Cracked (31 page)

I closed my eyes and prayed for crack, my one day of crack before the mayhem that I knew had to follow.

“We promised to do this together,” he said.

“We did. You did more than your part. Now, you have to be about Matty, Darren. Please. He needs you. They lost their mother, their father is in the wind, and they saw Jack, and what I did to Lola. Their nanny drugged them. They have so few people to trust. They trust you.”

“They trust you, too,” he said. “Matty can’t bear to be away from you for more than a few minutes.”

“He’ll get over that, now that you’re here. When they see me, all they’re going to see is murder, and blood. Maybe that’s all they’ll ever see.”

“No, Bean,” Darren said softly. “That’s not all.”

“For now, Darren,” I said, “that has to be all. Because right now, that’s all there is.” I looked at him, dry-eyed and calm. “It’s mine now. Do you get it?”

He shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.

“Darren. Get me that lawyer. I need to get out of here. I know what I need to do.” Darren nodded. He had more contacts in the real world than I did.

He turned around at the door. “Hey, Danny,” he said.

“Yo,” I said.

“Bear with me on this,” he said.

“Okay.”

“If I had been killed, instead of Ginger… would you…”

I stopped him. “Darren,” I said. “If it had been you, nobody would be left standing.” I motioned him back to me. I licked my right thumb, and he did the same. We pushed them together.

“Don’t give up on me,” I said. “I’ll come back from this.”

“Danny,” Darren said. “If you don’t, I won’t be left standing. Think about that, okay?”

“Okay, my brutha,” I said. I smiled. “Now, go and take care of our boys. Capiche?”

“Capiche.”

* * *

Later, Darren took Matty for ice cream while Detective Paul came in and formally arrested me for possession of an illegal firearm. For the time being, at least, it was the only charge. There was enough evidence to show that I had acted in self-defence in the apartment. I had killed Lola while she was going to try for the second time to kill my husband. Detective French had, surprisingly, refused to press charges against me for punching her in the hospital bathroom. And I hadn’t heard a word about what had happened at Lucky’s.

The gun that Dave had given me was unregistered. I wasn’t surprised, of course, but I told the police honestly that it had been given to me for my own safety by my brother-in-law’s private investigator – a person whose identity they hadn’t confirmed yet, as I didn’t have his last name. They believed me that the man existed – they had him on CCTV in the hospital when we took Gene in, though apparently he was aware of cameras, and always had his face averted.

“I have something to tell you, though, Danny,” Belliveau said. “I just found out this morning.”

I just looked at him. This wasn’t going to be good news, or he would have led with it.

“Detective Miller and Fred Lindquist are both missing,” he said. After you say they dropped you and the private eye at the airfield; well as you know, Miller wasn’t even supposed to do that. But I don’t think anybody’s too worried about that.” I stared at him. “Miller radioed in an emergency code, officer in jeopardy code, shortly after they would have left you. They found his car. They haven’t found either Miller or Lindquist.”

Jesus.

“This is in the desert, Danny,” he said gently. “There’s not much around.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said. “I was just there.” I remembered the baking, dry heat, the relentless sun.

“Fred must have had someone pick them up, or pick him up. Really, they have nothing to go on. At least, that they’re telling me,” he added.

“How could this happen?” I said. “Miller had his gun. Fred was unarmed.”

Belliveau shrugged. “Could be a number of things, Danny. He did get his own lawyer’s gun off him when he was being let out on bail.”

“Have they checked with Fred’s lawyer, Chandler York? He might know something. Those two used to be friends. Well, until Fred hijacked his car, I suppose,” I added.

“Yeah, and I guess the man is a nervous wreck. He seems to think Lindquist is having some sort of psychotic break, on some sort of spree.”

I couldn’t really imagine Chandler York as a nervous wreck. But then I thought of the time I met him, and how he attacked the Grey Goose. Elegant veneer, but who knew, maybe he had a touch of the nervous Nellie. But then again, who could blame him.

So Dave’s identity was now in even more question, as he worked for Fred, and no one knew who he was, or his last name. But I remembered Dave with Gene, and at the hospital, and I trusted that he wouldn’t be found unless he wanted to be.

And once every couple of hours, I prayed he was out there looking for Jeanette and Luke.

Darren sent his lawyer friend to see me in the hospital before they released me on a Promise to Appear in court on a date late in January, with conditions not to hang out with criminals, or be around any guns, and to check in regularly with the officer who was doing the undertaking. In this case, Detective Belliveau.

The lawyer said it was perfectly fair, and she was only surprised I didn’t have any conditions against travelling. I thought that might be Paul’s doing. I had a feeling he knew I was going to have to be allowed to travel, because one way or another I was going to do it anyway.

* * *

Later that day, Darren took Matty home, and I made a solemn promise to both of them that I would see them in a couple of days. I was getting released later, my legal paperwork was sorted out, and I had put in a call to D-Man and placed an advance order, making sure he was in stock.

I was going to have my day. My one day, with my drug. For the first time since the horror began – other than a couple of hits in the en-suite at Ginger’s and the horrible night with Dom – I would be left alone with my drug, and my grief.

Then, I would spend a few days with Darren and Matty, and firm up my plans. I was pretty sure I knew where I was going to look for Jeanette.

I tried not to think. I was waiting for the doc to come and discharge me – and if I knew my brothers, they were trying to make that process as long as possible. I occupied the next couple of hours in taking as long a shower as I could in my little bathroom, and trying to borrow some makeup from a nurse. I wanted to occupy myself in mindless physical gestures. Washing my hair. Endeavoring to borrow a hairdryer, and makeup. Seeing what I could do about getting clean clothes, since my own blood-covered garments had been taken into evidence, and I was getting pretty tired of the gray sweats I’d been wearing.

In a different pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from a bin the hospital had on hand for the homeless, I sat on my hospital bed. I was antsy. I was going to start smoking crack in a few hours. I wasn’t going to sleep on my bed, I would be throwing the bed away that Gene had been nearly killed on. But I would be in my apartment, smoking crack. I couldn’t sit still. Finally, I picked up the phone and called Toronto General.

“Eugene Gold, please,” I said. “He was in ICU.”

“Hold please,” a voice said. There were no public health messages this time. Everybody had gotten the hint about the hand washing.

“Danny?” Gene was saying, and I breathed again.

“Gene,” I said. I exhaled. “Oh, God. How are you?”

“In pieces,” he said. He grunted a little, like he was looking down at himself. “They took my spleen, did you hear?” His voice sounded wheezy. “Gene’s got no spleen.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was there that night,” I said.

“You were?” he said. I told him about arriving back from California, and finding him in my apartment. For the time being, I left out the rest.

“How did it happen, Gene?” I didn’t have to ask him who.

He was opening the door, he said, to go downstairs and meet D-Man’s backup driver outside and pick up some supplies. When he opened the apartment door, some girl was standing there. Somebody he didn’t know.

“I was about to say something to the girl,” Gene said. “You know – like, are you looking for Danny, ’cause she’s away… whatever. But before I could speak, she tased me.” Gene took a deep, rasping breath. It sounded like it hurt. I winced.

“I don’t remember anything for a little while, after hitting my head against that table in your hallway,” Gene said. “They knocked the wind out of me.”

“Probably knocked you out,” I said. Poor Gene. Oh God. Crack. I needed my crack.

“Then, next thing I knew, I was tied to your bed,” Gene was saying. “I think… I think my nose was broken,” he said. He sounded like he was trying not to cry.

No, I thought. No. I will not feel anything. I can’t feel anything, anymore.

“There were two of them,” Gene said. “Two women. It’s embarrassing. Two girls, right? I mean you know I’m a feminist male and all that, but no guy wants to admit he got nearly killed by a couple of girls. One of them – she looked like you. Sort of.”

“So I keep being told,” I said.

“And the other one was short, really short.”

“She’s dead,” I said shortly. “Her name was Lola.” I paused. “Those two have killed people. Ginger. And Jack.”

“Jack?”

“Gene, it’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll fill you in on everything, I promise. But first I have to go find Luke.”

“Well I hope you don’t run into the guy,” Gene said.

“What guy?” My heart started beating faster.

“The one who came in at the very end, when they were leaving,” Gene said. “He seemed in a rush, or like he was late or something. I don’t know. I was in and out by then.” I wasn’t breathing. I tried to breathe.

“What did he look like, Gene?” I repeated. I tried to avoid knocking over the chair.

I could hear him try to shrug. “Forties? Blackish hair. Tan coat. Smoker. Weathered-looking.” He paused. “Sort of like Gabriel Byrne.”

Miller. It had to be.

I shut my eyes. “How do you know he was a smoker?” I asked.

“Uh… because he was smoking?” Gene answered, like I was stupid. He paused. “Oh, and just before he left, he burned me with his cigarette. Seemed to think that was hilarious.” Gene was crying now.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

I stifled my gag reflex. “Gene,” I said. “I have to get off the phone. I want you to sit tight.”

“Um. Danny? I can’t move. I’m in here for a coupla weeks, anyway.”

“Right. Well. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“Danny,” Gene said. He breathed in, and it sounded like it took some effort. “I’m sorry.” He was crying. “For everything. You know.”

“No, Gene,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” he said. We didn’t say that to one another.

“You too, Gene,” I said. I did.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I fished Detective Belliveau’s card out from my wallet, willing my fingers not to shake. I phoned the home number that he’d written in pen on the back. A woman answered.

“Hello,” I said. “May I speak to Detective Belliveau, please.”

“He’s unavailable,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Belliveau,” I said. “It’s an emergency.”

“Aren’t they all,” she said, but she put the phone down, and I could hear her yelling “Paul.” I could hear movement in the background, and heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Belliveau,” he said.

“Detective,” I said. “Danny Cleary.”

“How are you, Danny?” Belliveau said. He sounded like he was sitting down.

“Paul. You need to get here, now.”

“What—” he started to say, but I cut him off.

“Detective Harry Miller killed my sister. Or was in on it. And the attack against my friend Eugene Gold. He’s here. I’m sure he’s here. If Jack was here, and Jeanette and the boys, he’s either here or on his way.”

I could hear Belliveau chewing on that one. “Get people over to my brother’s place, will you? He’s got Matty there.”

“There’s already a protective detail outside your brother’s address,” Belliveau said.

“Do they know not to answer to detectives from another jurisdiction?” I asked. Belliveau paused.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said. “Danny. Go into the bathroom in your hospital room, and lock the door.”

“Bring me a weapon?” I asked.

“Danny, go into the bathroom, lock the door, and stay away from the door,” he repeated.

“We need someone trustworthy protecting Eugene Gold, as well, at Toronto General,” I said.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Who do you think I am?”

“You’re Superman,” I answered, and hung up.

I was dialling Darren’s number when Detective Harry Miller sauntered into my hospital room.

“Wow,” I said. “Hi.” I tried to look normal. I tried to look glad to see him. I thought maybe my voice was too loud. I tried not to glance out the two inches of open door to see if the cop was still standing there.

Miller looked changed from days ago, like something the cat dragged in, to quote a favorite expression of my late mother’s. His hair was greasy and yet managed to stand straight on end, and his eyes were dry and red.

Ah, I thought. Drugs. Miller is just another fucking junkie.

Of course. Of fucking course. Like to like, and all that.

Miller crossed the room and kissed me gently on the mouth. I responded briefly, or pretended to. This man had tortured Gene, a person I loved, despite everything. He could have killed him.

The fact that I had had sex with him made me want to retch. More, it made me want to bury my fist in his bleary-eyed face.

“Lovely,” Miller said. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He looked around my room, as though it held Da Vinci’s Code. He paced. Crystal meth, I guessed. Up for days, red eyes, but not sniffing quite as much as a cokehead. More functional than a crack user. Definitely crystal, I decided. Also prone to the violent outbursts. I smiled.

“Lola,” I said. “My husband Jack. I guess you heard.”

Miller looked around for a few more seconds, before parking himself comfortably into an uncomfortable chair. “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

“She was in cahoots with Jeanette,” I continued. I was doing my level best not to look anywhere but his eyes, but to catch everything else peripherally. Where he might be carrying his weapons. How many paces to the bathroom door versus how many paces to the door to the room itself. Would the cop in the hallway have talked to Belliveau yet?