Chapter 9
MARY ALICE, Raymond's former wife, called at 6:20. It was dark outside. He had come home to his apartment in bright fall sunlight, stepped into the shower . . . and now the sun had vanished from the living room window. He could see his reflection, the white towel wrapped around his middle. Mary Alice told him the roof was leaking again in the family room. She described what the water was doing to the walls and the carpeting, how it was impossible to dry the carpeting completely and take out the stain.
He wanted to say, Mary Alice, I don't give a fuck about the carpeting . . . But he didn't. He said, What do you want me to do about it? Knowing what she was going to say.
She told him she wanted him to pay to have the roof repaired and the carpeting replaced, speaking to him without using his name. Also, she needed a new clothes dryer.
His first-floor apartment was on the south edge of Palmer Park, across from a heavily wooded area, about three-quarters of a mile from where Adele Simpson's body was found and a mile from Judge Guy's residence. He said, Mary Alice, I don't think you understand. We're not married any more. You have the house, I don't have anything to do with it now. She started to speak again, using her quiet, almost lifeless tone, and he said, It hasn't even rained lately.
She said he shouldn't have given her the house in the condition it was in getting an edge to her tone now. She always had the edge ready for when she needed it. A pouty edge. She could tell him what they were having for dinner and sound defensive, conspired against. She said she would get some estimates not having heard a word he said and let him know. Raymond said fine and hung up.
He sliced the leftover New York strip sirloin into thin pieces and fried them in a hot skillet, watching the pieces sizzle and curl, thinking of the girl from the News, picturing her face the way it had appeared, soft, pleasant, before taking on a sheen and her features became sharply defined. He had looked at her as a possibility, a very attractive girl. But with acid-etched opinions that came out and changed her looks. She could be right, though.
You know it? Raymond thought.
And then thought, No, there was no way in the world he could have talked to his wife and told her how he felt. In the first place she didn't like the idea of being a policeman's wife. She wanted him to sell the life insurance like her dad and join her dad's Masonic lodge and go deer hunting with her dad and remodel the back porch into a family room with an acoustical tile ceiling and use some of her mom and dad's maple furniture. The marriage counselor they visited six times said, Have you considered having children? Mary Alice told him she'd had two early miscarriages. She did not tell him she refused to even consider trying again and would begin love-making with reluctance and remain detached while Raymond slowly, gently, tried to involve her to the point of losing herself. (Which had nothing to do with not wanting to have children.) In her detachment, in the automatic, monotonous movement of her hips, she would remain wherever she was, alone.
The marriage counselor asked Raymond if he had always wanted to be a police officer. Raymond said no, he had wanted to be a fireman, but didn't pass the test. The marriage counselor asked him if he had ever had a homosexual experience. Raymond said, Well The marriage counselor said, Tell me about it. Raymond said, Well, when I was working Vice I'd go into the Men's room of a gay bar; I'd stand at the urinal and when a guy would come up next to me I'd take out a salt shaker and shake some of it, you know, down like right in front of me. And if the guy rolled his eyes and rubbed his tummy I knew I had a collar. The marriage counselor stared at him and said, Are you serious? Raymond said, Look, I like girls. I just don't like her. Don't you see that?
He ate the fried steak with sliced tomatoes and onions and a can of Strohs. He wasn't tired. He hadn't slept since yesterday morning, but he wasn't tired. He thought about going out. The prospect still gave him a strange feeling after twelve years of married life. He thought about the girl from the News. He thought about Sandy Stanton and wondered how he might run into her somewhere. He thought of girls he had met at Pipers Alley on St. Antoine, the Friday after-work place, girls who came with toothbrushes in their purses. He thought of girls and saw glimpses of pleasure in strange apartments, chrome lamps turned down, macrame and fringed pillows made of wool, drinking wine, performing the ritual to the girl playing coy or seductive, giving him dreamy eyes, saying undress me and getting down to the patterned bikini panties, wondering why none of these girls wore plain white ones, most of them big girls, bigger than the girls he remembered in college sixteen years ago, the girls acting coy all the way to bed then accepting the decorator-patterned sheets as a release point and turning on with moans like death-throes and dirty words that took some getting used to, though girls in bars said fuck all the time now and when the girl would say do-it-to-me, do-it-to-me, he would think, What do you think I'm doing? Never ever completely caught up in it, but aware and observing, giving it about seventy percent . . . He remembered the girl from the News saying he was old-fashioned no, old-timey; but it probably meant the same thing. The girl who knew everything . . .
The phone rang.
The woman's voice, quiet, unhurried, said, Lieutenant, this is Carolyn Wilder. I understand you're looking for a client of mine, Clement Mansell.
Raymond saw her in a courtroom, slim in something beige, light-brown hair and had recognized her voice the goodlooking lady with the quiet manner who defended criminals. He said, How about if you bring him in tomorrow morning, eight o'clock.
If you don't have a warrant, why bother?
I'd like to talk to him, Raymond said.
There was a pause, silence.
All right, you can talk to him in my office, in my presence, Carolyn Wilder said. If that doesn't suit you, get a warrant and I'll see you at the arraignment.
He asked her where her office was. She told him the 555 Building in Birmingham and asked him to please come within an hour.
Raymond said, Wait, where'd you get my number?
But Carolyn Wilder had hung up.
Chapter 10
SEE, A BLACKJACK'S THE BEST, Hunter said. Put it in your pants pocket, you know, right against your thigh. You don't have a blackjack then you move your gun around, stick it in front by your belt buckle. You start dancing close with the broad, watch the look on her face.
Raymond said, You horny tonight?
Hunter said, What do you mean, tonight? I've always wanted to try one of these broads out here. Husband's a vice-president with General Motors, bores the shit out of her . . . Look-it that one, fucking outfit on her.
They were in Archibald's on the ground floor of the 555 Building shoulder to shoulder with the after-work cocktail crowd, the young lawyers and salesmen from around the north end and the girls that came from everywhere Hunter with visions of restless suburban ladies looking for action, waiting to be dazzled by the homicide dick with the nickel-plated 9-mm Colt strapped to his belt.
Raymond said, You know how old the bored wife of a GM vice-president would be? He finished his bourbon and placed the glass on the bar. I'm going up. Clement parked across the street. Tan Chevy Impala, TFB seven-eighty-one.
Probably stole it, Hunter said.
The phone's over there by the men's room.
I saw it when I came in.
Clement leaves before I do, I'll call you.
Raymond walked out of the bar, edging past the secretaries and young executives and took an elevator up to seven, to Wilder, Sultan and Fine, celebrity names around Detroit Recorder's Court, criminal lawyers venturing into the corporate world now, out seventeen miles from downtown, into contracts and tax shelters and a brown leather lobby with copies of Fortune and Forbes on glass tables.
He went in past the row of clean secretary desks and covered typewriters to an office softly lighted where Carolyn Wilder and Clement Mansell were waiting Clement watching him, beginning to grin, Carolyn Wilder saying, Why don't you sit down.
He concentrated on observing, noticing Clement's shiny blue and red tattoo
on his right forearm, Clement in a sport shirt sitting at one end of the couch with his elbows drawn back, limp hands in his lap, a faded denim jacket on the couch, next to him. Raymond saw a file folder on the coffee table, a pair of glasses with thin dark frames. He noticed the line of Carolyn Wilder's thigh beneath a deep red material, one leg crossed over the other, the criminal lawyer and her client sitting away from the desk at the other end of the room, the lawyer relaxed but poised in a leather director's chair, open white blouse with the dark maroon suit, tailored, soft brown hair with light streaks almost to her shoulders . . . brown eyes, saying nothing now . . . somewhere in her mid-thirties, better looking, much better looking, than he remembered her.
She said, You don't seem especially interested, Lieutenant. Are you bored?
It was in his mind: Pick Clement up and throw him against the wall, hard enough to put him out, then cuff him and say to her, No, I'm not bored.
Get it done.
Raymond didn't say anything. He looked from Carolyn Wilder to Clement, who was staring, squinting his eyes at him.
Clement said, I don't recall your face.
I remember yours, Raymond said and stared back at him, looking at a point between Clement's half-closed eyes.
I should know you, huh?
Raymond didn't say anything. He heard Carolyn Wilder sigh and murmur a sound and then say, This is in connection with the Guy murder?
Raymond nodded, turning his head to her. That's right.
What have you got?
Witnesses.
I don't believe you.
A car.
Clement said, Shit, he ain't got any witnesses. He's blowing smoke at us.
The racetrack and the scene, Raymond said.
Carolyn Wilder turned to Clement. Don't say anything unless I ask you a question, all right? And to Raymond, Are you going to read his rights?
I hadn't planned on it, Raymond said.
Carolyn Wilder looked at him a moment and then shrugged. He's not going to say anything anyway.
Can I ask him a question?
What is it?
Was he driving around in a Buick Riviera last night, license number PYX-5-4-6?
No, he's not going to answer that.
Clement looked from his attorney to Raymond, enjoying himself.
Can I ask if he's seen Sandy Stanton lately?
Is it her car? Carolyn Wilder asked.
A friend of hers.
I don't think you can put together even circumstantial evidence, Carolyn Wilder said. And he's not going to say anything, so why bother?
Raymond looked directly at Clement now. How you doing otherwise?
Can't complain, Clement said. I'm still trying to place you. You have a mustache that time what was it, three years ago?
I just grew it, Raymond said and was aware of Carolyn Wilder staring at him.
You were heavier then. Clement began to nod. I remember you, the quiet fella, didn't say much.
It wasn't my case. I don't think I ever spoke to you directly.
Yeah, I remember you now, Clement said. What was that reddish-haired fella's name? Not reddish, kinda sandy.
Hunter, Raymond said. Sergeant Hunter.
Clement was grinning again. He tried every which way get me to say I pulled the trigger. Was in that little room with all the old files?
Raymond nodded, feeling a strange rapport with the man that excluded the woman lawyer, made her an outsider.
He had me in there, I thought he was gonna punch me through the wall. He never laid a hand on me, but he come close, I know he did. You ask him.
Raymond said, You been anywhere since Milan?
I think we should all go home, Carolyn Wilder said, stirring in the director's chair, about to get up.
Milan wasn't too bad, Clement said. You know, there was some famous people there one time. Frank Costello some others, I can't think of the names right off.
Raymond said, You been staying out of trouble?
Long as I got this lady here, Clement said. He squirmed, getting comfortable. I'd like to hear how you think you're gonna lay the judge on me.
Carolyn Wilder said, That's all.
Clement looked at her. He can't use anything I say. He hasn't read me my rights. Smirky, having a good time.
You can say anything you want, Raymond said, I won't hold it against you. And gave Clement a friendly grin.
Carolyn Wilder stood up, brushing a hand down to smooth her skirt.
He's dying, Clement said. Got this idea of what happened to the judge and can't get nobody to what's the word, corab . . . corobate it?
Corroborate, Raymond said. You hang around courtrooms and county jails you learn some words, don't you?
Become a jailhouse lawyer, Clement said. I met a few of them here'n there.
Carolyn Wilder said, Lieutenant . . . good night.
Raymond got up. Can I use your phone?
She nodded toward her desk, a massive dark-wood dining room table set against Levelor blinds and chrome-framed graphics.
Raymond walked across the room, picked up the phone and dialed a number. He waited and then said, Jerry? You gonna meet me downtown? . . . I'll see you. And hung up, wondering as he turned from the desk if they heard Hunter's voice, Hunter saying, Fuck you, I'm not leaving here, man, this is the place.
Clement was saying something to Carolyn Wilder, both standing now, Clement with his hand on her arm, and Carolyn frowning as she stared at him, as though trying to understand what he was telling her twenty feet from Raymond Cruz and now she pulled her arm away abruptly, amazed or shocked, and said, What! and Clement was shrugging, saying a few parting words as he turned and walked out of the office.
There was a silence. Raymond moved toward her. He said, What's the matter?
But she was still in her mind and didn't answer. She was not the woman lawyer he had watched in court, but a woman caught off balance, a girl now, vulnerable, a girl who had just been grossly insulted or told a terrible secret. Raymond wanted to touch her and the words came out easily.
Can I help you, Carolyn?
It surprised him, using her first name, and yet it sounded natural and seemed to touch an awareness in her. She looked at him in a different way now, not with suspicion as much as caution, wanting to be sure of his tone, his intention.
Did you happen to hear what he said?
Raymond shook his head. No.
Any part of it?
No, I didn't.
He watched her pick up the file from the coffeetable and come past him to her desk, saying, He's a beauty. Sounding tired.
He kills people, Raymond said.
She looked at him now. Tell me about it. You've been a downtown cop long enough I know I've seen you around so you know what my job is and I know what yours is.
But can I help you? Raymond said.
She hesitated, staring at him again and seemed about to tell him something. But she hesitated too long. He saw her gaze move and come back and move again and now she was sitting down at her desk, looking up at him with a bland expression.
I think you mean well . . .
But it's none of my business, Raymond said. He picked a Squad Seven card out of his coat pocket and laid it on her desk. Unless he scares you again, huh? And you admit it.
Good night, lieutenant.
He said, Good night, Carolyn, and left, feeling pretty good that he hadn't said too much, but then wondering if he shouldn't have insisted on helping and maybe said a lot more.
Hunter used the phone next to the men's room, staring at the slim girl in the fur vest and wide leather belt as he called MCMU directly, the Major Crime Mobile Unit. He told them a tan '79 Chevy Impala, Tango Fox Baker 781, was heading south on Woodward and would cross the overpass at Eight Mile in about twelve minutes. He told them to check the sheet on the car, apprehend the driver and take him down to 1300, Room 527. MCMU asked Hunter on what charge and Hunter said, Driving without an operator's license.
He returned to the bar, worked his way in next to the stylish girl in the fur vest and said to her up-raised profile, If we can't fall in love in the next twelve minutes, you want to give me your number and we'll try later?
The girl looked over her shoulder to stare at him with a mildly wistful expression. She said, I'm not against falling in love, sport; but I'm sure as hell not gonna hustle a cop. I mean even if I thought you'd pay.
Chapter 11
THEY LET CLEMENT SIT ALONE in the interrogation/file room for about forty minutes before Wendell Robinson went in to talk to him.
It was close to 10:00 P. M. Raymond Cruz crossed his feet on the corner of his desk and closed his eyes to the fluorescent lights . . . while Hunter made coffee and told about Pamela and the rough time Pamela was having trying to make it with all the goddamn amateurs out there giving it away, selling themselves for Amaretto on the rocks, Kahlua and cream . . . Raymond half listening, catching glimpses of the Carolyn Wilder he had never seen before this evening, wondering what Clement had said to her, wondering if at another time, the right time she'd be easy to talk to.
The windowless file room, about seven-by-eleven, held three folding chairs, an old office table and a wall of built-in shelves where closed case-records were stored. On the wall directly behind Clement was a stain, a formless smudge, where several thousand heads had rested, off and on, during interrogations.
Wendell said, How well you know Edison?
Clement grinned. Detroit Edison?
Thomas Edison.
I never did understand nigger humor, Clement said.
Man whose car you were driving this evening.
That's his name? I just call him Tom. Only nigger I ever knew owned a Chevy. He loaned it to me.
He a friend of yours?
Friend of a friend.
I understand he's a doorman. Works over at 1300 Lafayette. That where your friend live?
I forget which friend it was's a friend of old Tom's.