Poisonous Kiss (7 page)

     One more sip of coffee. The darkness was gone, a sad morning light bathed the books covering one wall of my room, the disorder on my small desk and my service revolver in the middle of that mess.

     I knew I mustn't call her. I knew I shouldn't think about her. She loved her husband, and she was ten years my senior.

     I felt like I'd go crazy by myself. I left my unfinished coffee on the table and went downstairs, to the basement. A spartan little room with whitewashed walls. A bench for sit-ups, a few old fashioned weights, and the sandbags: the heavy bag, the light one and the third, lying on the green plastic matt by the door, filled with sand and gravel.

     A quick warm-up and I attacked the bags. I thrashed at the big one. I hit and kicked it like an angry child—as hard as I could, without any grace or technique. I murdered the bag over and over again, driven by that terrible tension. The feeling passed slowly, as I began to tire myself. After fifteen minutes, soaking in sweat and panting I worked on combinations, using all three bags. A punch to the small one, a knee-high kick to the gravel bag, simultaneously ducking, so the small bag can't hit me as it swings back. I pummeled the heavy bag while I tried to kick backward and catch the small one, which was flapping around. It took a bit of coordination.

     I felt much better, at least half human, when I finally left the bags alone. I sat in the kitchen, showered and dressed in jeans and T-shirt, facing my breakfast. I was better, but I still wondered how long I could live like this.

     I took out my small notebook and opened it without looking at the pages. I already knew what they said by heart. They told me Paul Hogarthy's life. He was fiftyfive, an ex-car mechanic. Divorced with two children, who lived God knows where. His decline in life was classic, with a little jazzing up it could make a nice tragic novel. But I doubt anybody would want to read the true story. Paul Hogarthy was boring. A fat, lazy, alcohol-and-drug-dependent loser who slept in stairways and could fit almost all his possessions in a plastic bag—including his gun. It was an old Luger, almost fifty years old, a little rusty, but still a working piece.

     Paul Hogarthy was probably sleeping the sleep of the stupid as a sat in my kitchen. Later they would go back to interrogating him, but it was useless, depressing. Eventually he'd be let out. He wasn't guilty. The miserable son-of-a-bitch didn't kill anybody. He was just shocked to see us; he thought we wanted to hurt him. So he pulled out the old gun. He has no gun license, but that's hardly what you call a capital crime. He hadn't hit Carl, his bullet missed by three feet.

     Or maybe those were all lies. He knew we were cops, he saw the handcuffs or he knew it instinctively somehow, and he wanted to help Frost. Even if he's none too bright, he's street-wise enough to make up a story.

     I almost regretted that I didn't blow him away when I caught him in that stinking staircase. Maybe I had done it the wrong way around, pulling my gun before I woke him up. He had glared at me without understanding. He didn't recognize me, but he didn't move this time. The only miserable satisfaction I got was seeing him numb with dread. If I had stood over him empty handed, maybe he would have reached into the bag again …he would have come out with the ancient Luger. I wouldn't have been paralyzed this time. I would have been able to move with deadly force, thanks to these strange feelings of anger. And Captain Ericsson would never interrogate Paul Hogarthy. The man would remain Frost's accomplice forever in our files because the dead keep their secrets. And the truth, that an old bum caused Carl's death, would never come to light. And no one would ever have to wonder whether I was reluctant to shoot.

     Frost didn't have anyone waiting in the staircase for us.

     I looked at my notes anyway. Names, some of them without faces, but there are a few I could attach to somebody. The bouncer of the Rumball. The club's owner, a few regulars, courtesy of the computer. Another name, that of a well-known madam, given to me by a friend. I wanted a lead on Frost's women, the ones Gladys mentioned, and I was sure they must be pros. My logic urged a simple course of investigation. I could make progress and remain discreet. But the violent anger inside, the feeling just under the surface that torments me more and more frequently, wanted to follow quite another tactic. I wanted to find one of the people belonging to these names, I wanted to grab the son-of-a-bitch and beat the truth out of him.

     Should I tell this to Celia?

     I'd asked her to explain these attacks to me. She had looked embarrassed, like she wanted to give me some bad news but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Then she composed herself. It's a normal reaction to the shock, she had explained. Remorse had been torturing me after Carl's death and I was reacting with anger. This explanation sounded comforting and I bought it. For a while anyway. But this morning I was attacked by doubts and not satisfied with easy explanations. I took a bite from my bagel, and chewed it while I walked over to the bookshelf.

     On the other side of the novels are my old textbooks: criminology, anatomy, psychology …I took down a few volumes and put them on the table, next to my breakfast and the notebook. I opened one and ran my eyes down the table of contents. Then a thought occurred to me and I flipped to the back, to the bibliography.

     In the second volume I tried, Criminal Psychology, I found Celia's name. There's a reference to her study called, "The Psychology of Violence," which was published in the American Journal of Psychology. But what I found really surprising was that I came across Martin Baruch's name twice. The first time because of some animal experiments, the second mention referred to a study called "The Theory of Natural Cycles."

     I chewed the bagel mechanically, without really tasting it. I made notes while I ate, like I did in college a few years ago. The phone brought me back to reality. I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten already. Names flashed across my mind as I started toward the phone mounted on the wall. Ericsson, a few friends, some girl …

     It was Celia. I recognized her voice before she introduced herself. There was a knot in my stomach and my heart was pounding like it did before in the basement, after workout with the bags. Her voice was apologetic. If I didn't mind, she didn't want to hold today's session at her office. She wanted me to meet her at the Edgar Institute, where her husband works. She wanted to make a few tests, blood and so on …she didn't like those attacks of mine. What if I dropped in before my shift?

     I said OK. Just then, I would have agreed to anything she wanted me to do. But before leaving I went back to the table for a few more minutes and I flipped the notebook to the page where I keep my "to-do" list. Edgar Institute, I wrote with a big question mark after it. I was still assigned to a desk job and I hoped I'd have time to look into it during the relatively peaceful hours of the afternoon lull. I found it a little strange that I'd never heard of the place.

It's 4 p.m. Captain Ericsson stands at the window, pushing his forehead against the glass, like he used to do almost half a century ago. As a child he dreamed of adventures on the distant ocean. From the window of his boyhood home, he used to see sand blown lots, stunted withering trees. And if he stood on the left side of the window, he could see a gas station, and beyond that, a piece of the ocean. His father had told him that he must be mistaken—the ocean was twenty miles from their place and no one can see that far. The old man even showed his son encyclopedia articles and a telescope to prove his point. Ericsson was ten at the time. Now he's almost sixty, and has had enough adventure in his life—more than he had asked for, really. His health is gone, but it's a miracle he's still alive anyway—having had so many close encounters with death. Yet despite all he's seen, as he pushes his forehead against the window now, he can still daydream.

     He hears the door open behind him, but he doesn't turn around right away. He throws a last glance at the garbage cans outside, and the sunshine dancing on the wall across the way.

     "Is that you, Arany?" he asks.

     "Yes, sir."

     The captain turns around and sees Arany, wearing a pair of worn jeans and an old, faded T-shirt—not a very soldierly sight. Why does it have to be him? Ericsson wonders. Then he decides that no one can predict God's reasons.

     "Congratulations," he says, as he walks toward Arany and offers his hand. The detective looks surprised and takes the captain's hand with an embarrassed smile. Ericsson feels the need to explain himself and it bothers him. "I didn't expect you to catch your attacker so soon. Nice job."

     Arany says nothing. He bites his lip and tries to follow the advice he got from Celia: Always think nice thoughts. He mustn't worry about what people might think if he doesn't answer a question or just mutters something unintelligible. He should imagine a beautiful landscape, a sundown over the sea, the forest in autumn or anything else he likes. He has to think calm, happy thoughts. Arany imagines Celia. He sees her in his mind's eye the way she was the last time they met, in the Edgar Institute. She looked nervous and tired.

     Ericsson steps behind his desk and sits down. As a short man he feels more selfconfident sitting. He leans his shovel-like palms on the table, but his bass voice lacks the usual threatening force.

     "You got a tip, didn't you?" He winks. "OK son, you don't have to lie to me. I read your report. Well done. Everyone else will buy it: That you thought it was a good idea to walk up and down all those goddamned staircases. But I don't buy it, son. You're not the kind, who'd just wander around because he can't think of anything better to do. You were tipped-off, weren't you?"

     He looks up at Arany with a hopeful expression. Arany feels like he's looking at a teenager who would like nothing better than to borrow his gun and play around with it. He has mercy on the captain.

     "Yes sir," he answers in his soldierly voice.

     Ericsson lets out a relieved sigh.

     "You've got to catch the bastard who killed Carl." He glances at Arany again, but this time he receives no answer. Arany stands straight, as if at attention, and stares into the place over Ericsson's head. "Catch him," the captain repeats softly. "I want the bastard dead. I know you'll catch him, son. If you need any help, you'll get it. You aren't alone in this. If you need something you just tell me. You'll get men, cars, search warrants, whatever you need. But …" he looks into Arany's eyes "that son-of-a-bitch won't be found not guilty by some fool jury this time. He won't make bail with stolen money and disappear."

     Arany wants to think of Celia. Or the sea, or a forest, or anything besides what the captain is saying. He looks at the small gallows standing on the desk. The little figure there swings slightly as it's hit by Ericsson's angry breath.

     They're silent. Someone laughs outside. It sounds incredibly far away to Arany. He looks into Ericsson's eyes. Into those tired, brown eyes with a few yellowish glittering speckles in them. Arany had never seen those speckles until now.

     "There is only one way to do it, Captain," he says at last. How could he say that? Why isn't he indignant?

     "Yes." Ericsson bends forward, an artery bulges out on his neck. "Shoot the bastard as soon as you see him." He's panting, as if he'd just run a mile. The captain's face is so red, that Arany worries he might have a stroke. Ericsson loosens his tie and pulls at his collar. The top button of his shirt falls loose and drops softly into his lap. "It'll be self-defense," he continues. "This man killed a policeman already, and he'll have a gun on him this time. Self-defense, pure self-defense, son. Shoot him, without a second thought!" His eyes sparkle with fire, but his voice goes softer. "I don't want to take law into my hands. I respect order and democracy as much as anybody. You have to know your place. But there comes a time when you have to break the rules. I was a lieutenant in Korea, and my commander—" he stops his story and waves it away with his hand. "Do you have a gun?"

     The question comes as a surprise to Arany.

     "Of course."

     Ericsson looks at him and shakes his head.

     "I don't mean your service revolver, son. I mean another gun. One without connections to you or …anyone."

     Arany understands clearly. A disposable gun, the kind he could plant on somebody. He could kill Frost, put the gun on him and claim the man was armed. Or he could just kill Frost, throw the gun out and slip away …

     "I don't," he answers.

     Ericsson stands up slowly, like an old man, and moves to the safe in the corner. Arany looks at his sparse hair, his coat, the dandruff on his shoulder as Ericsson fiddles with the lock. Impossible, he thinks. I'm dreaming. The captain turns around, holding out a small caliber pistol. He reaches again into the safe for a spare clip. He smiles at Arany with a childish face.

     As if still dreaming, Arany watches the captain sit down, wipe the gun and the magazine, and use the cloth to push the gun toward him across the table. I'm not a killer, Arany wants to say. He knows he ought to report this. Ericsson must have gone mad, that's the only explanation. But his body ignores his will again. He bends over and picks up the weapon. It's light, but feels good in his hand. He checks the magazine and cocks the gun. He turns toward Ericsson. The captain's face is stone.

     "Catch him, son!"

     Arany nods, just barely. "I will, sir."

This time I didn't pity the mouse. I just watched Martin as he calmly picked up the animal, caressed him, and reached for the syringe. There was a light colored liquid in it that didn't look like blood. Though basically it was blood. Arany's blood.