CHAPTER 24

 

GRADY TURNED THE CAR and the air on for maybe the tenth time since they’d been there and fired up the last of what had been a full pack of cigarettes when they’d first parked. He didn’t think about it being the last cigarette since there was a full carton on the back seat, minus the pack he’d killed. The stakeout on Eddie’s apartment was going on longer than he’d expected. He glanced over at Whitney to see how she was holding up. So far, she’d exhibited remarkable patience. There weren’t a lot of civilians who would have endured their first stakeout nearly as well as she had.

“You don’t like the heat much, do you?” she said.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching for the control.

“No,” she said, “Leave it on. I probably hate it worse than you do.”

They’d both pretty much told each other their life history in the past couple of hours. When he’d told her about his and Jack’s lifelong dream to open the fishing camp in Vermont, she became animated.

“Grady! Do you know how far Vermont is from where I’m from? We used to do our shopping in Burlington! And Montpelier! Have you ever been to Montpelier? It’s my favorite town in the whole world! Did you know almost every building in town is on the National Register of Historic Buildings?”

It turned out she loved Vermont, almost as much as her own home state of New Hampshire.

“I’ve wanted to move back home ever since I got here,” she confessed. “The only reason I took this job was...” here she gave him a rueful grin, “...it was the only one I could get out of veterinary school and I had some hellacious loans to repay.”

She told him her own far-range plans.

“I’ve been saving every single penny I could. Someday, I’m going back and opening up my own clinic.”

“How’d you get interested in animals?” Grady wanted to know.

“My dad,” she said. “I was his boy. He was a photographer. Mostly wildlife. He had the cover of Sports Afield one time. That was funny!”

“How so?” Grady was puzzled.

“Because Dad never shot an animal in his life and that’s a hunting magazine. The picture he shot was grouse being flushed. I bet there’s a million hunters saw that cover and had a wet dream. You know what he did?”

He shook his head.

“He purposely gave the magazine the wrong location.”

“I don’t get it,” Grady said.

“He told the editor the photos were shot in a different place than where they were. It was his way of protecting those birds. He could have ruined his professional reputation if they’d found out.”

“Yeah, I see.” Grady nodded, thoughtfully, smiling at the story. “He sounds like a good guy.”

“Was,” she said. “He died. On a shoot. He was taking pictures of wild turkeys. He died the way he wanted. With his wild animals.”

“I’m sorry,” Grady murmured.

“I am, too,” she said, her eyes misty. “Anyway, that’s where I get my love of animals. From Dad.”

For a moment, she just stared into the distance, and then she shook her hair slightly. She had a thought. A woman’s thought. Shyly, she said, “Maybe...if you get your camp and I get my clinic, we could see each other sometimes. Wouldn’t that be nice!”

Nice wasn’t the word he had in mind at the thought. Wonderful, would be a better one. What the heck was happening? He was too old to be acting like some pimple-faced teenager. Not to mention his financial situation wasn’t the best to have a woman like this in his life. Not now, especially, with his brother’s unpaid hospital bills and the cost of the funeral he’d scheduled for three days from then. With all that, it was doubtful he’d be able to afford much more than a room somewhere for the rest of his life.

Just as he was really getting into the really deep-down sorrowful portion of his self-pity, a car turned onto the street they were on.

He grabbed Whitney’s arm and quicklike slid down beneath the seat, whispering urgently for her to do the same. He knew it was Eddie in the brown Cavalier right away, from Veronica’s description of the man which pretty much matched up with Pelkerson’s earlier one.

The Cavalier went past them and turned in to the complex parking lot. As soon as Eddie emerged, Grady said, “Okay. You can get up now.”

When the man came out with two suitcases ten minutes later, Grady knew he’d made the right decision tot at his place instead of trying to find Kincaid. The suitcases were a good sign something was up. Eddie was going on a trip and he’d bet the itinerary would begin right after whatever it was those two were planning went down.

He looked at Whitney, saw the question in her eyes.

“Yep. We’re on him. Like stink on shit. Let’s see where a dog-killer punk like this likes to go.”

He turned the key in the ignition.

He followed Eddie, keeping at least two cars behind him, not that Grady felt he needed to be that careful. The guy seemed to be oblivious to the possibility of someone tailing him. As he made perhaps his sixth turn, Whitney said, “Bucktown.”

Grady glanced at her. “Huh?”

“Bucktown,” she repeated. “That’s where he’s headed.”

Grady didn’t see anything different about where they were. Looked like part of the same neighborhood they’d been driving in. Just ahead, the Cavalier slowed and pulled off and parked by what looked like a restaurant. Deannie’s, the sign said.

“Deannie’s has the best seafood in town,” Whitney said. “They do more carry-out than any two places combined. It used to be a wholesale place only, but they had such a demand, they added a restaurant. Thank God the tourists haven’t discovered it yet.”

“We’ll have to go here sometime,” Grady said, half-jokingly, his eye on the door Eddie had gone into.

“When they sterilize the place,” she replied, and it was a couple of seconds before he realized she was referring to Eddie.

Eddie came out ten minutes later, his arms under a huge paper sack, which Whitney said was probably shrimp, maybe mudbugs.

“Mudbugs?” Grady said, and she explained what mudbugs were.

“That’s bait!” was his only comment.

It looked like Eddie had enough for ten people.

“Looks like he’s going to party,” Grady said, waiting until he had gone by before he turned around and slowly began catching up.

Eddie’s car headed back into Metairie, but instead of turning on Veteran’s, he kept straight, ending up turning left on another highway.

“This is Jefferson Highway,” Whitney informed. He was trying to make a mental note of all the places they passed, for future reference.

They followed Eddie until he pulled off into a strip center parking lot and went into a liquor store. Grady drove by and pulled off on the edge of the highway a few feet beyond the parking lot. A few minutes later, they watched as Eddie reappeared with a case of beer and a sack on top of it. He stowed that in the car and went back only to emerge with another case.

“Now it sure looks like a party,” Grady said. When Eddie’s car pulled to the edge of the lot and prepared to pull out into the traffic, Grady said, “I hope he doesn’t take a U-turn and head back the other way!” He laughed. “Like all these crazy drivers I see doing that all the time!” He’d been to New York City and California both and he knew now both of those places held an undeserved reputation for wacko drivers. New Orleans merited that title by far. New Orleans drivers were outright lunatics behind the wheel. Pulled right out in front of you on a four-lane and whipped across all four lanes, fuck you if you were in their way. Brakes and a good horn seemed to be the most important things you needed when you went out for a drive. They oughta send the Indy 500 drivers down to the Big Easy to work out for a month and get their high-speed passing skills tuned up, he thought, sarcastica.

“They are nuts down here,” Whitney agreed. “I’m still afraid to drive half the time.”

Eddie’s car passed him, going the same direction, and Grady eased out on his tail. He knew by now that Eddie wasn’t sharp enough to be on the lookout for someone following him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. It seemed as though they went miles and miles, past bars and bakeries and po’ boy restaurants. And after a time, they were driving through the streets of New Orleans. Whitney kept giving him the names of the places they passed, but Grady didn’t get much of any of that until they went past the Super Dome. A few minutes later he was following Eddie’s car over the GNO bridge.

“I hope you’ve got a gun,” Whitney said.

He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“Algiers,” she said, sardonically, as if that was explanation enough. Remembering his earlier visit, he understood and nodded agreement.

Sure enough, they were going to Algiers. He recognized the bridge and the turnoff when they came off it. Grady was glad his gun was nestled in the small of his back. Coming off the bridge, the place looked like a war zone. He’d been to Stony Island in Chicago once and the Cabrini-Green projects had nothing on this dump.

Grady was so busy watching for derelicts, he missed Eddie’s turn down a side street but Whitney was keeping her eye on him and yelled, “Turn! Turn!” and he barely made the corner, hoping Eddie hadn’t heard the scream of his tires. The Cavalier had disappeared, but Whitney’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of it just as Grady drove past the first intersecting street. He was already about halfway down the side street. Grady backed up and turned, noting the street name as they flashed by. Thurman. Eddie was a block and a half ahead by that time, pulling the Cavalier over to the curb. He was getting out by the time Grady could pull his own car over, only half a block between them. Grady killed the engine and waited to see what the man would do.

“What now?” Whitney whispered breathlessly, as if Eddie could overhear her.

“Wait,” Grady told her, stoically.

What Eddie did was go up to a house and let himself in. They could see him take the key from his pocket and not from the ring in his other hand.

“It’s not his house,” Whitney said.

Grady looked at her with admiration. “You’d make a good detective,” he said. “I think you’re right.”

Who the hell’s place is it? he wondered. Wait. Kincaid’s. That’s it. It must be Kincaid’s. Maybe they were having a meeting. The guy he wanted could be inside right that minute. Briefly, he thought about busting in, shooting the both of them, and then disappearing back up north. He let go of the idea, knowing it was unrealistic. It was nice to imagine, though. Putting a bullet through this guy’s brain would be something that would be hard to top, pleasure-wise. One day.

“I think this is where my guy lives,” he said to Whitney. His voice was grim. “Reader Kincaid.”

While they waited, Grady felt it necessary to apologize for the boredom he was sure she was suffering through. Most civilians didn’t realize that most police work was just that--long periods of just watching people do nothing.

“Boring?” she said, seemingly amazed he’d said such a thing. “I think this is the most exciting thing I’ve done this year. There’s only one thing missing.” Grady looked at her, noted the mischief in her eyes.

“What’s that?”

“When do I get to see some police brutaity?” she said, and both laughed.

“I don’t do that anymore,” he said. “I gave it up for Lent.”

“Oh, you!” she giggled. “Can’t you sin just a little? For this jerk?”

That reminded her of a joke she’d heard and she told it to him. “This guy says, ‘If you ever see me being beat by the cops, please put down your video camera and come help me.’“

Grady chuckled at that one and impulsively, he reached over and kissed her. Just a quick peck, but something even he felt surprised doing and by her eyes, so did she. She slid her hand over and he put his on top and she turned her palm up and they interlocked fingers. They sat like that, not saying anything, for long minutes, just watching the house.

When Eddie reappeared, he went to his car and popped the trunk. Grady watched as he loaded up a couple of big boxes and a garment bag. After he closed the lid, he stood a minute staring at the house and scratching his head as if trying to remember something. He stood there like that for a minute or so then got back in his vehicle.

“He’s not in there,” Grady said aloud, more to himself. “Kincaid,” he said to the question on Whitney’s face.

As soon as Eddie pulled out, Grady drove up to the house and stopped.

“Aren’t you going to follow him? You said Kincaid wasn’t there.” Whitney said. Eddie was disappearing around the corner.

“I’ll catch him,” was his response. “He’s headed back the way he came. Here.” He reached under the seat and grabbed the pad and pencil he kept there and handed them to Whitney. He squinted at the house and then pulled out, in the same direction Eddie had gone.

“Twenty-two, twenty-three,” he dictated. “Thurman.” She scribbled down the address.

They came around the corner just in time to see Eddie take a left a block up and they were back up behind him in less than a minute. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic.

They followed him back across the bridge and in a few minutes they were on St. Charles Avenue and kept close behind until the street curved right and became Carrollton.

“This is Riverbend,” Whitney said. “Nice neighborhood.”

Eddie was pulling into a strip center a block up on the left.

Grady pulled over to the side of the street and watched. At first, he figured he’d forgotten something for the party since there was a grocery store there, but no, he got out with one of the cases of beer--long-necks by the size of the cases, the old-fashioned big brown ones--and started walking up the street.

Grady pulled into the same shopping center, only at the opposite end of it, and waited until Eddie crossed the street. As soon as he was across, Grady told Whitney to stay put while he got out and followed him. He strolled up to the corner and watched Eddie cross Carrollton and head for the opposite side of the street. He walked up to a house, the second from the corner, going around to the side and letting himself in at a gate.

Wait a minute, Grady told himself. That’s his destination and he’s got a shitload of stuff in the car. Don’t get too hasty. Wait awhile.

He ran back to the car.

“I think he’s going to be here a while, Whitney. You stay in the car. Something weird about this. This might be somebody else’s place that’s in with him and Reader. I’m going to walk up and keep an eye on the house.”

She nodded and he walked off, back to the corner where he could see the house. Good soldier, he thought, thinking of way Whitney had just nodded. There were lots of women who would have pitched a bitch, wanted to come along, in a situation like that. It was a rare woman--or man, for that matter--who would have done just what he said. This woman had qualities very few people in his experience had possessed, he thought, and then got his mind on business.

There was a little bookstore on Carrollton directly across from where Eddie had gone. Little Professor, it said. That was funny. There was a Little Professor bookstore in Dayton, but the Dayton one was huge. This looked like a boutique. He wondered if it was the same chain. Before he went into the store he took note of the street the house was on. He was at the intersection of Burthe and Carrollton.

The bookstore gave him a good vantage point. He could see the house through the front window. Pretty soon, sure enough, along came Eddie and another man, a husky man with longish black hair who looked to be maybe fifty years old, but there was no gray in his hair.

It was Kincaid.

Grady could feel his heart beat faster as soon as he recognized the man from his photo. Settle down, he told himself. Take care of business.

Right away he could see Kincaid was the guy in charge by the way he walked and the way Eddie skipped along slightly behind him. Kincaid looked like he was chewing Eddie out, probably for parking so far away, and Eddie was jawing back, but Grady could see it was a losing battle. Kincaid was pretty much ignoring him. He came out of the bookstore in time to see both men jump into Eddie’s car.

Shit, he thought. Here I am, way the fuck down here and there they go. He debated whether to sprint for his own car, but decided against it. He’d have to pass right in front of them and he didn’t want either of the men to get a look at him. He could wave at Whitney and hope she knew what he wanted but doing so would draw attention to himself and he didn’t think he should risk that.

As it turned out, it was one of those moves it was fortunate he didn’t take. They were only driving the car over to the house. He shot back inside the bookstore, ignoring the clerk who glanced at him briefly and went back to stocking shelves. Grady picked up and thumbed through one of the books in the front window, watching the house.

Eddie didn’t appear to be any too bright. It looked as though if it were up to him, he’d make six trips to unload all his stuff, a block and a half each way. Kincaid was definitely the brains of this pair, he realized.

And this is it. Grady instinctively knew that whatever was going to go down was drawing near. He couldn’t figure out where this house fit in, unless this was where Kincaid was staying. If that was the situation, what was the other house, the one in Algiers? Whose house was this? Somebody else in on the job with them? Whatever the fuck the job was.

He made up his mind to go back to Algiers, see whose house that was.

He watched the two men unload Eddie’s car, and then Eddie came out alone and started up the car and pulled out on the street heading west. Grady left the bookstore, uncertain what to do, run for his car and tail Eddie or stay put, keep his eye on the house. He was in luck once more. He saw Eddie was going to park the car back in the shopping center parking lot.

Why the hell is he doing that, he wondered. There were plenty of parking spaces on the street by the house. He went back inside the bookstore for the third time and this time he was going to have to do something or the clerk was going to call the police.

“Police,” he said, flipping open his wallet and flashing his shield at the young man. He didn’t bother to explain that he was a retired cop from Ohio without any official authority in this town. “Surveillance. We got a tip there might be a drug transaction taking place up the street. Doesn’t look like it though.” The clerk nodded in a bored way, like so what? what’s different? and went back to reading the paperback he held out in front of him at a distance that suggested nearsightedness.

Grady was taking a risk he might be spotted, but he decided to chance it. It wasn’t that either man knew of his existence, but if he kept showing up in their life... He left the bookstore after nodding to the clerk, crossed the street and walked down Burthe. When he went past the house where Eddie and the other man were, he noted the street address. He continued past until he reached the corner, turned west and went around the block, coming out across from the shopping center by a high school. He walked quickly across, startling Whitney as he came up on her side without her seeing him. She was looking in the direction he’d originally gone.

“Grady! Damn! You just about gave me a heart attack.”

Quickly, he ran down what had gone down.

“C’mon,” he said, opening her door and helping her out. “Let’s go have a drink.”

They walked across the street and into the bar on the opposite corner. Madigan’s was the name on the outside, nice looking joint, wide open doors and with the cheery look some neighborhood bars can have. Grady picked a table in the front. A huge plate-glass window afforded a full view of the house down on Burthe. He ordered a beer for him and the vodka gimlet Whitney said was all she ever drank and got change for the phone. The bartender showed him where it was in the back, by some pinball machines. Whitney was more than eager to help out by keeping an eye on the house while he made a call.

“Sally,” he said, and the voice at the other end said, “You got ‘im.”

“Can you find out who owns a house if I give you an address? Maybe check out a Polk directory, you got one?”

Whitney was still on her first drink and he was on his second beer when the phone rang and the bartender asked if there was anybody named Fogarty there. It was Sally.

“Fogarty, that was easy. The owner is a Melvin Davis. It’s listed as a duplex. Is that right?”

“That’s what it looks like. Upstairs and down. Separate entrances, way it looks.” He waved at Whitney up at the front and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t believe the way he thrilled when she smiled and gave him a little wave back.

“Yeah, well, I got the info from a friend down at the station who looked it up for me, said it’s one of those investment properties, the owner doesn’t live there. He’s got a bunch of these things, rents ‘em out. Has a company called Breakwater Management.”

“You got a number for them? Never mind, they’re probably in the phone book.”

“I’m ahead of you, Fogarty. Already called them. The top unit’s vacant. The bottom one’s rented out. Interesting who it’s rented to.”

“Who?”

“Clifford St. Ives.”

“Should that mean something to me? The name doesn’t ring any bells or anything. One of Reader’s criminal friends?”

“I guess the name wouldn’t mean anything to you. Caught my attention, though. Mr. St. Ives, or C.J. as he’s known around town, is quite the big shot. Married, too, got a big place Uptown off Magazine near Flagon’s. Within walking distance of Commander’s Palace. Place is worth a cool million, at least. In his wife’s name. Actually, her grandfather’he real big shot. One of the biggest names in the state. He’s all hooked up with the governor and all the other big deals.”

“Big shot in what way, Sally?”

“He’s a banker, Grady. He’s the president of Derbigny State Bank. Kinda funny, isn’t it? I mean the president of a bank and all, married, and he’s got this little place over on Riverbend. That’s mostly students in that part of town. Tulane undergrads. Professors, long-time locals. It’s a nice neighborhood. What would a guy like
St. Ives be doing with a little crib like that, you suppose?” He laughed.

“A girlfriend.”

“Yep. You’re pretty sharp for a Yankee.” He laughed again. “Ol’ C.J.’s quite the guy, you know. Lot of talk about him around town. There was talk of him running for governor a few years back, but something about his background kept him from doing it. I think his grandfather-in-law put the kibosh to that. There’s lots of rumors, but nothing concrete. Something about he’s not who he pretends to be. I’ve heard talk ol’ C.J. comes from cracker stock, but nothing for sure. I know one thing. His wife is the hammer in that family. Her granddaddy is one powerful pistol, one of the old coonass Mafia, that’s all cleaned up these days, respectable. He’s one of a handful of people can decide who the governor’s gonna be. It’s his bank, one of them anyway. He gave it to her when she came out. Now that guy’s a guy to watch out for. Titus Derbigny. He’s the real thing. Not like this pissant who married his granddaughter.”

Grady paused from writing down the names Sally was giving him.

“Came out? I don’t understand...”

“Debutante. Guess they don’t have debutantes where you’re from. It’s a big deal with some folks. Not me. I came out in the back seat of a Plymouth. Anyway, it looks like this is C.J.’s love nest. Any of this help?”

Grady thought a minute. “Yeah. I think so. It’s interesting, him being a banker. Things are starting to make some sense. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks.”

“Hey!” Grady put the phone back to his ear. He’d almost hung up.

“Why’d you mention Reader?”

“Cause Reader’s in this house. The one you say belongs to this C.J.”

“Wow.” That was all Sally said.

“Yeah,” Grady said, after a silence. “Two and two are starting to make four.”

“I read you.”

He hung up and took his beer to the front. He couldn’t see all of the house itself from there, but he could see the street directly in front and part of the building. If any of them came out this way, he’d be able to see them.

He told Whitney what he’d learned.

“It’s a bank job!” she said. Grady looked at her in admiration. This was a pretty sharp gal. Looks and brains. He didn’t say that aloud. Hell, he was still learning what was considered chauvinistic and what wasn’t. He had a feeling if he gave her a compliment like that, she might take offense.

Whitney was dead on. It sure looked as though it was going to be an inside bank job. Probably this C.J. was in on it. But what did they need electronic gear for?

“What time you close?” he said, going up to the bar, laying a five on the bartop and sliding his empty bottle over.

“Close? You’re in New Orleans, mister.” The whole bar laughed, and Grady thought he heard the word “Yankee.” He looked over at Whitney and she grinned and shrugged her shoulders.

Grady shined ack grin at the bartender and the guys lining the bar, left a dollar on the bar, took his beer and went back to sit with Whitney.

***

An hour passed, and the bartender at Madigan’s and one or two patrons at the bar saw the one-eyed man sitting by the front window smack his forehead with the back of his hand, push back from his table and rush to the back room where the payphones were. The girl sitting with him looked as puzzled as they did.

“Tourist,” explained the bartender to one of his regulars sitting at the bar, as if that explained it all.

“Sally!” Grady’s voice was a bit breathless.

“Yeah, this Fogarty? What’s up?”

“That company that leases the duplex you got me the address on, you still got their number?”

He was in luck. The office was closed, but an eager beaver was still working late, and it didn’t take much convincing for her to agree to rent it to Grady. What did take some convincing was to rent it for a short period. He wanted it for a week. The woman on the phone said six months was the minimum, but he got her down to a month with an additional month’s rent as deposit. Telling her he was a cop helped. He said he was on vacation and he’d only need it maybe a week. Look, you can rent it out again soon as I’m gone, maybe sooner than a week, was the way he closed the deal. She agreed to come out and meet him at Madigan’s and give him the key. Show the place to him.

“Come on out,” he said, and when she got there, he introduced her to Whitney, thanked her for her trouble and offered her a drink, which she refused. “I don’t need to see it,” he said, writing her a check that made him wince. “I need a place to sleep more than anything, something near the streetcar. The location is all that’s important.” He made a point of letting her see his shield, when he laid his billfold out for her to check his identification. Whitney didn’t say a word, just watched and sipped on her drink.

The location was everything, he thought. Aloud, he said, “No, ma’am. I don’t want you to show it to me. It’s not necessary.”

After she left, Whitney said, “Another stakeout, eh?”

“Looks like.” He had one more phone call to make.

Half an hour after he hung up, Sally walked in. Grady stood up.

“Whitney, meet a friend of mine. Sal this is Whitney.”

Sally nodded. “This what you wanted?” he said, waving off the bartender who started to walk toward them. He pushed a duffel bag across to Grady.

“Thanks, Sally. I owe you. I don’t figure this was easy to get.”

“My pleasure. Veronica called in a favor. You found him, eh?”

“I found him.”

“Well, nail his butt, then. NOPD’l give you a medal, you do. This is a particularly bad piece of trash. You know, he killed his own father when he was a kid. You need to keep sharp with this guy. You need anything else, you give me a call. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

Grady watched the ex-cop leave.

“Come on,” he said to Whitney. “You like chicken?”

He drove until he found a carryout chicken place. Popeye’s it said. “Chicken tastes good hot or cold,” he explained to Whitney. “Best thing to have on a stakeout other than breakfast rolls.” His next stop was at a convenience store where they picked up some other things, munchies, a liter of Pepsi, some toiletries. He didn’t want to chance taking Whitney home in case whatever it was Kincaid and Eddie were pning went off while he was gone.

“If you want, I’ll pay for your cab,” he said. “This might be even more boring.”

She looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Are you kidding? You couldn’t pay me to leave now! This is getting good!”

He drove them back to Burthe Street and parked a block up from the duplex, and they were getting out of the car, when a man standing in a yard with a hose in his hand watering a flower bed, said, “S’cuse me, folks, I don’t see your sticker?”

Grady looked at the man. “Our sticker?”

“Yeah. If you don’t have a neighborhood parking sticker, the police will boot your car.”

Whitney’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my gosh! That’s right, Grady. I forgot.”

The man said, “You folks visiting someone?”

“Yeah,” Grady replied. “Friend of mine lives up the street.”

The man peered at him intently, but seemed only idly curious.

“You’re from the north, aren’t you? I can tell from your accent. Me, too. Used to live in Minneapolis. God! I hope to hell I never see snow again!”

Grady thought he’d rather have the snow than this godawful heat.

“I’m sorry,” Whitney said, once they got back in the car. “I guess I just assumed you knew. You can’t park in any neighborhood without a sticker.”

“So that’s why Eddie parked so far away,” Grady said. “I thought he was just a total idiot.”

He drove back to the strip center parking lot and parked on the opposite end from Eddie’s brown Cavalier.

“Let’s go this way,” he said, locking his car. They walked around the block and came in from the side away from Carrollton. “I don’t want them to notice us. We come in from here, this is their blind side from their windows.”

As soon as they got in and he locked the door, he put his finger to his lips and made a pantomime of tiptoeing to Whitney. They stowed the stuff he’d bought in the kitchen, opening cupboards and the refrigerator and every little inadvertent noise each made would send each into paroxysms of silent giggles. By the time everything had been put away both were red-faced and out of breath from holding in their laughter.

Grady motioned for Whitney to follow him into the living room. At the far end was a large window that overlooked the back yard, a small fenced-in area edged with oleander bushes around its borders. Presumably the same layout downstairs, he thought. This room is probably where they are most of the time.

He leaned over close to Whitney’s ear, the smell of her perfume intoxicating. He swayed slightly, whispered in her ear.

“It’s all right if we whisper. They won’t be able to hear us if we keep it low. Look at this.”

He opened the duffel bag Sally had brought him. Inside was an absolute state of the art listening device. Grady explained what it was to her and how it worked.

He soon found out he was right about the layout. Reader and Eddie were right below him and when they talked in a normal tone of voice it was like being in the room with them. He listened on the headphones for a while, and then handed them to Whitney for her to listen while he went out to the refrigerator and brought back the chicken and a glass of Pepsi. There was ice in the freezer and glasses, plates and other utensils in the cupboard. He handed a plate to Whitney and sat back down on the floor, picked up the earphones and munched as he listened in to the sounds below. From time-to-time, he let her listen, smiling when her eyes widened.

“They sure use the intercourse word a lot,” was her wry observation.

“The criminal vocabulary,” he whispered. “Pretty standard, the world over.” She shook her head and twisted her mouth in disbelief at what she was hearing.

Which was interesting. Very interesting. They took turns listening, and when there was a lull down below, they compared notes on what each had heard.

When Grady felt the need to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, he caught himself reaching for the handle to flush it, stopping in time. When he returned to the room, he cautioned Whitney to do the same if she used the facilities.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered, sarcastically. “I’m going to whisper my butt off and then go flush the toilet. Maybe I’ll rattle them pots and pans while I’m at it. You must really think I’m a birdbrain.” Grady started to apologize and then realized by her grin she was only kidding.

After a while, the sounds died down.

“They’re sleeping, maybe,” he offered.

“Good idea,” she whispered back. They had both been sitting, Indian-style on the floor, and she reached over, put her hand on Grady’s neck and pulled him to her, her mouth slightly open to receive his. She had the softest lips he’d ever kissed.

He started to give off a little moan, and then stifled it, mid-way, which caused them both to shake with silent giggles. For some reason, that effort aroused him even more. It must have her as well, from the look that came over her. This time, he reached for her and drew her to him and their lips came together and he felt like he was falling off a ledge on a very high building but it was a pleasant fall, not at all terrifying. More like floating. He laid back on the floor and pulled her to him, taking extraordinary care not to make a sound and it seemed like the more he tried to remain quiet the more intense his arousal became. It was the same for her, he could tell.

He kissed her again and opened his eyes briefly and saw she had hers open as well, and they remained like that, eyes open, tongues seeking each other and his body had never felt so focused on a single thing in his entire life.

He felt her fingers on his trousers and he felt the air when she slid them open and then her hand was inside and it was incredible, the sensation.

The silence they had to maintain just made everything impossibly delicious. Every movement was in tiny increments as they undressed each other. Her legs opened and he was leaning over her and then he was in her and her legs were around his waist and squeezing and all the time she looked into his eyes, never blinking and they would move together and start to move faster and then both of them knew at the same exact moment that they had to slow it down--their bodies were completely attuned, as one, and they made love that way, slowly, with controlled urgency and when he could stand it no more, he came, and then she came, just after he had and while he was in the midst of his passion and it was like nothing he had ever experienced. No screaming, no speaking, no sound whatsoever, just the silent heaving of both their chests, and they could barely move during any of it, so that it was like every cell in their bodies was screaming above the point where the human ear could hear it.

His hand went over her mouth and hers over his, each feeling the hot breath of the other.

Neither said a word as they lay coupled and even though Grady had climaxed, his penis stayed hard longer than it ever had and then gradually relaxed and got small and slipped out and it was only then that he eased off her to her side and lay, stomach-down on the carpet, his arm across her breasts, her hand warm on his forearm, her breath mingling with his, the perfume of her wet hair in his nostrils.

Five and then ten and then twenty minutes passed before either moved.

Whitney was the first to stir, lifting up on her elbow and gazing down at Grady, who could only shake his head in disbelief.

“That was...” she started to say.

He put a finger to her lips.

“No words,” he said in a ragged whisper. “There are no words.”

She nodded and lay her head on his chest and for long minutes they just lay like that. After a while, as if by mutual, silent consent, they both sat up and put their clothes back on. Dressed, Grady padded into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of Pepsi and two glasses.

“A toast,” he said, pouring each about half full.

Whitney frowned. “Don’t you dare make light of this,” she said. “That wasn’t just sex we just had. At least not for me.” She turned away but not before Grady saw the tears pooling in her eyes.

Grady sucked in his breath audibly. He quickly set the glasses down on the floor and went over to her, taking her in his arms. He put his finger under her chin and lifted it until she was looking straight into his eyes. Her chin trembled beneath his fingers.

“Oh, Whitney!” he breathed, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re so wrong!”

Her eyes probed his, darting back and forth, rapidly, searching for a sign in his face that he was being honest, her own expression one of wariness.

He pulled her down with him onto the floor until they were both on their knees.

“Whitney...” he hesitated. “Oh, my sweet, sweet darling! I can’t believe you can’t just look at me and know how I feel. I’ve never experienced anything in my life like what we just had. That wasn’t just sex, Whitney. Not to me. Oh, it was sex all right—sex with all capitals. But there was something else in there. Something magical and marvelous and...and I can’t explain it, can’t find the words for it. I want to sound like a poet when I tell you how I feel and I’m just a dumb cop. I want to sing, I want to cry, I want to yell out loud.” His face twisted in anguish as he tried to find the perfect words to tell her how he felt and couldn’t. “But, I can think of only one word to describe what I feel for you.”

She looked at him with eyes so large and luminous he thought he could easily fall into them and drown.

“The only word I can come up with is this.” He leaned over, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered.

He pulled back and when he saw her face he felt a happiness flood over him, a kind of joy he had never felt before in his life. She brought her hand up, caressed the side of his face.

“I feel the same word, Grady,” she said.

They came together, their lips touching, melting together, and this wasn’t a bruising, lusty kiss; it was a kiss of sweetness, soft, enveloping, pure.

“I love you, too, Grady,” she whispered, her voice husky in his ear, the natural perfume of her hair making him faint with giddiness and delight.

She pulled him down beside her and they lay together, not moving, just holding each other, feeling the other’s heartbeat against their chests. No matter whatever happens for the rest of his life, Grady thought, I’ll always have this perfect moment.

They lay together like that for long, delicious moments, and then gradually became aware of sounds and movement downstairs. Whitney was the first to stir. She gently pulled Grady’s arms from around her, kissed him chastely on his forehead, and sat up.

“You’ve got work to do, my sweet,” she said, her face mock serious. “We’ll have time for you and me later. Lots of time, I hope.”

He smiled at her back as she vanished into the other room and only when he heard the bathroom door click softly shut, did he pick up the earphones and began to listen again. He heard a slight noise as she opened the bathroom door and then she came back in and sat down beside him and began stroking his hair. After a few minutes, she snuggled down beside him on the floor, closed her eyes and went to sleep, the corners of her mouth turned up just the slightest bit as her breathing became slower and she slept. He watched her. And listened on the earphones.

And imagined the future.

***

About five-thirty, he heard someone come in downstairs and two muffled voices. Must be in another part of the room, he assumed. The next thing he heard clearly was, “Get off my case, Reader.” Grady assumed the voice belonged to Eddie. The next voice he heard, he recognized as Reader’s.

“Aw, fuck it. Go in and bring out our guest. It’s time for a movie.”

There was some bumping and other noises he couldn’t make out and then Reader was talking again.

“You watch many movies, Mr. St. Ives?” Movies? What the hell was going on? Did he work for the banker? He heard something muffled, must be St. Ives. He could hear only snatches of conversation.  St. Ives didn’t seem to be taking part in the conversation. Then he could hear Kincaid’s voice again, much clearer.

“I need to explain some things to you, Mr. St. Ives. You want to pay attention. This is important if you want to keep all your body parts.” He laughed again, and Grady thought he heard something else, something the other man said, but he couldn’t make it out.

“See this?” Grady couldn’t, and he couldn’t imagine what it was Kincaid was showing the other man.

“This is going to be part of your wardrobe tomorrow.” Looks like something you make in art class, fifth grade, doesn’t it? You ever work with Plaster of Paris, Mr. St. Ives? Well, this little art project is special.” Again, that sound that was supposed to be a laugh.

He explained what was in the Plaster of Paris mold, not aware he was explaining it to an audience of two.

“This movie I want you to watch stars a dog. Nice pooch. You’ll notice he has the same thing on his back as you’re looking at here. Only, there’s three pipes in yours. The mutt only had one. You want to watch real close to see what just one can do.” He paused. “You want to pay real close attention, Mr. St. Ives. I wouldn’t want you to misinterpret anything.”

Grady heard some fumbling, figured out quickly it was Reader inserting a video in the VCR.

It was a short movie. The instant he heard the sound of an explosion, Grady had pretty much doped out what was going on. This guy was something! So that was why he’d needed a dog!

He tried to figure out what he should do. He knew enough now to arrest him. Or did he? Under the RICO act, Kincaid could be charged with a crime for planning it, but would he be convicted? RICO was a bitch to convict under, lots of times. Unless you were a TV detective.

This was getting complicated. I bet Reader didn’t figure on this St. Ives guy to have his own scam going, Grady thought.

And who the hell was this Castro he kept hearing mentioned? Must be a code name, Fidel Castro was in Cuba the last he’d heard. There was more to this than he was picking up. Why was St. Ives picking up money in ‘Sha-mette,’ wherever that was? Why would a banker be picking up money? A whole fucking lot of money. Four million, is that what he’d heard? Four million! It came to Grady in a flash of insight and he saw it, the whole thing, clear as sunshine. He knew what he had to do.

Find out everything he could about Kincaid’s plans and figure out something. Get inside this creep’s mind, see how he thinks, and you’ll come up with something. Make him pay, really pay for what he’d done to Jack. You want this case to be ironclad. This is one bad guy you don’t want to get off because of some liberal judge or idiot jury. Grady had seen too much of both to risk something like that with this son-of-a-bitch.

They’d turned the VCR off, and Kincaid was speaking to
St. Ives. He was explaining what was going to happen, what St. Ives was going to have to do.

“Remember what you saw in that little movie, pal. You fuck up, that’s you.”

He shook Whitney gently awake, putting his hand over her mouth in case she awoke disoriented and make an outcry. Her eyes instantly signaled her alertness and he put a finger to his mouth and leaned over and kissed her.

“Hungry, sweetheart?” he asked. She was.

“I’ll get us something,” she said, getting up and tiptoeing into the kitchen.

She came back and handed Grady a piece of the chicken he’d bought and a napkin and leaned over to kiss his forehead. He looked up, mouthed the word “thanks” and she sat down a little ways from him and began eating.

Grady concentrated on what was happening beneath them, munched on chicken, and occasionally made notes on the little pad he always kept. He already had a long list of names. He heard Eddie return and the snap of beer cans being opened. He heard them take St. Ives to another room, probably a bedroom, and pretty soon they came out and began going over the plan, the voice he knew belonged to Reader, going over, point by point--times, places, everything. This Eddie must be a real dunce, Grady thought, from the way Reader explains things to him. He was glad. He listened for a long time, only occasionally taking a break to go to the bathroom or get a drink. The guy was sharp, no doubt about it.

Sweat was pouring from both their bodies as the room became even warmer, although he was not about to turn on the air-conditioning for fear they’d hear the noise downstairs. And there was an odor, slight at first, but growing stronger as the hours went by. He’d smelled it before. Rotting flesh. Must be a dead rat someplace, he thought, his stomach beginning to roil. I hate that smell, he thought, holding the tail of his shirt over his mouth and nose. It helped some.

“What is that?” Whitney asked, making a face.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably a dead mouse or something in one of the vents.”

“It’s making me sick,” she said. She looked as if she were about to throw up. He told her to go into the bathroom and get a wet washcloth and hold it over her mouth and nose. She brought him one back and it helped.

Around midnight, things quieted down downstairs. They must have gone to bed, Grady figured. Sure enough, he heard Eddie in a barely audible voice say, “Goodnight, partner.”

“They’re going to sleep,” he told Whitney. “We ought to do the same.” She nodded and curled up beside him. Grady took his shirt off, scrunching it into a ball for a makeshift pillow for them to shar. Whitney was soon dozing, but sleep for Grady wasn’t available that easily. What he’d learned kept going through his mind. By now, he’d heard enough to have a pretty distinct idea of most of the elements. There were a few things that weren’t altogether clear, but he was pretty sure he knew who Castro was now and how he fit into the equation. The banker must be laundering drug money. Grady got that from some of the remarks overheard and from the fact that it was the only thing that made sense. One piece of the puzzle that wasn’t clear was the frequent mention of a girl--they talked as if she was in the room with them--and that part he wasn’t able to figure out at all. Eddie kept saying St. Ives would have to sleep with her. Every time he said that he’d laugh like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said. That was a puzzle, because not once was the voice of a woman audible.

Around two in the morning, the time on stakeouts that the mind begins wandering, all kinds of weird thoughts began to enter Grady’s mind. He found himself wishing for a million dollars. Money would solve a whole lot of problems. New problems that had arisen with the girl sleeping beside him.

He lay beside her, thinking about life and the pitfalls it held for a man and an idea slowly evolved. It was like he was privy to another person’s thoughts. He lay staring at the ceiling and watched a whole scenario come together. At first, it was daydreaming. Wishful thinking. It began to dawn on him that it would take very little to make the daydream real. He wondered what his old buddies on the force back in Dayton would say if they knew what was going on in the old brain pan. They’d laugh, he decided. They’d think it was pretty slick. They’d never believe it of him. Not Grady Fogarty. He didn’t wonder what his father would say if he were still alive. He knew what he’d say.

He wondered if Kincaid would think it was slick. He might, if it wasn’t Kincaid’s score he was thinking about taking.

He shook Whitney gently awake and told her to get her stuff together.

“I’m going to take you home,” he said. “This is no place to spend the night. Besides being dangerous, you’re going to end up in traction in the morning.” She didn’t argue with him. Just another thing that made her perfect, he thought.

He got up and got his own gear together all except for the listening device. He left that in place. He might be back and he might not, but might as well leave it in case he returned. He’d heard enough to figure out most of the scam. Kincaid laid out the whole operation--details, times, names. Listening once more, he couldn’t detect any sound from below. Good.

Twenty minutes later after he’d kissed Whitney goodbye on the front step of her bungalow, he was pulling up to the house Eddie’d gone to. The one in Algiers. The lock was easy. When he slipped inside, he didn’t see a sign of life around except a sleeping wino across and down the street. Most of the houses along the block were dark.

The place was tiny. Two rooms, three counting the bathroom. A small bedroom and a smaller kitchen area. As he began searching through the rooms and the only closet, two things became evident to Grady. This was Reader’s place all right. A stack of bills was on the kitchen table, all addressed to Charles Kincaid at this address. He didn’t see any personal letters. Bills and some junk mail addressed to Occupant. It was evident Reader didn’t plan to return. The place was essentially bare. No luggage and no toilet articles. Oh, there were sheets on the bed and a few clothes hanging in the closet, but it looked to Grady like a house essentially abandoned. Eddie must have been cleaning it out for him the day before. Getting all his personal shit. What convinced him of that was when he was goihrough a small desk in the bedroom. The side drawers were clean as a whistle, but in the main drawer were scraps of paper that didn’t tell him too much. Things you mean to throw away and don’t get around to it, the stuff you clean out of your pockets at the end of the day. One of the items was significant. It was a receipt from a photography studio and the notation said the twenty-dollar charge was for a passport photo. Only there wasn’t any passport in the drawer. Or anywhere else in the house.

That’s what he sent Eddie for, he bet. To pick up his passport and other papers. It made sense. Whatever he was planning, Reader wasn’t going to return to his apartment.

It was time for a little old-fashioned detective work, Grady decided. The kind you do in a newspaper morgue and a library. He needed to find out some things fast.