Clean Slate

Chapter 30

Inside his office were two visitors. A man Mac did not know, and a woman he did.

Clare Epple sat in one of the client chairs, leaning forward, pale and pigeon-toed. She wore a three piece aqua suit that was a tad too snug on her, and her large face within its shag-mop of black hair was wide-eyed and stricken. Over by the archway, standing almost at parade rest, was a man Mac had never met: a Homeland Security Desk operative in his white-on-black uniform with embroidered gold badge on the shirt breast. He was slender, dark haired, youngish, and anonymous looking, wearing the ubiquitous communication headset that made him look vaguely like a member of the Borg. "McGladrey?" he asked as Mac came in.

"Guilty," Mac replied. His smart-alec tone was unintended, but felt good. Sensing that the man expected him to rivet to a halt to await further orders, Mac instead ambled around to his desk chair and took a seat with an audible thump. "What's shakin?"

The man came over, hand outstretched. "Louis Lipschitz. Homeland Security Desk."

Mac did not move. "Hence the uniform." Looking over at Clare, who was clench-jawed and blinking, he said: "Morning, boss." She nodded tightly at him and looked away.

Dropping his hand and straightening, Lipschitz said, in tone now deeper, more formal, and vaguely threatening, "You were issued a firearm earlier this month, McGladrey."

"Indeed."

"Show it to me."

"Very well." Reaching into his desk drawer, Mac extracted the Beretta 9. Out of habit he almost popped the clip, but thought better of it. Instead he slid it across the desktop in Lipschitz's direction. "There you are. Knock yourself out." Lipschitz picked it up, awkwardness all the more obvious for his determined efforts to conceal it. Mac grinned. "Aren't you gonna check to make sure it isn't loaded?"

"Affirmative," Lipschitz said crisply. Fingering the weapon, squinting, he fumbled with it for a bit.

Mac winked at Clare, who looked anything but reassured. "Hand it over, son," he said at last, beckoning. Grim-faced, Lipschitz set the weapon down on the desk. Mac picked it up, quickly popped the clip and worked the action, put it back together and set it down. "Okay, it's safe."

"That's an offense," Lipschitz said.

"What is?"

"Keeping it unloaded." He was gathering steam, and confidence. "In fact it's your second offense."

"And the first would be?"

"Not having it on your person."

"Oh."

Lipschitz eyed him. "Your response?"

"I believe what I heard myself say was: ‘Oh.' You remember it that way, Clare?"

She nodded tightly.

Mac looked at Lipschitz. "This about anything that really matters, or can Clare and I get back to work?"

Reddening, and aware of it, the security man narrowed his eyes. "We're investigating Epple here for administrative offenses related to the issuance of this firearm to you."

"That so."

He ticked fingers. "Number one: there's no evidence you passed the required qualification course."

"Hm. I'm a Navy veteran," Mac told him. "As such I was fully qualified in several ordnance and weapons systems, starting with the standard-issue sidearm." He arched a brow. "If you check my County personnel file, I believe it's all in there."

"Even if true," Lipschitz said, "that would not eliminate the need for the qualification course."

"Unless of course you're willing to be reasonable."

"And the other issue," Lipschitz rushed on, "is that Epple failed to obtain the acknowledgment of receipt of the weapon from you. That's a serious infraction for which she faces discipline."

Mac stared at the man. He had no idea what his face looked like at that moment. What the others saw was a certain paling, a narrowing of the eyes, that were signs of what was, in Mac, an infrequent emotion: anger.

"So," he said finally, as evenly as he could, "that's what all this brouhaha is about? A couple of forms weren't signed off?" Lipschitz started to answer, but Mac overrode him. "You come storm-trooping in here with your security-thug routine, over a couple of unfiled chits?" Again Lipschitz tried to talk, and again Mac charged on. "Listen. That second form, that's not Clare's fault. She gave it to me and I never got around to turning it back in."

"That does not absolve her from --"

"It's my fault," Mac repeated. "Not hers. Write me up. Do what you have to." He raised his hands in surrender. "You got me. Three dings. Send me to the stockade."

The security man stared at him, glanced at Clare, gazed into space for a moment. Not in his programming, Mac thought. Lipschitz nodded just once then, as if he'd prevailed. "We'll take your statements under advisement," he said. With a look at Epple, he added, "Some corrective action in record-keeping is advised." Without looking at him she nodded. And then Lipschitz went to the door, unable to resist a parting shot; guys like him could never end a confrontation without issuing the ritual threats. "You haven't heard the last of this," he said to Mac, and left.

Mac leaned back in his chair. "I'm coming back with my big brother," he mimicked angrily, "and he's gonna pound you!" Taking a deep breath, he fought for control, his thoughts and feelings a mix of contempt and embarrassment and – yes – the slightest feeling of nausea. Angry confrontations always made him left him with that sort of sickish hangover. It reminded him all too unpleasantly of his years with Suzanne. Looking at Clare, he asked, "You okay, boss?"

She raised her head and met his eyes, expression tired and vacant. Rising slowly, she said, a bit hoarsely, "Thanks, Mac. I had no right to expect that."

"Expect what?"

"That you'd cover for me."

Mac shook his head, put a finger over his lips. "What I told him, it's what happened. Remember?"

"No, it's not," she said querulously. "And I --"

"It's what happened, Clare," Mac repeated. "Let's be clear."

She swallowed, nodded, managed a smile. "Okay."

"Just get me the fuckin' form, and I mean instantly."

"Check your email," she answered, and with an awkward wave left his office.

Mac leaned back in his chair. The tension level was so high in him, he thought he might need to throw something, like a TV set. Forcing his thoughts away, he pictured the Chihuahuan desert in southern New Mexico: the drifts of sand, the hills in the distance, the cacti. And after a bit he felt some peace.

Shit, man, he thought, turning to his computer, the morning is just about over and I've accomplished your basic doodly so far today. He had no more appointments till late afternoon. What he had, of course, was the ever-thickening pile of routine paperwork to chop away at. And there was the Jessica Miller matter to pursue. At the moment he was hoping to go see her again at day's end –

His cell phone rang. 313. "Hey Ben," Mac answered.

"Checking in," Perkins replied.

"And?"

"I managed to spirit your wife's hotel room phone records," the detective told him. "No calls of interest."

"She has her own mobile."

"You check the records on that?"

"She doesn't get an itemized bill."

"Convenient."

"Indeed."

"The AT&T Wireless Cheaters Plan."

"No doubt."

"So I'm working the conference now," Perkins went on. "Cobo's your basic bureaucratic nightmare, but I have some feelers out. See if I can verify her attendance at that sick sigma thing."

"Okay."

"I'll talk atcha later."

"Fine."

Pause. "You okay, Mac?"

"Fine. No worries," Mac lied. "Just got a day here."

"Don't we all," Perkins answered, and hung up.

Mac took a deep breath. His office seemed more quiet than usual. He realized Abigail was gone, and had been for some time. Lunch time was approaching. Swiveling to his computer screen, Mac saw, for the first time, the red message box: L. LEWIS – S/M BLADE – LOBBY.

The message had been posted 31 minutes before. Mac squinted at it. The name meant nothing. Could not be an offender, or Janie would have included the case file number. Picking up his office phone, he buzzed her. "This Lewis person still out there?"

"Yes." Janie lowered her voice. "She's a real bitch, Mac. Would you please get her off my hands."

"On my way."

---

The OPP waiting room was just about empty, it being close to lunch time, during which PO's almost never scheduled appointments. Mac saw the woman sitting cross-legged at the far corner, and walked toward her as she stood. His first impression – more like a wallop – was acres of shapely legs and incredible red hair: short, choppy, swept this way and that around her face. Mac's first girlfriend, at the age of thirteen, was a beautiful red-headed girl named Jeanette. Like this Lewis woman, Jeanette was on the tallish side. Mac had always been drawn to taller women, which made it ironic that the only two serious loves of his life – Paulina Sagrera and Suzanne Shoemaker – had been otherwise.

"Mister McGladrey," the woman said, looking anything but friendly.

"Mac." He stood just shy of her, smiling into her gray eyes. "You're Ms. Lewis?"

"St. Marys Blade," she added. Besides the red hair, Mac thought, her looks were quite striking. She had strong cheekbones and jaw, pale gray eyes set just a hair farther apart than normal, and an assertive cast to her posture, using her long athletic body to best effect. Mac pegged her for thirty-and-change, but sensed that she'd turned that first big corner with anything but eagerness. She liked eyes on her, as evidenced by the just-too-shortness and plunging neckline of her black dress – effects that the black jacket did nothing to offset. In shape with nice curves, she had pep to burn, he could tell, and most likely did not gladly suffer fools. "Smitten" is too strong a word to use for Mac's feelings here. Lewis was not the first pretty woman he'd encountered, in France and Cambodia, since leaving Suzanne. But those women – several of whom had made their interest clear – had been, to him, remote, meant only for academic observation, too far away for Mac's arms to reach, even if he'd been so inclined. Lewis, on the other hand, was streaking across his sky today like a shooting star toward the end of a very long and very black night. Her he could feel his hands on.

"I've been waiting a long time," she said, the half smile taking the edge off the gripe.

"Lot of incoming this morning," Mac replied. Her long freckled fingers, he noticed, had nicely tended nails, and just one ring, a silver one on her right thumb. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm told," she said, "that you're parole officer to one Edward Fant."

"That would be me." Mac reflected. "Oh, you got that from Bucaro?" She nodded. "What's your interest in Eddie?"

"I've been working the hooker papers story," Lewis said. "Fant's tied in to it. I need a word with him, but he seems to have dropped out of sight."

"I'll say," Mac answered. Then he looked quickly at Lewis. "Bucaro didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Eddie's dead."

"Get out." Then her eyes lit up, and she nodded. "Interesting that Bucaro didn't mention that. Maybe he doesn't know?"

"Oh, he knows."

"Then why didn't he tell me?"

"Could be because he's a contrary little shit."

"When he's not too busy being a slimy little slug."

They smiled at each other.

"We should talk," she told him.

"Indeed." He started to gesture her in, then changed course. "Do you, uh. . .do you ever eat lunch or anything like that?"

"Been known to."

In the Fannie Annie lobby they encountered Abigail Heartwell, trotting briskly up the stairs, Garry Overbye in tow. Mac stopped to greet her. Abigail, pleased, glanced at Lewis, and Mac introduced them. Abigail nodded and smiled at the reporter, her lost-in-space eyes looking from her back to Mac with frank speculation. Lewis was studying her, too. "Aren't you the girl who fell through the ice?" she asked.

"Um," Abigail stammered, "yes, that was, uh. . .that was an accident," she said, with a look for Mac, "last year. Better get to work!" she added cheerily, and continued up the stairs, Overbye following with the dark look for Mac.

"What the hell was that about?" Mac asked as they exited through the Fannie Annie security gauntlet.

"Tell you later," Lewis answered.