Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (36 page)

A quick once over of the large blue and white
appliance told me what my options were as I dropped a trio of coins
into the slot. An electric hum followed by a hollow cardboard thunk
elicited from the device as I held my fingers splayed out against
the round buttons labeled double cream and double sugar. After a
moment or two of steamy hissing and watery sputtering, the paper
cup overflowed onto the stainless steel grill where it sat. I slid
back the splattered Plexiglas door and tilted the cup to pour off
some of the excess then placed it carefully atop the machine and
repeated the entire process.

On the second go around, I was forced to
prematurely open the translucent shield and straighten out the cup
before the coffee began to dispense. The hot liquid barely missed
my fingers.

Drinks in hand, I continued the few steps
down the corridor to the bench and placed one of the cups next to
Constance before taking a seat a respectful distance away.
Remaining silent, I took a cautious sip of the instant java and
found much to my satisfaction that it was just as bad as I thought
it would be. Even so, it was a cut or so above the tar I’d had in
the Homicide squad room earlier in the day, so that was a plus.

“Looks like I’ve got a pair of Kings, Queen
high,” I finally announced while holding the paper receptacle at
eye level and inspecting the dull image of a poker hand that graced
it. “I didn’t look at yours. Wouldn’t have been fair.”

After a moment, Constance leaned back with a
sigh, picked up the coffee I’d set next to her, and peered into the
muddy brown liquid. “I usually take mine black.”

“Me too,” I said as I nodded. “But it’s been
my experience that coffee from one of those machines tastes like
something on the order of hot water poured over pencil shavings, so
I figured the cream and sugar might help. Just pretend it’s a cheap
latté.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”

We continued to sit in silence as she sipped
at the coffee and absently picked at the rim of the paper cup with
her thumb and forefinger. I could still feel a flow of anger coming
from the federal agent, though it had greatly subsided and was
still decreasing. The waves of emotion appeared now as a dull aura
enveloping her petite frame. This was, at the very least, an
improvement over the fiery-eyed, vermilion monster that had been
gnashing its teeth in the interview room earlier.

“Three aces,” she eventually muttered.

“Guess I should have looked,” I answered.

Again, a less than peaceful quiet embroidered
the atmosphere of the hallway. I held my own voice, allowing the
stillness to work in my favor.

“Well, I guess I blew that one,” she sighed
when the desire to express herself finally surfaced. “I’ll probably
be up in front of Bartlett before the evening is out.”

“Your word against Roberts,” I replied
calmly.

“You and Storm were in there. You both saw me
lose it.”

“Ben says he didn’t see anything.”

“What about you?” she asked in a dull
voice.

“Me?” I paused and gathered my words. “I saw
a friend in distress is about all.”

“Neither one of you need to be lying for me,”
she admonished.

“Look…” I stared thoughtfully into my own
coffee cup for a moment before continuing. “Roberts isn’t injured
in any way, and I expect by the time Ben gets through talking to
him, he won’t be pressing any charges. I’m not defending your
actions mind you, but we all have a breaking point. For some reason
you obviously hit yours.”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “You’re probably right.
Still, I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“You’ve got enough to deal with without me
dumping on you,” she contended.

“Truly good friends are a rarity, Constance,”
I offered in return. “I count you among mine, and I always have
time for my friends.”

She allowed a weak smile to play across her
lips and shot me an embarrassed glance then brushed her hair back
and sighed, “It was the whole lesbian thing.”

“I kind of picked that up.” I nodded then
took a sip of the overly sweetened brew. It had now cooled enough
to drink without fear of a scalded tongue, so I toned down my
original caution. “Does homosexuality bother you?”

“What? No, no, nothing like that,” she
explained. “Just assholes like Roberts that get off on watching two
women together and make a big deal of it.”

I mulled over her comment before replying,
“Okay.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to you, does
it?”

“Not entirely. I’ll grant you it’s not my
thing either, but I try to be open minded about that sort of stuff.
Either way, it’s not my place to judge the feelings and opinions of
others, so if it bothers you…”

She let out an exhausted sigh, and I could
feel her reluctance to speak fading into the background. Her anger
had quelled, leaving only a sad emptiness in its wake. It was a
pain dulled by time but still in possession of sharp barbs that, if
brushed against, could open the wound anew.

“This stays between us, right?” She stared at
me with deadly serious concern glazing her eyes.

“Of course,” I answered.

There was a short interlude where she
searched my face and found only truth behind my answer. She then
stared at an unseen spot on the floor while nervously fidgeting the
rim of the paper cup between her fingernails. Finally, whatever
courage or imagined approval she sought within came into being and
she spoke.

“I had an older brother, Rowan,” she began
flatly. “His name was Brandon and he was gay.”

“Had
?” I
couldn’t help but notice the emphasis on the past tense. “Was it
HIV?”

“No, not AIDS. I almost wish it had been.”
She breathed the acronym as if it could have been a welcome friend.
“I know that probably sounds insane but in a lot of ways that would
have been much easier to cope with...to understand.”

Constance drew in a deep breath then, like
taking a bitter dose of medicine, rushed headlong into the
explanation. “Around four years ago Brandon was locking up the
bookstore he managed. It was late and he was alone… Classic setting
for something to happen I suppose—in fact, to this day when I talk
about it, it doesn’t seem real. It sounds like a scene from a
made-for-TV movie…

“Anyway, before he ever got his key out of
the door, he was jumped from behind by a liquored up homophobe who
beat him to death with an aluminum softball bat.”

Her pragmatic explanation poured into the
quiet hallway, starkly revealing her personal tragedy for me to
witness. A simple dissertation unblemished by the heavy emotions
she had incarcerated deep within.

“I’m sorry,” I told her after a solemn pause,
then as if to add to the surreal cliché of the stories fold, I
automatically asked the obvious. “Did they ever find the guy who
did it?”

“Oh yeah,” she replied with a quick nod.
“They found him. He was too drunk to cover his tracks or even
bother with getting rid of the bat. The police followed his bloody
footprints right back to his apartment which, as it happens, was
two doors down the hall from Brandon’s.”

She paused and looked over at me with the
vacancy of cold grief in her eyes then continued, “The one thing
that I’ll always remember is what the sonofabitch said when they
arrested him. He said that if Brandon had been a gay woman instead
of a gay man, then he wouldn’t have killed him. In his words it was
because, ‘a couple of hot lesbos are a turn-on but two fags is just
sick.’”

So did ya’ find out what was eatin’ at
Mandalay?” Ben asked as we headed toward the building’s exit.

The troubled federal agent had left police
headquarters well before Ben had finished with Allen Roberts. Now,
more than three hours later, this was the first opportunity that
had presented itself for him to ask me about her. She had still
been engaged in a lethargic wrestling match with her anger when she
aimed herself homeward; however, this was far better than the ten
round pugilistic event she had exhibited earlier. I had no doubt
that what she really needed at this point was a healthy cry and a
good night’s sleep. Unless I missed my guess, some portion of that
catharsis was probably taking place at this very moment.

“Yeah, we talked about it,” I said, dragging
on my coat as we approached the door. “But it’s something I can’t
really get into.” I left my comment at that in hopes he wouldn’t
force the issue.

When it came to Ben Storm, I should have
known better than to rally behind such a hope.

Muteness oozed from my friend to form an
expectant bubble of quiet around us for a measured beat. Just as he
opened his mouth to pump me for details, the door swung open and a
pair of uniformed officers bustled through. Ben exchanged a quick
nod with them as they continued past us with a frosty wind trailing
along behind. The rush of cold spilled a full twenty feet into the
room before the door was once again completely shut. With the
darkness of night, the reprieve of sunshine was over and winter’s
breath had returned.

“Yeah, uh-huh. So what’s the deal?” he
pressed when he felt they were out of earshot, his words forming an
ephemeral cloud of white on the lingering chill.

“Seriously, I promised her it would stay
between us,” I replied.

“That’s fine. I’m not gonna tell anyone.” He
gave me an animated nod. “Now really, what gives?”

“I’m not kidding, Ben. I promised Constance I
wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Look, Row…” He paused as he brought his
fingers to bear on the tension in his neck, but only after an
unconscious smoothing of his hair. “I admire your loyalty, I really
do, but for all intents and purposes Mandalay physically attacked a
suspect.” The last words of his sentence were enhanced by the fact
that they were spoken in an urgent whisper. His eyes quickly darted
to reassure himself that we were still out of earshot. “The brass
really frowns on that kinda stuff, not ta’ mention what the media
could do with it.”

“I know, Ben, but she didn’t actually hurt
him, did she?”

“No.”

“Is he going to be pressing charges?”

“No, I don’t think so. Besides it’d be his
word against hers, and there wasn’t a mark on ‘im so they’d have a
hell of a time makin’ it stick.”

“Okay then,” I shrugged.

“No, not ‘okay then.’” My friend
stabbed a finger at me. “She got lucky this time, but that’s not
the point. The
point
is that
she attacked a suspect without just cause.”

“I know she was out of line, Ben, but she was
provoked,” I appealed. “You saw how Roberts was getting under her
skin, and he just kept pushing even after you told him to
stop.”

“What? You mean all that lesbo fetish stuff?”
His eyes grew wide as he looked back at me, his index finger still
hanging in the air between us. “Is Mandalay a lesbian? Is that what
this is all about?”

“No, Ben, she’s not gay. Not that I’m aware
of anyway. Besides, what difference would that make?”

“None, but what’s goin’ on? I don’t get
it.”

“I’m telling you I can’t say.” My voice had
taken on the imploring tenor of my emotional appeal. “I made a
promise, and if there is one thing a person has in life it’s his or
her word. I cannot and will not break my word to her.”

Ben was growing impatient with me. I could
not only see it in his eyes but feel it flowing outward from him as
well. I truly wanted to explain to my friend what had made
Constance snap like she did. Consciously I knew that simply telling
him would most likely get this all over with in a heartbeat. That,
however, was not the only thing I was conscious of. What resided
most in the forefront of my mind was the fact that I could not
betray the trust of a friend— even if it was for another.

“Listen,” he sighed heavily then proceeded to
detail his case in a stern, clipped voice, “I hafta work with this
woman. I may very well hafta count on ‘er ta’ keep me from endin’
up sleepin’ under a rock with my name chiseled on it. Do you
understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, I respect your standin’ by your
promise, and I know it’s somethin’ that’s very important to ya’. I
also have a lotta respect for Mandalay. She’s a good kid even if
she’s a Feeb. But the bottom line is that I don’t know ‘er well
enough ta’ make a judgment call, so right now that respect hasta
take a back seat ta’ reason… What I’ve gotta know is if she’s got
some kinda problem that’s gonna affect ‘er ability to do ‘er
job.”

“I don’t think you have that to worry about,
Ben.”

“You ‘don’t think?’” he demanded. “Think
isn’t good enough, Rowan. What I saw in that interview room looked
like a potential problem ta’ me, and the last thing I need right
now is an unstable Fed on this team. You’ve gotta give me somethin’
more than that.”

“What if I tell you it’s a feeling?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “No
hocus-pocus, Row. I know that
Twilight
Zone
stuff works, but I need somethin’ more on this
one. If you know what’s up ya’ need to tell me.”

“If I could tell you what it is, you know I
would. I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to trust me on
this.”

“I’m dead serious here, Row. I don’t need ‘er
havin’ a meltdown and fuckin’ up this investigation. I haven’t got
time for it. Hell, none of us do.”

“She’ll be fine.” I let out my own weighty
sigh. “Really. What she needs right now is exactly the same thing
we all need—a decent night’s sleep and something to eat besides
donuts and bad coffee. That’s all I can say.”

“Yeah… okay…” he finally aquiesced, shaking
his head all the while. “But I’ve gotta tell ya’, Row, I’m not
feelin’ real good about this at all.”