"You've been spying on me."
"You lied to me. I could tell. I do this for a living, remember?"
He's no good at deception.
Unlike me.
Anger now. But more troubling, he sounded disgusted. "What'd you do? Put a bug in the car? Have somebody from the department tail me?"
"I saw you once. By coincidence. Outside the motel on Albemarle. And, yeah, I followed you later. You said you were going to the game. But you went there again..." She snapped, "Why are you laughing? It broke my heart, Graham!"
"To break somebody's heart, you need to own a bit of it. And I don't. I don't have an ounce of yours. I don't think I ever did."
"That's not true! There's no excuse for cheating."
He was nodding slowly. "Cheating, ah...Did you ask me about it? Did you sit down and say, 'Honey, we have a problem, I'm concerned, let's talk about it? Get it worked out'?"
"I--"
"You know your mother told me about what Keith did. To your face. You know my first reaction? Oh, my God, that explains so much. How could I be mad at you? But then I realized that, hell, yes, I could be mad. I should be mad. And you should have told me. I deserved to be told."
Brynn had considered telling him a hundred times. Yet she'd made up a bullshit story about a car crash. She thought now: But how could I tell him? That somebody flew into a rage and hit me. That I cried off and on for months afterward. That I cringed at the sound of his voice. That I broke into a hundred pieces like a child. I was ashamed that I didn't leave him, just bundle Joey up and walk out the door.
That I was afraid. That I was weak.
And that my delaying would have even more horrific consequences.
Keith...
But even now she couldn't tell him exactly what had happened.
And here, she understood, was a clue to the crime she'd committed against Graham, against the two of them: her silence, this inability to talk. Yet she felt that whatever the clue led to, even if she managed to figure it out, the solution would come too late. It was like finding conclusive evidence as to a killer's identity, only to discover that the perp had already died of natural causes.
"I'm sorry," she said. "But you still..." Her voice faded as she watched him pulling his wallet from his slacks, fishing in it. She watched, obsessively touching the bandage on her cheek.
Jesus. Was it his lover's picture? she wondered.
He handed her a small white card.
Brynn squinted; the cheek wound made reading difficult out of her right, her stronger, eye.
She stared at the raised type: Sandra Weinstein, M.D., LLC. 2942 Albemarle Avenue, Ste. 302, Humboldt, Wisconsin. Handwritten at the bottom was: Friday 7:30, April 17. Brynn began, "She's a--"
"Therapist. Psychiatrist...Shrink."
"You--"
"You saw us near the motel, Brynn, but not at the motel. She's in the professional building next door. I'm usually her last patient at night. Sometimes we leave the office at the same time. That's probably when you saw us."
Brynn flicked the card.
"Call her. Go see her. I'll give her permission to tell you all about it. Please, go talk to her. Help me figure out why you love the job more than me. Why you'd rather be in your squad car than at home. Help me figure out how to be a father to a son you won't let me near. Why you got married to me in the first place. Maybe you two can figure it out. I sure can't."
Brynn offered lamely, "But why didn't you tell me? Ask me to go with you to counseling? I would have!" She meant this.
He lowered his head. And she realized she'd touched a painful spot--like her tongue probing the gum where her tooth had once been.
"I should have. Sandra keeps suggesting it. I almost asked you a dozen times. I couldn't."
"But why?"
"Afraid of what you'd do. Give up on us, think I was being too demanding, walk out the door. Or take control and I'd get lost in the shuffle...Make it seem like there was no problem at all." He shrugged. "I should have asked you. I couldn't. But look, Brynn, the time for that has passed. You're you, I'm me. Apples and oranges. We're so different. It's best for both of us."
"But it's not too late. Don't judge by last night. This was...this was a nightmare."
Then, astonishing her, he snapped. He shoved the chair back and leapt to his feet. The beer bottle fell, spewing foam over the plates. The easygoing man was now enraged. Brynn froze inside, replaying those nights with Keith. Her hand rose to her jaw. She knew that Graham wouldn't hurt her. Still, she couldn't help the defensive gesture. She blinked up at him and saw the wolf hovering nearby in the state park.
Yet, she realized the rage wasn't at her. It was, she believed, directed purely at himself. "But I have to judge by last night. That's what did it, Brynn. Last night..."
What he'd said before. He wasn't planning on leaving until then. What did he mean? "I don't understand."
He inhaled deeply. "Eric."
"Eric Munce?"
"He's dead because of me."
"You? No, no, we all knew he was reckless. Whatever happened didn't have anything to do with you."
"Yes, it did! It had everything to do with me."
"What're you talking about?"
"I used him!" His own jaw, square and perfect, was trembling. "I know you all thought he was a cowboy. Last night nobody was going to look for you at the interstate. But I knew you'd go that way. So I told Eric if he wanted to see some action he ought to come with me. That's where the killers were headed." Graham shook his head. "I threw that out like it was a hunting dog's favorite treat.... And he's dead because of me. Because I went someplace I had no business going. And I have to live with that forever."
She leaned forward. He recoiled from her hand. She sat back and asked, "Why, Graham? Why did you come, then?"
He gave a cold laugh. "Oh, Brynn. I plant trees and flowers for a living. You carry a gun and do high-speed chases. I want to watch TV at night; you want to study the latest drug-testing kits. I can't compete with your life. I sure can't in Joey's eyes...Last night, I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Maybe that there was some gunfighter deep inside me. I could prove myself. But that was a joke. All I did was get another human being killed.... No goddamn business going out there. And I have no business here. You don't want me, Brynn. You sure don't need me."
"No, honey, no..."
"Yes," he whispered. Then held up a hand. The gesture meant: enough, no more.
He gripped her arm and squeezed softly. "Let's get some sleep."
As Graham went upstairs Brynn absently daubed at the spilled beer until the paper napkins disintegrated. She got a dish towel and finished the job. With another she tried to stanch the tears.
She heard his footsteps coming downstairs again. He was carrying a pillow and blanket. Without a glance her way, he walked to the green couch, made up a bed and closed the family room door.
"ALL DONE, MA'AM."
Brynn peered over at the painter, who was gesturing toward the living room and its repaired ceiling and walls.
"What do I owe you?" She peered around as if a checkbook floated nearby.
"Sam'll send you a bill. You're good for it. We trust you." He gestured at her uniform. Smiled then stopped. "The funeral's tomorrow? Deputy Munce?"
"That's right."
"I'm sorry about what happened. My son painted his garage. The deputy was very civil to him. Some people aren't. They gave him an iced tea.... I'm sorry."
A nod.
After the painter left she continued to stare at the blank walls. No trace of the 9mm holes remained. She thought she should put up the pictures once more. But she didn't have the energy. The house was completely silent.
She looked over a list of things she had to do--calls to return, evidence to follow up on, interviews to conduct. Someone named Andrew Sheridan had called twice--he had some business connection with Emma Feldman and was asking about the files recovered from the house in Lake Mondac. She wondered what that was about.
And somebody from the state's attorney's office had heard from the couple injured when their SUV overturned on the interstate. They were suing. The owner of the house at 2 Lake View had made a claim too. The ammonia had ruined the floor. Bullet holes too, of course. She needed to file a report. She'd delay that as long as she could.
She heard footsteps on the front porch.
Graham's?
A knock on the wooden frame. She rose.
"The bell's out, I think," Tom Dahl said.
"Hey. Come on in."
The sheriff walked inside. He noticed the smooth walls. Didn't comment on them. "How's your mother doing?"
"She'll be okay. Feisty, you know." She tilted her head toward the closed family room door. "We made her up a bedroom downstairs. She's sleeping now."
"Oh, I'll keep my voice down."
"With the meds she's on, she'd sleep through a party."
The sheriff sat and massaged his leg. "I liked the way you phrased it. About those two killers: the bodies left behind. Described it pretty good."
"Anything at all, Tom?"
"I'll tell you up front there's not much. That fellow got himself shot was Compton Lewis. Lived in Milwaukee."
"Compton was his first name?"
"Ask his mother or father. Fellow was just a punk, a wannabe. Did construction around the lakefront and ran some petty scams, smash-and-grab at gas stations and convenience stores. Biggest thing was he and some folks tried to rob a guard refilling an ATM outside of Madison last year. They think Lewis was supposedly the getaway driver but he dropped his keys in the snow. His buddies ran off and he got busted. Did six months." Dahl shook his head. "Only kin I could track down was Lewis's older brother. The only one still in the state. The man took the news hard, I'll tell you. Started crying like a baby. Had to hang up and called me back a half hour later...Didn't have much to say, but here's his number if you want to talk to him." He handed her a Post-it note.
"How about Hart?" She'd checked every criminal database in five states, all the nicknames, all the mug shots for everybody named Hart, Heart, Harte, Hartman, Harting...nothing.
"No leads at all. That man...he's good. Look at the fingerprints. Didn't leave a one anywhere. And digging the bullet with his DNA out of the woodwork? He knows what he's doing."
"And Michelle? She would've given Hart and Lewis a fake name but I'd guess Michelle is real; Hart and Lewis found her purse and probably looked through it. And she'd've told the truth to me--because I'd be dead by morning."
Dahl said, "They're more concerned about her 'cause the FBI's sure it's Mankewitz who hired her, and they want to prove him or one of his people hired her. But so far the snitches haven't come up with anything concrete."
"Are they taking the composite picture of her I did to acting schools and health clubs?" Brynn was pretty sure the biography Michelle had told that night was a lie, its purpose to elicit sympathy from Brynn, but the young woman had been so credible it was worth checking out.
"I think they're working from the top down more, going for a Mankewitz connection first."
He went on to say that he'd opened files on the four meth cookers killed by Hart and Lewis. They were murder charges; like 'em or not, drug dealers have a right not to be killed too.
If the mysterious shooter near the ledge in Marquette State Park in the early hours of April 18 had any connection to the methamphetamine industry in Wisconsin or to Mankewitz, nobody'd been able to find it. The State Police had found the probable location of the shooter's nest but they'd recovered no physical evidence whatsoever. He'd collected all his brass and obscured his shoeprints. "Everybody's a damn pro," Dahl muttered. Then asked, "How's that little girl doing?"
"Amy? No other family that Child Protective Services can find."
"Sad."
"Not really, Tom. At least she'll have a chance for a decent life now. She wouldn't've survived there with Gandy and his wife.... And I have to say she's looking okay. Pretty happy."
"You saw her?"
"This morning. I bought her a new Chester and took it up."
"A new...?"
"Toy. I don't know what. Donkey-monkey or something. I was planning on going back to the park and getting the original. Just didn't have the heart."
"That'd be above and beyond, Brynn. Physically, she's okay?"
"Well, nobody'd gone south."
"Thank God for that."
"But the marks on her neck?" Brynn grimaced angrily. "The doctor who looked her over that night said they'd been made in the past few hours."
"Few hours? You mean, it was Michelle did that?"
"Yep." Brynn sighed. "Amy was making some noise, and Hart and Lewis were nearby. Michelle pulled her aside to talk to her. And she was quiet after that. Half strangled the poor kid, I've got a feeling."
"Lord, what a witch."
"And Amy was terrified for the rest of the night. I never connected it."
"Poor thing. Good you went to see her."
She asked, "That FBI fellow who's checking on Mankewitz? He'll call us? Or are they thinking we're bumpkins?"
"Never knew where that word came from."
Brynn lifted an eyebrow.
"They think we're bumpkins but they said they'd let us know," Dahl said.
"Still, give me his number. I'll call just to say hello."
Snickering, Dahl dug through his wallet and found a card. Showed it to Brynn and she wrote down the information.
"You look tired. I owe you that time off. And I'm insisting you take it. That's from your boss. Kick back. Let Graham take care of things for a while. A man oughta know his way around the kitchen and grocery store and laundry. Lord knows, I do. Carole's whipped me into shape."
Brynn laughed and Dahl missed the mournful tone. "Well, I will. Promise. But not just yet. We've got open homicides and even if Mankewitz is behind it and the U.S. attorney comes in on RICO or conspiracy counts, it's still a state crime happened in our county."
"What're you planning to do?" Dahl asked.
"Go where the leads take me. Here, Milwaukee, wherever." She at least would follow up on some of the acting school and health club connections, anything else she could think of. Maybe gun clubs. The woman certainly knew how to use a firearm.
"And it won't do any good saying no?"
"You can fire me."
He chuckled.
Brynn sighed. "And this all ended up in our lap."
"Usually, you know, you can't pick the bullet that hits you. Usually you can't even hear it coming."
"What're you and Carole doing this weekend?"
"Maybe a movie. Only if her mother comes to babysit. These teenagers? They charge you ten dollars an hour and you have to feed them. I mean, something hot. What do you pay?"
"Graham and I don't go out much."
"Better that way. Stay home, have dinner. No need to go out. Especially with cable. Best be going."
"Say hi to Carole for me."
"Will do. And regards to your mom. Wish her well."
She watched him go and she stood, looking over the first item on her list.
II
MAY
SITTING IN A
diner in downtown Milwaukee, big, broad Stanley Mankewitz noted his reflection in the glass, intensified because of the dark gray afternoon light. The date was May 1 but the weather had been borrowed from March. This was an important date in Mankewitz's life. International Workers' Day, picked by worldwide labor movements in the late 1880s to honor common workers. That particular date was selected largely to commemorate the martyrs of the Haymarket Massacre, in which both police and workers were killed in May 1886 in Chicago, following rallies by the Federation of Organized Trade and Labor Unions in support of an eight-hour workday.
May Day meant two things to Mankewitz. One, it honored working people--which he had been and which he now represented with all his heart--along with their brothers and sisters throughout the world.
Two, it stood as a testament to the fact that sacr
ifices sometimes had to be made for the greater good.
He had above his desk a quotation: the final words of one of the men sentenced to hang for his role in the Haymarket Massacre, August Spies (who, like all the defendants, scholars believed, was probably innocent). Spies had said, "The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today."
Sacrifices...
Reflecting now on that momentous day, Mankewitz gazed at his image, observing not his rotund physique, which pestered him occasionally, but his exhausted demeanor. He deduced this from his posture, since he couldn't see his facial features clearly, though they surely would have added to the overall profile.
He took a bite of his club sandwich, noted the American instead of the Swiss cheese, which he'd ordered. And too much mayo in the coleslaw. They always do that, he fretted. Why do I eat here?
The Hobbit detective had been proving scarce lately, which Mankewitz cleverly punned to James Jasons really meant he was proving "scared."
Life had turned into a nightmare after the death of Emma Feldman. He'd been "invited" to the Bureau and the state's attorney's office. He went with his lawyer, answered some questions, not others, and they left without receiving anything other than a chilly good-bye. His lawyer hadn't been able to read the signs.
Then he'd heard that the law firm where the Feldman woman worked was considering a suit against him for wrongful death--and their loss of earnings. His lawyer told him this was bullshit, since there was no legally recognized cause of action for that sort of thing.
More fucking harrassment.
Mankewitz snapped, "Maybe it's also bullshit because nobody's proved I killed her."
"Yeah, of course, Stan. That goes without saying."
Without saying.
He looked up from his lopsided sandwich and saw James Jasons approach. The thin man sat down. When the waitress arrived he asked for a Diet Coke.
"You don't eat," Mankewitz said.
"Depends."
Which means what? Mankewitz wondered.
"I've got some updates."
"Go on."
"First, I called the sheriff up there, Tom Dahl. Well, I called as the friend of the Feldmans--the aggrieved friend. Ari Paskell. I put on the pressure: How come you haven't found the killers yet? Et cetera."
"Okay."
"I'm convinced he believed I'm who I said I was."