o'clock in the morning, my eyes weren't real clear, and I wasn't too interested in knowing the exact time, when the phone started to ring. I just wanted the incessant ringing to stop.

“Yeah,” I growled in to the phone.

“They found the gun,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

I tried to moan and answer, but I couldn't get my lips to form any words.

“I said, they found the gun, Carpeasy, wake up,” the voice demanded.

“What gun?”

“ The gun.”

“Oh, that one, fine, call me back later.” I hung up the phone and rolled back over. My head thumped, my stomach was suddenly uneasy, and that distant but familiar voice kept screaming in my head, “The gun, the gun, the gun.”

“Are you awake?”

“Barely.” I knew the voice now. She had calmed down, and I had woke up enough to feel the dread banging in the back of my head.

“Did you hear me? They found the gun.”

“I know, you told me,” I said, sitting up, searching the night stand for my cigarettes. The voice belonged to Maggie Chappel, Maggie Falls now, an old friend and my dead partner's widow. “How do you know it's the gun?” I found a crumpled pack of Winstons and, thankfully, was able to salvage one cigarette.

“Some kid picked it up along the river bank while he was fishing down by The Breaks.”

“A lot of guns get thrown into the river, Maggie.” I lit the cigarette, and coughed.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm not sure. It could be any gun.”

“Not every gun has John's badge number etched into it. They just found the barrel and trigger. The butt had rotted away.”

“3980?”

“Yes.”

I took a long, slow, draw off of the cigarette. My chest felt like it was going to explode.

“I'll be over as soon as I can get there.”

“I'll put the coffee on.”

Good old Maggie, forever the cop's wife.

3

The drive over to Maggie's was one I should have taken more often, but I just couldn't bring myself to. A year after John Chappel had been murdered with his own weapon, Maggie had married our Captain. She moved to the suburbs and I transferred out of vice, back into plainclothes. I missed the jazz of undercover, walking on the edge of darkness, but I couldn't bring myself to act like a bad guy once John was gone.

I tried to remember how long it had been since I'd heard from Maggie as I drove north on the Expressway, past the Wal-Mart and McDonalds, into a subdivision of neatly kept two-story houses.

I couldn't believe the answer. John Chappel had been dead twelve years.

Nobody went to jail for John's murder. There weren't any witnesses, or a murder weapon for that matter, just a dead cop dressed up like the prettiest damn hooker you'd ever seen. Except he had a bullet hole in his head, and his weapon was missing.

Whoever murdered John got away with it scot-free. Ballistics verified the bullet had been registered to John. It was a cop's worst nightmare: Alone, losing your weapon, and dying from the pull of your own trigger. I always blamed myself for not being there. One more reason to down an extra highball of Cutty.

I pulled up in the driveway of Maggie's house and just about turned around. The house was pure class. The Captain was the Assistant Chief-of-Police now, and was obviously doing well for himself. I parked behind a brand new white Cadillac.

I looked in the rear view mirror, past the red lines in my eyes, and ran my hand through my hair, straightening it the best I could. I'm sure the night before still hung on my skin like cheap cologne and I couldn't help but feel self-conscious. I'd come this far; it was too late to turn back. I would have gone to the Arctic if Maggie had asked me to.

Maggie met me at the door. I was startled by her appearance. She didn't look like she had aged at all. I could tell her hair was dyed, but what woman her age doesn't touch up the gray? She was a blonde dynamo even in her early fifties. “You look like a million, Mags,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks,” she answered back. “I wish I could say the same about you.”

“Rough night.”

“More than one.”

We stood there for a moment. Silent. Flashes of memories tickled my brain; barbecuing at Maggie and John's on weekends, birthdays, holidays, and divorces, all three of mine. I had tried to forget all of it after John's death, but standing there, staring at Mags, everything came rushing back at me, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop the memories, the heartbreak of losing a comfortable life. I needed a drink.

“The Chief here?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“No. No, he's still downtown. And he's not the Chief. Not yet.”

“It won't be long.”

“Probably not,” she said with a half-smile, a half-sigh. “I'm being rude, come in.” Maggie stepped back out of the way, and allowed me into her home.

I wiped my feet, then looked into a fancy room covered with thick white plush carpet. I leaned down to take off my shoes.

“Please, Carpeasy, you never took your shoes off in my house before, don't start now.”

Carpeasy. She never called me by my first name, and she probably never would—I'm sure it'd be too hard for her to call me John.

I obliged, and followed her into a small sun room just off the kitchen. There were plants galore, some hanging from the ceiling, others situated perfectly around black wrought-iron furniture. I sat down in the chair closest to the door, a habit I picked up a long time ago.

Maggie immediately slid a cup of coffee in front of me. “Just black, if I remember right,” she said, this time with a full smile.

“The blacker, the better.” I would have rather had a shot of Cutty, but I didn't think it was appropriate to ask.

“John used to say that.”

“Yeah, he did. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay.” She reached out and clasped my hand. Her skin was clammy, almost wet.

I pulled my hand away, and took a quick swig of coffee. “Are you all right? I know this has got to be rough, everything coming back. I'm sure you thought you'd never have to deal with it again.”

Maggie stared at me, frozen like the Venus de Milo, allowing the years to fall away. She still had those wonderful blue eyes, spectacular orbs that looked like they were tiny worlds all their own. One look from those eyes would melt any man that came into her line of vision. Including me.

“Some days, I would actually forget,” she said, staring off into space. “I would go a whole day and not think a thing about John. Jesus, at first I felt so guilty. Clayton was very understanding. I think he knew when we first started to make love that I was pretending he was John. The man deserves a medal, he really does. Clayton put up with a lot of crap from me.”

“I can't imagine that it was too tough,” I said, looking around.

“It was. I was on all kinds of medicine. Valium was my candy. And then slowly, after about three years, I started to come out of the daze. I started gardening, planting seeds and watching them grow, keeping them alive and watching them bloom. The past is gone, and damn it, if it isn't always trying to come back.” She slammed her fist on the table, rocking my coffee, causing it to spill onto the tabletop. A look of horror crossed Maggie's face. “Oh, God, I'm sorry, Carpeasy. I didn't know who else to call.”

Now, I took her hand. “You did the right thing. I just don't know what I can do. They'll probably reopen the case.”

“I can't bear to see the pictures again, John sprawled out, dressed like he was. . . I just can't bear it.” Maggie pulled away and buried her face in her palms.

“I'll see if I can do something. I still got connections. But it seems to me the Chief might have more pull in that area than I do.”

“No,” she demanded.

I started to insist. I owed that much to John. But a car pulled up in the driveway. Maggie looked at me wildly, then calmed down almost immediately. “He doesn't know I called you,” she said, her face glazing over again.

“I figured that.” I stood up to leave.

“I'm sorry, I just needed to talk about John, about us. I miss those days, Carpeasy. Clayton doesn't understand that.”

“It's all right, really.” I gave her a quick hug and headed for the door. As I reached for the doorknob, it turned and the door opened. I stood face to face with Clayton Falls , the next Chief-of-Police, and my old boss. “I was just leaving,” I said, pushing by him.

“What the hell is he doing here, Maggie? Jesus, haven't we had enough of the past for one day?”

“I stopped by on my own, Chief. Word travels fast you know,” I interjected, before Maggie could say a word. Our eyes locked, and she remained silent. I nodded. Our little lie was safe. “Good seeing you, Mags, keep in touch.”

She forced a smiled. Chief Falls glared at me all the way down the driveway.

4

To hell with tomato juice or chocolate milk, the only remedy for a hangover that works for me is the hair-of-the-dog. I drove straight to Marty's Tavern. Every where I turned I heard about John's gun. The radio replayed the discovery of the gun every time a newsbreak came on. The television at the bar covered the murder like it had just happened. John Chappel's murder had been big news twelve years ago, and I guess it still was.

I got to thinking about things as I sat at the bar, sipping on my liquid breakfast. Just like Maggie, I had tried to put the past away, only not in Valium, but in my job and a bottle of Cutty Sark.

John Chappel was the best friend I'd ever had, and when he died, a big part of me died with him. I should've been there. But he'd insisted that I park a couple of blocks away. I raised hell, but it didn't do any good. John and I had been working The Breaks for about a year and we were about to snare a creep who was pimping the girls on the street. We could give a shit about the johns—we wanted Lenny the Fish, a small timer who had worked his way to the top of the ladder. He had a stable of at least twenty girls, most of which he kept under lock and key and intimidated with a baseball bat.

John was undercover. He was working the corner, Lenny's main high-dollar corner, without representation, to try and draw Lenny out of the shadows. None of the girls would turn on Lenny.

When the shooting happened, the Captain didn't have time to get to John. The wire wasn't activated yet, so there was no tape of the shooting. When the Captain found him, John was dead and the gun was gone. Obviously thrown in the river. We figured it was a hit, since John had been shot in the head. At least, that's how the Captain played it at the time. Things got a little tricky when the ballistics came back. But the Captain found some unidentified fingerprints in the van, and a homeless guy who said he saw a man wearing a black coat enter the van, and then run away after the shooting. There was no other description, a blur from a homeless guy. Even then, I questioned it, but my grief got the best of me, and I let the suspicion fall away.

To make things worse, Lenny the Fish had an alibi as tight as a new pair of shoes. He had been six blocks away, and our surveillance team had him in their sights. The bartender and twenty other patrons vouched for Lenny as well. His hands were clean. At least, physically.

I was so dazed that I never questioned the report or the witness, but I figured Lenny the Fish had gotten away with murder, put out a hit to get John and I off the street.

I stayed really drunk for the next couple of years, so drunk that revenge never entered my mind. When I finally got around to looking for a pay back, Lenny the Fish was already in prison doing five to ten for tax evasion. A small dose of justice that made the swill of scotch easier to swallow, but could not kill the pain of letting my partner, my friend, down.

I slugged down a highball of Cutty, and headed down to the station.

5

Louie Maxwell manned the evidence room and he owed me a few favors, so I called them in all at once.

“I could get in deep shit for this, Carpeasy.” Louie's voice was gravely, and his eyes were glued to the steel door behind me. He worked vice with John and I once upon a time, but eased into managing the evidence room about a year before John died. With eight kids, retirement for Louie was not an option. Mother Mary full of grace, the last one was in college, and his predilection for an occasional toss with a hooker was still safe with me. We all got our addictions, and I learned a long time ago not to pass judgement on another man's weakness. Besides, secrets can be more valuable than a Gold Card in times like this.

“This is a social call, Louie. The captain's got his hands full, and besides, I slipped in the back door.”

“Even the mice know you're here.” He unwrapped the gun, or what was left of it, and laid it on the counter. “Don't touch it. Use these,” he said, tossing me a pair of Latex gloves.

I shot Louie my best “Do I look stupid” look, and slipped on the gloves. “See no evil, right?”

As soon as I peered down the barrel of the gun, I knew something wasn't right. There was no way this gun had spent twelve years in the river. A year, maybe two, but not twelve, the barrel was almost free of silt.

“This been cleaned up?”

“Nope. What you see is what you get.”

I played poker every Saturday night when I was on the job, so I have a pretty good idea when somebody is bluffing. Clayton Falls knew more than he was telling the press, and I figured I had a right to know what the hell was going on.

I put the gun back on the counter, slipped off the gloves. “What's the word?”

“The original story is stickin', but I got to tell you, Carpeasy, I never believed it. Funny thing, you know the captain's angling for the Chief's job, right? Playing all the right politics. Guess he's a shoe-in.” Louie paused, stared at the door again. “The vetting process started about a month ago. And now this shows up. Timing's a little funny, don't you think?”

“Yeah. Somebody either wants to put the story to rest, or cover him with a little dirt. One or the other.”

“He's been clean as a choir boy—except for his taste in women.”

“Birds of a feather, are you?”

Louie glared at me, and ignored my comment. We both knew it was meant to remind him that his secret still held value with me.

“Could be dirt on us both, huh?” Louie said. “But, hey, six months and I'm on easy street. The last kid graduates from college, and I'm moving to Florida . Got a little trailer near the Gulf. Sunshine and sand. What more could a guy want?”

“Good luck.”

“I don't need it…but something tells me you will.”

6

I drove back to Maggie's.

She didn't seem to be surprised to see me.

“The Chief here?” I asked, peering over her shoulder.

Maggie leaned back against the door, allowing me through. She nodded toward the plant room.

“I figured you'd be back,” Clayton Falls said, as he stood up from the table where I'd shared coffee with Maggie.

“What aren't you telling me, Captain?” I demanded, walking up to him.

“Sit down, Carpeasy,” he ordered.

“I'll stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

Maggie walked past me and placed herself at her husband's side.

“You were there, damn it,” I said, feeling the anger rise in my stomach. “You heard it all.”

“You read the reports.”

“Yeah, I know all about reports.”

Maggie stepped forward, putting herself equally between the Captain and me. “Do you want a scotch, Carpeasy?”

“No, I've had enough.”

She looked to the Captain, and then to me. “You're right, Carpeasy, he does know more than he's telling.”

“Maggie don't. You don't have to tell anyone.”

I crossed my arms. “I'm waiting,” I said, trying to hide my surprise that Maggie knew anything about John's murder. “The timing on this thing is a little funny. And I bet I'm not the only one asking questions am I Captain?”

Maggie walked over to the bar, pulled out a bottle of vodka and poured herself a shot. She downed it like a pro. “John wasn't murdered,” she said, staring me straight in the eye.

“What? That's crap, Maggie and you know it.”

“It's the truth.” She strode calmly across the room to a desk, opened the drawer and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me, forcing it into my hands. The Captain watched, but offered nothing to rebut my accusation.

“He committed suicide, Carpeasy. He put the gun to his own head.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Read the letter.”

I opened the envelope and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper. I immediately recognized John's handwriting. I looked into Maggie's eyes. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. “We had a lot of problems, Carpeasy, more than the regular ones that cops and their families have.”

“He would've told me.”
“And what, let you down? There was no way he'd let you think less of him—God, I think he loved you more than he did me.”

I tried to read the letter. When I got to the guts of it, I stopped and looked up.

“That's right,” Maggie said. “He found out about Clayton and I. Our affair was the last straw. I was going to tell him. I was going to leave, but it was hard. You know how jealous he was. It wouldn't have been easy.”

“So it was easier for him to commit suicide?”

“That's enough,” the Captain said, pulling Maggie by the arm, back to him. “I think you better go.”

“Are you going to tell your boss, or am I?” I said.

Maggie looked at me with the same wild look as she had earlier when Clayton had pulled into the driveway. “Don't you even think about it,” she hissed.

“Think,” Clayton demanded. “The way things stand now, your partner died a hero—a victim of a senseless murder. He died for his city. But if you run to the Chief or the press, then you take that away. They'll say John Chappel wasn't anything but a crazy loon who shot himself while he was dressed up like a woman. Take your pick.”

It was easy to see why Clayton Falls had advanced in the department. He was a master politician, and he was right. John's reputation would be ruined.

“You knew all along?” I said, relenting.

“Yes, I tried to stop him, but by the time I got to him it was too late. I pulled the gun out of his hand and stuck it in my pocket”

“What about the note?”

“Maggie found it and called me. Like I said, I was too late.”

I was starting to get uncomfortable. “You weren't there alone.”

“I got there first. Had the other detective make the call.”

“You would have been ruined, too,” I said, realizing that he didn't do what he did out of the goodness of his heart. “They would have found out about you and Maggie. You would have been back out on the street.”

“Yes, I would have.”

“What about the witness?” I asked as I stood up. “The unidentified fingerprints? It was all bullshit, wasn't it? Not only did you cover up a suicide, but you lied on a report. You covered your ass all the way across the board, didn't you?”

“I was protecting Maggie. You would've done the same thing.”

I shook my head no. “I've done a lot of things in my life I'm not proud of, but I've never slept with another man's wife. So, you're wrong. I wouldn't have done it, and I'm having a hard time believing this whole thing was done in the name of love.”

Maggie followed me to the door. “It was, Carpeasy. If you don't believe anything, believe that. I never wanted to hurt John, I just wanted to be free.”

“Well, Mags,” I said, stepping outside. “If that's what you wanted, you should've picked a different man to fall in love with.”

7

As I drove back downtown, it began to rain. The wipers moaned as water swept across the windshield.

I didn't want to believe Maggie and Clayton Falls ' story. I didn't want to believe John Chappel had committed suicide. I didn't want to believe a single word of the note, even though I recognized what I thought was John's handwriting.

If the witness and the prints were a hoax, it sure looked like suicide might really be the truth, but I just couldn't buy it. Couldn't stomach it. John Chappel loved life too much. He would've talked to me before he put a gun to his head.

Now that I thought about it, I was starting to feel like I'd been setup, or at the very least, like they had gone to a lot of effort to keep me in the loop, to silence me.

The Captain and Maggie had proof. Their asses were covered once they showed me the note, making their story was tight as Lenny the Fish's alibi—they would only have to admit an age-old affair. That wouldn't keep Falls from being promoted.

But having to admit that they obstructed justice, allowed a murder investigation to continue while they had physical evidence in their possession, the gun and note, would stop the promotion—and more.

It didn't make sense to me that Falls would put his own career at risk to save John Chappel's reputation and endear himself to Maggie. I wasn't buying the idea that he participated in the cover-up for the sake of love.

The question was what were they trying to hide—and why did they tell me about their involvement? They were taking a big risk by telling me the story they did. There had to be something else that they were worried about coming to light.

There was no way Captain Falls could have killed John. Even now that I knew he had motive, I couldn't place him directly at the scene—he hadn't been in the surveillance van alone. There was another detective with him, Sam Fennell, and Fennell swore that he and Falls found John Chappel together, ran to the van after hearing a single gunshot.

I made a mental note to track Fennell down. I never liked the guy. He was a kiss-ass, a yes-man, a ladder-climber like the captain. My guess was that Clayton Falls had kept a tight reign on him, kept him close. Probably worked a desk job now.

The worst thing was I just couldn't bring myself to think of Maggie as a killer…but then I'd never pegged her for somebody who would have jumped in bed with Clayton Falls while she was married, either. She was nowhere near the crime scene—at least as far as I knew. I never had reason to question her until now.

I looked in the rear view mirror to make sure I wasn't being followed. The road behind me was clear, but I turned left at the next stoplight anyway. I wasn't going home, there were still a lot of hours left in the day.

Suddenly, I felt invigorated, like I had a purpose, still something left to do other than throw down shots to kill the day and mourn John Chappel all over again.

I clinched my hands around the steering wheel as I thought about what John's suicide note said. I was getting outwardly angry for the first time in years—and honestly, it felt good.

8

Every successful crook I had ever met was a creature of habit, and Lenny the Fish was no exception. I found him holding court in the same bar he'd been sitting in the day John Chappel died.

Lenny weighed about three hundred pounds and was stuffed in the back booth, surrounded by two of his girls. He didn't seem surprised to see me.

“Carpeasy. So, the great detective still walks. I heard you've been spending most of your time falling down drunk.”
I stood in front of him, aching to smack the smile off his fish-shaped lips. I had a .38 stuffed in my ankle holster, and I was sure Lenny was packing, too.

“Yeah, I'm walking, Lenny. Don't believe everything you hear. How's tricks?”

“I'm out of that business, Carpeasy, haven't you heard?”

The two girls, both no older than twenty, sitting on either side of Lenny, looked away. “You girls must be fans, huh?”

“I'm a busy man, Carpeasy. I figured you'd be in mourning for your late partner. What brings you down here?”

“I got a couple of questions.”

Lenny the Fish laughed. “Well, I ain't got any answers for you.”

I took a deep breath. It was time for a bluff of my own. “ Clayton Falls sends his regards.”

“Falls. What's he doing sending a has-been like you offering regards. Not his style.”

“They found the gun.”

Lenny nodded. “I saw the TV. So?”

“The Captain's taking some heat. Internal Affairs pulled him in this morning. Some things about John Chappel's death don't add up. The case is reopened, and since Falls married my partner's widow, they figure he might have motive. Looks like time has shed some new light on the murder, Lenny, what do you think?”

If I was right, and the suicide story Falls and Maggie were promoting was a cover, then I figured Lenny might know about it—at least I was hoping he did. I knew if I could link the Captain and Lenny the Fish, then my hunch would be right, and the lie about John's suicide would be just that. A lie.

One of the girls edged out of the booth as Lenny shifted his weight. She edged by me, rubbing her breasts against my shoulder. She whispered something as she went by. I thought she said, “Help,” but I couldn't be sure, the TV was loud, the street outside was busy with traffic.

I stepped back and caught a glimpse of the bartender standing behind the bar, a baseball bat an inch from his grasp. The girl forced a smile and disappeared into the bathroom.

I was starting to get a little nervous. A hooker had sent me a signal, asked for a rescue, and Lenny the Fish wasn't biting.

“I ain't sending no message to Falls through you,” Lenny said.

“You got a direct line?”

“What I got is an appointment. Your time's up.”

I had to take one last chance. “You're still on the hook, Lenny. That's the word on the street. I hope your appointment's with your lawyer.”

Lenny laughed nervously. “That's the message from Falls? You got about two seconds to walk out that door, Carpeasy. Tell Falls we're even.”
“Paid up in full?”

“Something like that.”

9

I was a little disappointed Lenny the Fish hadn't brought up the suicide. I was beginning to doubt myself, think maybe John really did kill himself. But the thought still didn't set well with me. Lenny was a little unsettled when I left him. Something was up. Why would he be “even” with Falls if he wasn't somehow involved?

I called Louie Maxwell and found out Sam Fennell was still on duty. It was getting toward the end of the day, so Louie said I'd better hurry if I wanted to catch Fennell. Louie gave me one more nugget of gold. Sam Fennell was now working in Internal Affairs. I wasn't surprised. Just like I figured, Clayton Falls had his ass covered from here to Brooklyn .

I headed for the station, more than a little curious.

Sam Fennell was a tall, gangly, kind of guy. He looked brittle now that his hair had turned silver. I called after him as he headed for his car, a black Crown Vic. He stopped, recognized me, then opened his car door. “I don't have anything to say to you, Carpeasy.”

“Company policy?”

“Internal Affairs policy.” I was standing close enough to Fennell to smell the residue of a recent cigarette. He sat down in the car and pulled the door closed, but not before I could grab the door and pull it back open. “You're on thin ice, Carpeasy,” he said.

“I've got some questions about John Chappel.”

“I figured as much.” Sam Fennell exhaled loudly, and glared at me.

I never liked this guy when I was on the job, and my guess was he was a class A prick now that he was in IA. He was the kind of guy you wanted to punch just for the fun of it.

“I can't comment on anything about the Chappel case. You should know that,” Fennell sneered.

“I wasn't born yesterday. You were there. This has nothing to do with what's going on now.”

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe.”

“Your pension's at risk, Carpeasy. Keep it up and your drinking money is going straight down the toilet. The same way your career went.” Fennell tried to yank the door closed, but I stepped in between it and the car.

I leaned down so we were face to face. “You were there,” I repeated. “When John was killed. Did he commit suicide or was there really somebody that fled the scene?”

A surprised look crossed Fennel's equine face. “You read the report.”

“Yeah, well, it seems the story has changed and you know it.”

“Falls told you about the suicide note?”

Finally, I'd got the better of his curiosity. “Maggie told me.”

“It's not authenticated.”

“But that would clear Falls.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Falls is not the only one involved. My original report stands. I know what I saw no matter what Clayton Falls says.”

“Who got to John first? You or Falls?”

Sam Fennel took a deep breath. “Falls. I made the call.”

At least the Captain told the truth about that. I took a deep breath, felt like I'd just been hit in the stomach. The dots were starting to connect, and I didn't like what I was seeing, what I was thinking. Fennel obviously still believed he had seen someone flee from the scene even though Falls said the report was bogus.

I was more than a little relieved that my hunch about the suicide was turning out to be right.

The only person with a clear motive was Clayton Falls , but I didn't want to believe the Captain was capable of hiring a hit man any more than I was capable of believing John Chappel had stuck a gun to his head.

But I was starting to believe my gut, and it said Falls was involved in the murder, even if he didn't pull the trigger.

“It's possible, Carpeasy, that you didn't know your partner as well as you thought you did,” Fennell said. “Now, let me go, or you'll be spending the night in jail for assaulting a police officer.”

10

I sat outside of Clayton Falls ' house, my hands trembling, my throat itching to be numbed with a drink. I knew I had to face the Captain sober, but that didn't make the wait any easier.

The house was dark and the white Cadillac was gone from the driveway. I watched the house like I was on the job, using every surveillance skill I had ever mastered. The only thing was, I was alone. I couldn't even conjure John Chappel's ghost for conversation—I could barely remember his voice.

I had ran every memory of John through my mind a million times, searching for a hint that he may have been suicidal or scared for his life, but I came up empty handed. I had already decided that he had been murdered, and if there had actually been a change in his behavior, a real hint, that something was amiss, I would've ignored it, or lost it in a sea of scotch and denial.

After a half an hour, I decided to go have a look. I was armed with my .38, but it felt inadequate, so I grabbed the billyclub from underneath my seat.

I eased across the street in the shadows, and peered into the sunroom. It was dark, as was the kitchen. A red light was blinking on the microwave. I didn't see anyting out of place. From there, I made my way along side the house, my senses heightening, every cricket chirp an alarm that screamed that something was wrong.

My chest was constricted, my breathing labored. Sweat beaded on my brow, and the air had an odd taste to it, like metal and leaf rot.

Soured smells of the earth, of the perfect landscaping around the house, were nothing more than Maggie's attempt to grow a garden, surrounding her new life with beauty, erasing a past that was filled with weeds and poison. The attempt was obvious, noble, but so was the smell of death.

Deep in the shadows, I looked into the bedroom window and saw a night light casting a beam of soft light across the floor. The light was bright enough for me to see that the room was a mess, like it had been tossed, and a shoe with a leg attached to it.

My heartbeat revved up, and I turned, hoping to find a rock to break the window and gain entry.

Instead, I came face-to-face with the barrel end of a police-issue handgun.

11

“Don't move a muscle, Carpeasy.”

“Louie, what the…”

“I said, don't move. And shut the hell up.”

Thank God I was sober, or I would have never believed my eyes. Louie Maxwell, a stones throw from retirement, was standing before me, wild-eyed, covered in sweat, blood splattered on the front of his shirt.

I took a quick glance over my shoulder, caught a glimpse of the leg, then turned my attention to getting the upper hand.

“Drop the club, Carpeasy.”

I did. It fell to the ground with a soft thud. “The Captain,” I started to say.

“Is dead.” Louie sucked in a gulp of air, and let out a nervous chuckle. “I should've figured you would show up here, Carpeasy. Hands against the wall, you know the drill.”

I stood my ground. “Where's Maggie?”

Louie answered by pressing the barrel of the gun to my forehead. “Shut up, or we'll just end this now. Just do what I say and you won't get hurt.”

I didn't think Louie would shoot me right then and there unless he absolutely had to. It would draw attention to him. Blow his cover. But I also knew I was in a bad spot. I couldn't take him, not without getting my brains scrambled. I turned around and submitted, his gun now planted firmly in the center of my back.

Louie found the .38 right away, and tossed it as far as he could throw it. “Now, head to your car, and don't do anything stupid.”

I'd been in this situation before. But in the old days I had a radio, a partner waiting to bail me out, a connection to a force of cops who would give their life to rescue me. But I was on my own, taking the last steps of my life. Oddly, I wasn't afraid to die. I just wanted to know where Maggie was before I cashed in my ticket to hell.

“Get in the driver's seat,” Louie said.

We crossed the street, the streetlight on the curb casting a long shadow. It was then that I got a good look at Louie, saw the panic in his eyes, the blood on his face, the bruises and scratch marks on his arms.

Somebody had put up a fight before they died. I was hoping it was the Captain, and not Maggie.

I did as I was told again, and Louie slid into the passenger seat. He pressed the gun against my temple.

“Head downtown,” Louie ordered.

I stared straight ahead, hands glued on the steering wheel. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about, Louie? Jesus, you're damn near sixty-five years old.”

“I haven't always been this old. And it doesn't matter. Shit comes back to haunt you no matter where you're at in life. I figured I was home free until Clayton Falls decided he wanted to be Chief.”

I took a deep breath. “You killed John Chappel.”

Louie pressed the gun harder against the side of my head. “If only it were that simple.”

“Tell me, Louie, you owe me that.”

“You're bank account's empty.” He took a deep breath. “I put the gun in the killer's hand, but I didn't pull the trigger.”

“Who did?”

“Maggie. Maggie pulled the trigger.”

“All right. Time to roll,” I said.

I couldn't believe it. Not only that, rage got the best of me. I reached to start the engine of the car, distracted Louie for just a second, and swung my right arm up, cracking his wrist with mine. The gun flew into the back seat.

I lunged over and started pummeling Louie with my fists. He fought back, but as beat down as I was, he was no match for me. After what seemed like an hour of wrestling and elbow throwing, I pinned Louie Maxwell to the door.

“I was just doing her a favor, Carpeasy. I swear. I was just doing her a favor.”

12

Sam Fennell met me at Marty's Tavern a few days later.

“Buy you a drink,” I asked, as he sat down next me.

He shook his head no. “Still on duty.”

I took a swig of Cutty, and glanced up at the TV. “I see you found Maggie.”

“Just across the state-line. She was smart enough to put on a wig, but not rent a car.”

“White Cadillacs stand out.” It was my turn to shake my head. “I still can't believe it. I've known Maggie longer than most anybody else in my life. I guess I didn't know her as well as I thought.”

The bartender stopped and asked Fennell if he wanted a drink. “Just water.”

“I still don't get it,” I said.

“Falls figured out the suicide note was bogus. I guess he confronted Maggie. She ran out and called Louie.”

“So, she forged the note and the Captain didn't know that? It looked like John's writing.”

“At first glance, yes. A lot of married couples can write like each other.”

“I guess I was never married that long.”

Fennell forced a smile. “Falls fell for it. Love is blind.”

“But why call Louie?”

“He hired out the hit on John for her.”

“From Lenny the Fish?”

“More than likely. I'm sure Lenny's got his ass covered with some kind of insurance. Neither Louie or Maggie will cough him up. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why am I not surprised. So, the Captain was in the clean all along?”

“Falls was getting close to figuring it out. I guess it made sense for them to take him out. With Maggie miles away, she had an alibi…”

“And why would anybody suspect Louie? He knew how to cover his tracks. Fake a burglary gone wrong. I just can't understand why he did it in the first place.”

Fennell stared at me. “Come on, Carpeasy. John Chappell knew Louie had a thing for hookers. Turned the other cheek, just like you did. We all did. He had a connection to Lenny the Fish, was probably on his payroll. John must of told Maggie. When she needed John out of the way so she could continue her relationship with Falls, she went to Louie, had him by the nines. The suicide note was her cover if she ever needed it, a backup plan. Her ambition crossed paths with her husband's. I guess she didn't count on you sniffing around.”

I motioned for the bartender to get me another drink. “She called me. Pulled me in. Christ, I would've done anything for that woman.”

“You're not the only one.”

“I guess not.”

Sam Fennell stood up from the bar. “See you at the Captain's funeral tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I'll be there.”

I watched Fennell walk out of the bar, and stared at the drink in front of me. I had a million things running through my mind. I was relieved that John Chappel hadn't killed himself, but I was still in shock that Maggie had been the one to put out a hit on him. All along, I had thought it was Falls. Or Lenny the Fish.

I left the full glass of scotch at the bar, and walked out of Marty's. A familiar pulse of anger ran through my veins. It looked like Lenny the Fish was going to get away scot-free again.

The sky was clear of clouds, and a cool breeze snaked through the street. The sound of the city throbbed around me; sirens, buses, car horns. I was glad I was still alive, glad the truth about my partner's death had finally come to the surface.

I decided I still had a few things to do to honor John Chappel's life, and maybe my own.

I was going to go see Lenny the Fish—a little more prepared this time. I might not catch him, pin the hit on him, but at the very least, I might be able to rescue a hooker who had asked for my help.