Parallel Lies (33 page)

Jillian had met his arrival at her door first with shock to see him, then with outward indifference. “You left without a word. I thought—” but she stopped herself, her eyes glassy and unwilling to look at him. She motioned him inside and then locked all four door locks. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, upset with herself. “Your wife and kids … When we first met at the restaurant, I think I felt sorry for you. And then ur night together, I felt something different—much different. But now? I don’t know what to think.”

She collapsed down on the bed, emotionally exhausted. Alvarez stood a few feet from her in the center of the room. He had hoped for a spark, a connection. Instead he got confusion,
even despair, and he felt ill equipped to handle it. They met eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said.

“Understand what? We slept together. It was fun. Right? But if you’re back for more—”

“No!” he interrupted.

“Who are you? What is going on here?”

He glanced toward the door, considering walking out, knowing this was the thing to do. But instead, he stepped forward and sat down close to her.

“They killed my family,” he said. “An accident, they said. Greed and ignorance is what it was. And then they went and blamed my wife.”

“You’ve lied to me.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “About some things,” he added.

A prolonged silence hung between them.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He told her of the accident, that he believed the crossing guard and all its lights had failed, and that he had been sandbagged. “When you lose a child,” he said somberly, “when you lose
two,
it is not something that you can ever explain to someone. You wake with it, you walk with it, you can die of it. Should I feel ashamed I don’t feel this same grief for my wife? I miss her, yes, but I somehow
accept
her loss, whereas not with the children.”

“You should leave,” she said firmly.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“You should have told me,” she said sadly.

He shook his head slightly, finding he couldn’t explain himself, his fantasy of togetherness with her shattered.

“Am I supposed to forgive you?” she asked, grabbing him by the arm and preventing him from standing.

“My lies, not my actions. Whatever hurt I’ve brought you.”

“And?”

He simply stared at her, a wry smile forming on the edges of his mouth. “You asked me to leave.”

“My mistake,” she replied quickly. “Listen, you came along at the right time for me. You know, between men. Bored with my job. Bored with the scene. Even the clubbing—I’m bored. But you? You’re mysterious. Exciting. You got me going. I want more.” She leaned back onto her forearms. “I want you to stay. To be with you, even if it’s just for the night.” He wanted so badly to give in to that urge.

“You want to save me,” he said. “And it isn’t going to happen.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“Yes.”

“I can be persuasive.”

“No argument there,” he said.

“And if it’s no strings attached?” she asked.

“They’re already attached,” he pointed out. “Why do you think I came back?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said.

He handed her a VHS copy of the hotel room video. “If something happens to me, this gets sent to the
New York Times.
Under
no
circumstances do you watch it. This, you’ve got to promise.”

“I promise.”

“For real,” he said, “a promise that is for real.”

She sat forward and took his arm again. “I have needs right now.”

He let her pull him down to her, allowed himself the luxury of settling atop that body, into her warmth. He whispered into her hair, “I can’t do this.”

“That’s not the signal I’m getting.”

He was, in fact, aroused. He rolled off her and stared at her ceiling where a single strand of cobweb had collected dust and rocked in an unfelt breeze. “This would be another lie,” he said.

She reached out and turned his head toward hers. “This would be right now. Nothing more. A memory. We make a memory and we leave it at that.”

“A memory,” he repeated. She nodded. “I have too many,” he informed her.

“Then a new one to replace the old,” she suggested. Her eyes smiled at him. It was a willingness, an offer to take her, to have her, to be lost in her, no matter how briefly.

And he took it.

Hiding in the shadows outside Rucker’s R Street brick town house, with black shutters and a red front door, Tyler wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do. The quiet street, lined with eighteenth-century brick homes, reminded Tyler of all the things he loved about this city: the history, the heritage, the politics and power, the architecture, the arts, the free museums, the summer festivals and celebrations. He felt he’d been driven away. Ostracized. Resentment boiled inside him as indigestion. He smelled the burning wood of a fireplace and longed for even one peaceful moment. Rucker represented everything wrong with the system, the decay that precipitated from the misuse of one’s position.

More to the point, Loren Rucker was careful. Careful to protect himself. Tyler believed that even if Rucker had worked with O’Malley to hide what had happened in Genoa, Illinois, the man would have stashed enough evidence against O’Malley to cut himself a deal with prosecutors, if it ever came to that. The person with the most information won the sweetest deal. Certainly Rucker, as an executive in law enforcement, knew that only too well.

Sounds of traffic whined in Tyler’s ears as he waited, the temperature hovering near freezing. His only reprieve from the cold had been the two bus trips he’d taken after jumping from the freight—the first, a Greyhound back into Baltimore, the second, an express that ran hourly between Baltimore and Washington. Following the payoff for passage aboard the
ship, Tyler had just shy of eight hundred dollars in his wallet. He’d bought a turkey sandwich from a to-go shop and had eaten half, the other half wrapped and in his left coat pocket. Two cups of Starbucks coffee had briefly given him an energy boost, but that was starting to fade.

A heated gutter dripped rhythmically. The late-nineteenth-century pseudo-federal spread holiday cheer with electric candles in each of its eight windows, and an evergreen cone-and-berry wreath was wired to the front door’s brass knocker.

A big car parked in a space down the street. Tyler tucked himself deeper into the bushes as he recognized Rucker: the slightly stooped shoulders, the halting walk, the old, brown leather briefcase, overstuffed.

Now it was either the coffee or just adrenaline, but Tyler’s heart pounded in his chest violently. This would have to be a blend of confrontation and accord; Tyler had to play both good cop and bad if he was to win a rapport with Rucker and come away with the evidence.

Tyler climbed out of the bushes. “Hello, Loren,” he said from behind, startling the man.

Rucker turned and stared, dumbfounded. “You’re in a pile of trouble,” Rucker said.

“That makes two of us.”

“Metro wants you for questioning.”

Tyler said nothing.

“What the hell’s going on, Peter?”

“We’re going inside,” Tyler informed him. “I’m half frozen to death.”

“You look like hell.”

“Now you’re getting the picture.”

“And I’m supposed to cooperate? Why?”

“Because you know I didn’t do Stuckey.”

“Do I?” Rucker asked.

Tyler then played the one card he felt could open that door, a card that was no more than an educated guess. He
tried to make it sound convincing. “We’re going inside because you oversaw the investigation into the Genoa, Illinois, crossing guard fatalities. And this would not be an opportune time for me to tell the world about that, would it, Loren?” He gave the man a moment to digest this. Then, fearing he had missed, Tyler added, “As I understand it, the final F-A-S-T Track test is scheduled for the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon.” He smiled, though his cold face made it look like something of a snarl. “Maybe Bill Goheen and I could make it a joint press conference.”

Rucker stared at Tyler, seething. Then he turned and walked toward his red front door. “I’ll put some coffee on,” he said.

Tyler followed, sensing that he’d scored a direct hit.

Rucker had won the house in a divorce from a wealthy wife. He’d clearly lost a good deal of the furnishings. Great holes of missing pieces and artwork called attention to themselves in the sitting room and dining room that opposed each other across a hallway painted a lush green.

Rucker switched off the security alarm and set down his briefcase by the door, a man of habit. He turned and hung up his overcoat as Tyler looked on. He’d said nothing, except his offer to put coffee on, since Tyler mentioned Genoa, Illinois.

“We’re friends.” Rucker offered Tyler a look that told him to keep the sarcasm to himself.

Rucker punched the coffeemaker’s switch a little too fiercely. Some water sloshed out of the back. He stepped back, met eyes with Tyler, and said, “You’re suspended, pending an investigation into Stuckey. It’s pro forma in a situation like this. I can still get you your paycheck until it’s resolved.” The coffee machine made beeping sounds.
Everything
was computerized.

“You may want to reverse that suspension,” Tyler said. “I can walk out of here now, but it won’t be good for any of
us. Especially not you, Loren. Because I’m walking out of here with the Genoa file, and anything else you have stashed away.”

Rucker’s face paled. He seemed to struggle for the appearance of control.

“And if I don’t leave with at least a
copy
of whatever you have, then everyone involved is in for a long and protracted legal battle.”

“I think you’re misinformed, Peter,” Rucker said, coming to life. “What is it exactly that you think I’ve done?”

“The Genoa, Illinois, crossing fatalities.”

“I know the case,” Rucker confirmed.

“Northern Union tracks.”

“Yes.”

“Keith O’Malley’s turf.”

“Goes without saying.”

Tyler felt dread. Either Rucker was too cool, or Tyler had it wrong. “You did O’Malley a favor,” Tyler suggested.

“I had nothing whatsoever to do with that accident. I recused myself because of my friendship with Keith. You’re in left field, Peter.”

Tyler’s hand shook slightly as he brought the coffee to his lips. He said, “You’ve been involved with all the derailments. You didn’t recuse yourself from those investigations.”

“That’s true enough.”

“So why the difference?”

“I was promoted,” Rucker explained. “At the time of Genoa, I was an investigator. Now, I’m admin. That’s the only difference. I oversee
all
rail investigations. I’m a train buff, Peter. I love trains.”

Tyler ran through his options. They seemed precious few. “They effected a cover-up,” he stated. “NUR was liable for the Genoa accident, and they covered it up. One Hispanic family weighed against the bullet train, and they opted for the train.”

“F-A-S-T Track?” Rucker placed down his cup of coffee, suddenly interested.

“I’m sketchy on all of this,” Tyler confessed. “Publicity? Money? I don’t know. But they couldn’t afford what happened at Genoa to be blamed on their negligence. They’d been shorting maintenance funds, that’s what Stuckey had for us before
they
got to him.”

“You can prove this?”

“An accountant inside the company says their monkeying with the budgets won’t get us to anything illegal. I’m not so sure about that. To me, it gets us to three guys who were each given way too nice a retirement package following Genoa.”

Rucker looked dumbstruck.

“What is it?” Tyler asked.

Rucker mumbled, “I set you up for Stuckey.” He sounded ashamed.

Tyler attempted to digest this.

“Keith suggested you for the boxcar investigation. I played right into it.”

Tyler recalled Banner, the St. Louis detective, questioning the timing of his and Priest’s arrival at the boxcar—how it was that two people from East Coast cities could arrive only an hour behind the local police. O’Malley had orchestrated everything to give his team the best shot at protecting the identity of Harry Wells, alive or dead. O’Malley had manipulated him from the start. Struggling against his rage, Tyler said, “Suggested me how?”

“He thought it a good idea that someone with homicide experience take lead on that bloody boxcar. We discussed the possibility of a Railroad Killer copycat. How no one needed that. He’d read about your misfortune and went on about how half his men were formerly policemen and how they make for good employees, especially investigators. I called and got you on that flight.”

This fit. Tyler wanted to break something. Anger grated his voice. “O’Malley liked me for the job because Chester Washington left him an easy pattern to copy if he ever caught up to Alvarez. His guys beat him to death; I take the fall.” He repeated what he’d discussed with Nell. “Stuckey wasn’t supposed to die. They wanted to put him in the hospital, to keep his mouth shut, leaving me to take the heat. Ten to one, the cause of death comes back a heart attack, not trauma.”

“You’ve got to get out of here,” Rucker said, perspiration breaking out on his brow. It wasn’t the coffee making him sweat. Before Tyler had a chance to speak, Rucker pulled out his cell phone. “I called nine-one-one as I was making the coffee.”

Tyler recalled hearing the beeps and mistaking them for the coffee machine.

Realizing Rucker was giving him a chance to get away, Tyler said, “You believe me.”

Rucker nodded. “When Alvarez’s prints kicked off that airline ticket, and we found out who he was, I wasn’t feeling too good. It was obvious that Keith had kept this from me and from the Bureau for months. He had to suspect who was rolling his trains. So the question was why he wouldn’t have wanted our help bringing this guy in? Why hide it? Interestingly, he hasn’t returned my calls. My guess is that we could build obstruction charges at the very least.”

Tyler saw there was no love lost between these two. O’Malley had violated their friendship, and Rucker wasn’t forgiving.