Box Nine (10 page)

When Eva speaks again, it's like her voice has come back to earth, regained a lot of strength and composure on reentry.

“It's funny, Ike,” she says. “I don't know you well. I mean, I'm not sure if we've ever sat and spoken like this. But I've noticed you. Your routine, your work habits. I'm a very good supervisor, Ike. I know how all my people operate. You're on the ball. You're probably the best in here as far as taking the job seriously goes. You know, supervisor is not a position a lot of people would want. It'll cost you friends. I don't care who you are. You take off the uniform and put on the suit, they look at you differently. And that's fine with me, because first of all, I've never been very close to anyone at work, and secondly, the job comes first. The job is number one.”

“I'd agree with that,” Ike says, his voice a little higher than usual.

“So I was saying it's funny because, though I don't know you, I always thought it was funny that you weren't this family man. Married and a dozen kids and co-managing the Little League and all. You just seemed very, well, I don't know”—she smiles, raises her eyebrows—“sort of purposeful and clean-cut …”

“Clean-cut,” Ike says, surprised, unsure of her meaning.

“Sure. True-blue. You know what I'm saying.”

“Yeah,” Ike says, “I guess so,” though he has no clue as to what she's talking about.

“God knows,” Eva says, draining the last of her mug, “not like the rest of the crew we've got in here.”

Ike thinks he might be on shaky ground. He wants to watch what he says here.

“I think everyone works to the best of their abilities.”

Eva lets out a deprecating laugh that's little more than a gust of air.

“You do?” she says, and it's less a genuine question than a mocking disagreement.

“Yeah,” Ike says, “I think so.”

“Ike, please,” Eva says. “Wilson? Rourke?”

“I'm just saying I'm not sure everyone has the same capacity.”

“Oh, I get it. ‘If you can't say something nice …'”

“No,” Ike says, “not at all. It's just, how do I know their situations?”

“And how do they know yours? Their ‘situations' have nothing to do with it. Here's a job. How are you going to perform it? That's it. That's the only question to be debated. I'll tell you what I think is going on here, Ike. I'm management and they're labor and no matter how awful they treat you, you feel this loyalty to them just because they're on your side of the fence. Right? Does this come down from your father?”

Ike doesn't know what to say. He feels like he's been hauled out of bed in the middle of the night and questioned by some police force.

“Oh no,” he says. “No, no, not at all. That's just not true, Ms. Barnes …”

Before he can bite his tongue, Eva bursts out with a single laugh and chokes out, “Ms. Barnes? Ms. Barnes? For God sake, Ike.”

“What?” is all he can come up with.

Eva collects herself, puts her hand up to her forehead for a second, like it will help her think, then lets it fall into her lap and says, “How old are you, Ike?”

He hesitates, then answers, “Thirty.”

“All right, then. I'm thirty-seven, Ike. I'm not exactly your grade school teacher. All right?”

“So, what,” Ike stammers, “I should call you Eva?”

She smiles, seems pleased. “Yes, Ike. Call me Eva.”

“Okay,” he says, forced cheerful, starting to move to get up out of the chair. Eva stays in place and says, “So why do you put up with it?”

Ike freezes and repeats, “Put up with it?”

“The rest of them. Your co-workers. I'm telling you, I've worked at different branches, and I've worked down the main station. There are always a couple of people, okay, but this group. They're the worst bunch of bastards I've come across.”

Ike doesn't like her talking like this. He especially doesn't like being the one to hear it. He stays silent and Eva pushes.

“Do you disagree with me?”

“I guess there's a lot of hostility,” he says.

“You have a way with understatement.”

“If you're looking for a reason why …”

She cuts him off. “I'm the supervisor. They'd hate any supervisor they got over here. On top of that, I'm a woman and that doesn't go down very well with Jacobi or Rourke. So I know why they hate me and I don't lose any sleep over it, believe me. But I don't understand what it is about you …”

“That makes two of us,” he says quickly.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“I've never been this popular guy, okay? I've never been Mr. Popularity.”

“This isn't about being popular, Ike.”

“I don't know.” He pauses, looks up at the clock. “It's getting to be that time.”

She ignores his comment. “What I think we should do,” she says, “is have dinner together sometime and discuss it. What do you think about that?”

Ike looks down at his knees. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“That's right,” Eva says, not backing down at all.

“You think that's a good idea, us working together and all?”

Eva smiles. “It's just dinner, Ike. Sometimes you don't know if something's a good idea until you give it a try.”

Ike concedes this point. “I guess.”

“Besides,” Eva adds, standing, “we outcasts have to stay together. It's a lonely world out there, Ike.”

They both laugh at her last comment and it takes away some of the edge Ike's feeling. “I guess we could have some dinner,” he says.

She nods to him and leaves the break room without another word, holding her black mug cradled at her chest.

Ike gets up and pushes the chairs back against the wall in a row. He puts his mug in the cardboard box and makes a mental note to wash it out in the men's room sink later on. He walks back to his cage feeling a little light-headed and hyper.

He sinks back into the perfect position on the edge of his stool reflexively and takes a minute to ball up his hands into fists and rub at his eyes. A chill moves up his back and he shudders slightly and takes a deep breath.
It's going to be that kind of a week
, he thinks to himself.

He looks down at the small metal lip that juts out from the wall of slots in front of him. The pile of mail he left off with is still sitting there. But next to it is a small brown cardboard box, the type of box the bank mails new checks in. It measures about five by three inches and is maybe an inch tall. It should have been put with the parcels. Ike doesn't remember seeing it when he left the cage.

The package is taped closed at both ends with several pieces of that thick, wide brown mailing tape. Ike leans over it and reads the simple, hand-printed address:

Box 9
Sapir Street Station
Quinsigamond

He reaches down and picks it up and immediately puts it back on the lip. His fingers are wet with something thick and oily, something seeping from the bottom of the package. He sees now a small puddle forming under the carton. And then he notices the smell—an awful, rotting-type smell. His coffee rises up halfway toward his throat.

Ike pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket and holds it up to his mouth and nose. Then without thinking, he picks up the package, dabs away at it, then mops up the puddle on the cage lip.

He throws the soiled handkerchief into a nearby wastebasket. Then he does something he has never done in his career. In his whole life. He uses his fingers to tear open the package. He breaks open the tape at each end and runs his finger along the inside edge of the package, touching something moist inside. His heart starts into a rapid and painful pump, like rubber bullets being fired at the inside of his chest.

He rips the entire top of the package open and tosses it on the floor. He looks inside. And he looks away for a second, unsure, then brings his eyes back again.

It looks like the chopped-up remains of a small fish. There's a tiny section of the face left, one eyeball still visible. The smell is horrible. And then he sees the parasites—tiny mites and worms crawling through the terrible remains.

A sweat breaks instantly over most of Ike's body. He makes himself move slowly, to create the illusion of control. He makes himself walk, not run, to the men's room. He steps inside and bolts the door and turns on both faucets in the sink. He takes a breath to keep himself from vomiting.

Then he cups his hands, lets a pool of water fill up, and begins to splash his face, repeating the procedure over and over, trying to steady himself, wash away the sweat, clear away the smell, obliterate the image of decay and cruelty that's just smacked him like a hit-and-run car on a familiar street.

He knows already that he can use all the water in the city's reservoir, but he'll never be successful. It's too late. The image is there to stay.

Chapter Six

P
eirce is in the parking lot, unlocking her Honda, when Lenore moves up next to her.

“Never a dull moment, huh, Charlotte?” Lenore says.

Peirce balks and drops her keys to the ground and Lenore says, “Didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's not you,” Charlotte says, stooping. “I hate these briefings.”

“Yeah, well, we can't let things get boring.”

Peirce smiles, but it's clear she wants to get going. Lenore leans her behind against the Honda to show she's not finished talking.

“They teamed you with the professor,” Peirce says. “Zarelli will go nuts.”

“Screw Zarelli,” Lenore says, pauses, and adds, “What'd Welby want?”

All Charlotte can say is, “Huh?”

“At the end there. When he asked to speak with you.”

Peirce straightens up, tries to square her shoulders. They stare at each other for a few seconds.

Finally, Charlotte says, “Look, Lenore—”

But Lenore cuts her off and in a low but still-friendly voice, says, “Look, Charlotte, I couldn't care less who you sleep with, okay? I think you know that. If Welby was telling you where to meet him or what to wear tonight, great, have a goddamn ball. Doesn't concern me.”

Charlotte nods.

“But if he was asking you about any of us … about me or Richmond or Zarelli or even the lieutenant, that's a different story. And I won't put up with an inside mouth. You know I won't.”

“Put up with?” Peirce repeats.

“You know what I'm saying, Charlotte. We stay out of Welby's way and he stays out of our way. That's how it's always been. If he's saying he wants to suck on your neck, great. Get what you can. But if he's asking you to talk about fellow officers, if he wants to know about narcotics …”

She trails off shaking her head and Peirce says, “Yeah, what?”

Lenore says, “Then you and I have a problem, Charlotte.”

There's another round of staring, then Charlotte steps forward and sticks her key into the door lock. Without looking at Lenore, she says, “He asked me to wear this black chemise tonight. He bought it for me.”

Lenore holds back a laugh, raises up off the Honda, and says, “That's what I thought.”

She touches Charlotte on the shoulder and takes a step away, then turns back and says, “Remember who broke you in, kid.”

Charlotte gives her own smile and says, “How could I forget, Lenore?”

She climbs in behind the wheel, kicks over the engine, and watches Lenore walk to her Barracuda, then she pulls out of the lot and takes a left toward Main Street. When she's a couple of blocks from headquarters, she pulls the Panasonic microrecorder from her bag and thumbs the On switch.

Victor, Victor, Victor. Master of persuasion. How'd I let you talk me into this? Okay. Professional voice. It is Monday. November twentieth. Ten
A.M.
I'm sitting in my Honda at a red light on LeClair Ave. That digital sign on the front of the Quinsigamond National Building says it's thirty degrees outside and there are thirty-three shopping days left till Christmas. Which reminds me, I've got to make a withdrawal today. It's that time of year, Victor. So what are you getting me? [
Giggle
] Your favorite narc, Charlotte Peirce, and I've been such a good cop all year. Have you made your list, Victor, checked it twice? Okay, I've got the green. I'm not exactly sure what you want from me here, Victor, Mr. Mayor. Should I call you Mr. Mayor on this? How official is this, boss? That's the bitch about this thing. Not like talking on the phone. Or pay phone in your case. No one ever answers you back. It's just talking to yourself. The guy in the red Camaro in the next lane is staring at me, Victor. Thinks I'm nuts. Nowadays you see people talking to themselves in their cars all the time. Take a picture, schmuck. He just blew past us. It's an '81 Camaro. Vanity plate. Mass reg L-I-N-K. Link. Like that black guy on
Mod Squad
, remember? No, you wouldn't remember. That's the big thing about couples like us. The difference in ages. We refer to different TV shows and the other guy never gets it. I'm turning left onto Main. I'm heading for the highway. [
Pause
] Back again, dearest. Just rolled off the expressway and onto Kimble. I've decided to start with the Institute. You never said whether you wanted me to tape interviews. Should I try to hide this thing in my bra or something? You know, it's small but not that small. Are any of these things made by American companies? Jesus. It just hit me. This isn't it, Victor? This better not be it, Victor. It's nice. Great. Panasonic. Voice-activated and all. But it's not going to cut it for a Christmas gift. Not from you. Not after the past six months. That would be just like you, you know? And you probably took the money out of office expenses. Probably had that secretary buy the damned thing. I don't know what to make of you lately. After the briefing, you say “my personal input” and—what was it?—“the investigation within the investigation.” You use these words. You're always using words. That should be the big requirement for mayor. Forget voting. Get the guy who's best with words and make him the boss. I don't know why I'm going along with all this. I figure I've got two choices here. Either you're, like, paranoid over the edge, or you just want to hear my voice all day. Which would be sweet. Number two would be nice. But I've got this feeling that you're just one more guy with a little more power than he's comfortable with. Okay, so back to the briefing. Obviously, there are people you don't trust. You want a cop's perspective, right? But it's got to be someone you can trust. Why are you so scared, Victor? [
Pause
] I'll tell you one thing right off the bat. I looked around that conference table this morning and I listened to that weird-as-they-come Oriental guy, Woo, the language guy there, and you know what hits me most of all? I'm bored. I'm bored to tears, Victor. Sorry, but that's from the heart. Anyone with the brain of a five-year-old can see that this Lingo stuff is just one more log on the fire, you know? To me, it's just not that interesting or different. Maybe the way it hits the brain and all makes Doc Woo all hot. Great for him. To me it's just one more product that no one's supposed to have. A controlled substance. That's the term. That's supposedly my job. Stand between the public and the product. They've got no right to it. Protect them from themselves. I don't want to get into a big discussion here 'cause that's not what this tape is for and I know how you get and it would only annoy you. But you're right to ask my opinion. 'Cause the fact is, you and I can't help but look at this thing from two different places. So, from my point of view, where does that leave us? The same boring vicious circle. The same system, over and over again. I'm not the smartest cop in the world, Victor, but I can't help but think every now and then about how both sides, the dealers and the cops, live off each other. And what would happen if it really ended? If you eliminated the product? What would they do and what would we do? Someone would have to think up something else. Forget it, I'm babbling. You know what's scary? I'm realizing that this is how my brain always works when I'm driving. Listen. The most likely way to distribute a new product is to run it through already-opened channels. Give it to the marketers to market. They're already set up for business. They know what they're doing or they'd be shut down already. They've got liquid capital. They've got experienced personnel. They've got distribution centers. They've got a pipeline to the customer. The customer's already trained, already running to them. Just bring in the spring line and hang it on the rack. They'll buy. If they liked designer A, they'll love designer B. So that gives us the Park, of course. There's no question. Bangkok is where the stuff is going to end up. So, it seems to me, this should run just like a normal investigation. We get word on a new shipment, something larger than normal. And you know, like they say, we round up the usual suspects. The system takes over. There's some fireworks, maybe. Some gunplay. The newspapers run a real sweaty story, a lot of front-page pictures, bodies facedown on the sidewalk, half covered up by blankets. And on Monday you come back to work again. But you seem to think there's something more here. You want to say the difference is the capacity for violence that the drug triggers. But please, don't insult me. I've seen almost ten years of people wired over the edge. It's just a matter of degree after a while. You think we've got a problem here. You say everything's still too vague, we don't have enough information yet. But you know what I think, Victor? I think that you think that there must be someone, maybe
someones
, that you suspect aren't exactly on the right team. And in this case, that bothers you a lot more than usual. [
Pause
] All right, Victor, I'm not saying yes or no. I've got some thoughts on the subject. Just opinions, you know. I'm pulling up to the visitors' parking lot at the Institute. There's a little white shack and a gate. I'm shutting off now. I've got to talk to the guard. Later, boss.