The Exiled (11 page)

R
aney couldn't shake the sensation of being caged, locked in his own skin. He rolled onto his side, switched on the light.

Two in the morning. He glanced around the room: Bay's Scotch on the windowsill, his suitcase on the floor beside the nightstand. Why had he swiped the coke? Impulse? Reflex? He remembered one of Stone's edicts:
We enter law enforcement to police ourselves.
Raney had gone eighteen years without an infraction. Stone would say he was due.

He sat on the edge of the bed, unlocked his suitcase. Nobody, he told himself, made it from day to day without some kind of help. Bay had his liquor; Clara had her pot. Were they addicts? Junkies? People are ill equipped for the demands placed on them, the demands they place on themselves. We're the only animal, Raney thought, who believes survival isn't enough.

Still, something held him back. A distant awareness of what he was talking himself into. A fear that the decision would be irreversible.

He slammed the suitcase shut, slid it under the bed. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would make a double offering.

He lay back down, replaying his date with Clara, angry with himself for fantasizing, already, about their future together, about the young man Daniel would become.

In the morning, everything seemed a little quieter, a little more real. He showered, shaved, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. No blazer. The thought of eating alone depressed him. He called Clara.

“I would,” she said. “But we've already had breakfast. And you know how I feel about the food in this town.”

“Okay,” Raney said. “How about a late-morning hike? There are some beautiful trails on the other side of the reservation.”

“A hike?”

He felt her searching for a reason to say no.

“Did I call too soon?”

“No, but I have Daniel today.”

“Even better.”

“Shouldn't you—”

“We're waiting on forensics,” Raney said. “I need some air.”

A slight pause. Then:

“All right. Daniel will love it.”

“I'll pick you up in an hour.”

The day was mild, the sky a single, piercing shade of blue. They chose a trail a mile or so below the tree line. Raney parked in the small space allotted to hikers. Daniel jumped out, charged for the woods. Clara called him back.

“Hey, Daniel,” Raney said. “I've got something for you.”

“Oh, really?” Clara said. “I wonder what it could be.”

Daniel sidled forward. Raney reached into his blazer pocket, drew out a blank shield.

“It's a clip-on, like mine. No pins or needles.”

“His head's going to explode,” Clara said.

Raney crouched down, held up the badge, pulled it back when Daniel swiped for it.

“I don't give these to just anyone,” Raney said. “If you take it, you have to promise to look after your mother and do what she tells you. You have to be kind to people and animals, and you have to help anyone who needs it.”

Raney caught himself speaking at half speed, as though the boy were deaf and just learning to lip read. Daniel didn't seem to notice. He nodded, crossed his heart, reached again for the badge.

“All right, then,” Raney said. “I hereby name you Junior Deputy Detective Daniel Remler.”

He clipped the badge to Daniel's belt. Daniel tapped Raney's chest three times.

“A friend for life,” Clara said. “He made that one up himself.”

The trail followed a creek for the first quarter mile. Daniel ran out ahead, brandishing a stick, ready to fend off all comers. He startled a dusky grouse, gave a small scream as it darted into the woods.

“Careful, Deputy Detective Remler,” Clara called. “Stay where I can see you.”

Daniel sprinted forward, waited, sprinted again. Clara took Raney's hand.

“What kind of cactus is that?” she asked.

“Fishhook.”

“And that tree?”

“Mesquite.”

“You know,” she said, “I just realized I've made this hike before. If you climb to the summit at night, it's like you're face-to-face with the moon.”

And who made the hike with you?
Raney wondered.

They were resting, lingering in the shade of a large outcropping. Daniel sat a few yards distant, straddling the low-lying branch of a cottonwood. Clara tied her hair back in a ponytail, wiped a faint sheen from her skin. To the west, a vista of peaks and foothills marred by the top stories of the casino.

“What are you thinking?” Clara asked.

“That people belong in cities,” he said. “They don't know what to do with a place like this.”

“You're talking about the casino?”

“That's part of it.”

“Mavis is another part?”

“Yes.”

“I thought this was supposed to be a reprieve.”

“You're right,” Raney said. “I'm sorry.”

They started walking again. A gentle pace, upslope into the last stretch of forest before the tree line. Daniel continued scouting, ducking behind rocks and tree stumps, then darting forward.

“So if people belong in cities,” Clara said, “why are you here?”

“I guess I'm trying to prove myself wrong.”

“Most of us go through life trying to prove ourselves right.”

“Either way, it's a full-time job.”

He felt her palm against his, the tips of her fingers pressing into his skin.

“Someday you'll tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you left home.”

“Okay.”

“Someday,” she said. “But not today.”

S
o you think it was a test?” Stone said. “Dunham expected Mora to ID you?”

“That's my read. Mora saved my life.”

Raney hadn't slept, hadn't gone back to the apartment in Fort Hamilton. Instead, he'd walked over the Brooklyn Bridge at 1:00 a.m., then kept walking. He cut diagonals through Central Park, thinking, waiting for the sun to rise.

“But then why call you by name before he pulled off the mask? Why risk tipping Mora?”

They sat on Stone's couch, drinking coffee, facing a long window that gave onto the pale southern skyline.

“He knows, but he doesn't want it to be true. He likes having me around. So he slipped Mora an out.”

“But you're safe now. Mora put Dunham at ease.”

“For the time being. I think Dunham's stalling. He'll keep testing me until he can't pretend anymore.”

Stone turned sideways on the couch, gave Raney a long look.

“I should pull you,” he said. “You sound paranoid. Your eyes are dilated. And you don't smell very good.”

“You're not going to pull me.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“Just tell me what you need to finish this. What is it I haven't given you?”

“I need Meno. I need Dunham on tape saying it's been Meno all along.”

“I can't walk in there wearing a wire. Not now.”

“Then I'm pulling you.”

“Bullshit. You'll never get anyone this close again.”

“I'm not sure you are close.”

“I'm close. But I'm walking on eggshells. I need to hand Dunham something big. Something he won't have to share with Meno. Something that will erase his doubt about me.”

“It can't be drugs. We can't give that animal junk to put on the street.”

“Maybe he doesn't put it on the street. Maybe I turn over a complete package—buyer and seller. Somewhere outside Meno's turf.”

“That would require product, cash, manpower.”

“You've got two out of three sitting in evidence lockers around the city.”

“Look,” Stone said. “Stop stringing me along. What do you have in mind?”

“It's simple. Someone I knew upstate just got out. He has a sweet operation in place but he's cash poor, and he's too hot to run it himself. He's laying low until his parole is done. All he wants is a taste, enough to keep him afloat.”

“What's the operation?”

“Stuff comes to us close to pure from somewhere down south. Baltimore or DC, anywhere Dunham has no contacts. We step on it three times over, sell it to a string of dealers up north, where addicts don't know anything better. Maine, maybe. Or New Hampshire.”

“And you're bringing Dunham in on this because…”

“He's the money guy. My jailbird friend needs a bankroll.”

“He'll know you're setting him up.”

“He'll suspect, but he'll be tempted. He's looking to branch out on his own.”

Stone stared into the bottom of his cup.

“And you want to stage all this just to gain the man's trust?”

“Without that, we don't get Meno. And there's a good chance I end up dead.”

“All right,” Stone said. “I'll see what I can pull together.”

“That's not good enough. I need to give Dunham something tonight. He can't have time to think.”

“Listen to you,” Stone said. “I thought I was calling the shots. I tell you what: check back with me at five o'clock.”

“There's something else.”

“What's that?”

“Mora wins his fight. That means we wrap this up inside of six weeks. Mora can't get hurt. No one in his family can get hurt.”

“He'll testify?”

“If we protect him.”

“Then we'll make it work.”

Raney hesitated.

“And what about Captain Ferguson?” he said.

Stone raised an eyebrow.

“You mean your future father-in-law?”

“If I'm in, I want in all the way. Someone's been giving Meno a clear path. This case starts in 1954, doesn't it?”

Stone shrugged.

“I'm ninety percent sure,” he said. “I need Meno to give me the other ten percent.”

“What do you know about the Bruno shooting?”

“I've read the files, talked to a few old-timers. Ferguson claimed to be acting on a tip, said there was no time to call for backup. For reasons unknown, Kee stayed with the squad car. Bruno was ducking a federal warrant, laying low in the Queensboro Apartments. Ferguson shot him in the back. The two other men he killed were just residents of the building, people Bruno paid to put him up in what he thought was the last place anyone would look. They weren't armed, but you could keep that sort of thing out of the papers back then. Especially if the men were black.”

“And since then?”

“Roy Meno has led a charmed life. Raids on faulty addresses. Missing evidence. Witness suicides.”

“Son of a bitch,” Raney said.

“You told me you wanted in.”

“One thing doesn't make sense.”

“What's that?”

“If you knew about Ferguson, then why'd you take me on Kee's recommendation? Why'd you take me knowing I was engaged to Ferguson's daughter?”

“I couldn't veto Kee's pick without raising the wrong shackles. Besides, when I read your jacket it seemed to me Ferguson was making a sloppy bet. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Raney said. “You weren't wrong.”

He should have gone home to bed, should have slept for the few hours he had until Dunham expected him at the club, but instead he called Sophia, asked her to meet.

“What the fuck, Wes?” she said. “Why am I at a coffee shop in Jackson Heights in the middle of a weekday?”

She wore a brick-red wiggle dress, sat with her back pressed flat against the bench, looking like a person poised to say no to whatever was asked of her.

“I wanted to talk,” Raney said.

“So we can talk at home.”

“I need to be extra careful right now.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You sound like a teenager. You remember we're getting married, right? We should be sampling cake and making seating arrangements. We don't even have a venue.”

“Six weeks,” he said. “That's what I wanted to tell you. Six more weeks and I'm done. Maybe less.”

“Can you last six weeks?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you look like you're about to nod off.”

“I haven't been sleeping much.”

“What have you been doing instead?”

“Staying awake.”

“How? I'm not blind, Wes.”

“It's only once in a while. To keep my cover. It's part of the job.”

“Bullshit. I spend most of my day taking children away from their junkie parents. It doesn't matter if you're pretending. The shit you're doing is real.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you? Come home. Now. Not in six weeks. Now. My father's made calls. There's an opening in Homicide. In Ozone Park, but still. Isn't that what every detective dreams of? Homicide?”

Raney stabbed at his salad.

“Your father still has a lot of pull, doesn't he?”

“He was captain for twenty years. People listen.”

“He must go through Kee now. How well do you know him?”

“Wes, why are you asking about my father's partner? We have more important things—”

“Did your father ever talk about his work in front of you? Did you overhear things?”

She dug a fingernail into the back of his hand, cocked her head.

“Come home,” she said. “Come home now.”

“I have to finish this.”

“Why?”

“Because I started it.”

He ran his thumbs over the grooved edge of the table, searching for a way into the conversation he wanted to have.

“Wes,” Sophia said, “look at me. You're bouncing around in your seat like a third grader.”

“Am I a teenager or a third grader?”

“You're a prick.”

She was crying now, or trying not to, swallowing air, turning her head away. Raney leaned across, touched her cheek.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right.”

“I'm afraid,” she said.

“Of what?”

“You're out there, doing things, putting yourself at risk, and you're not right. Your mind isn't right, Wes.”

He pulled back.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “I don't need this shit right now.”

“You're high. This isn't you, Wes.”

“Then who the fuck is it?” he said.

“Wes, you're shouting.”

“You know what? You're right, I'm high. I'm fucking high. Fuck you and your father.”

He dropped a twenty on the table and walked out. Somewhere behind him he heard a woman's voice say, “Anything you want, sweetie. On the house.”