Clean Slate

Chapter 49

Of course Mac felt the overwhelming temptation, prompted by her nearness and her scents and the feel of her skin when she touched him, triggering memories of that large expanse of bed and the two of them coupled, hanging on to each other for dear life. He had not exhausted his appetite for that, or for Libby. Probably never would. Even so, and with great effort and no small regret, he managed to say: "I think it's best to call a moratorium."

She blinked, hesitated, then nodded. "Fair enough. I gotta run," she said briskly. "Call me about the affidavit?"

"You'll be the first to know."

"Okay," she said, and turned up the hall. "Talk to you later," she called, and walked away.

---

Earl Bucaro wheeled his Corvette into its assigned space in the parking enclosure, got out, locked up, and walked the sidewalk toward the private entrance of his condo unit. He felt mellow and played-out from his date at Room 33. This one had turned out to be quite a pleasant surprise. Twenty, tattooed, and pierced of nose, ears, and lip, the black-haired mere wisp of a girl had a Latina name that Earl arbitrarily translated as Mary. She was on parole from an assault conviction, having with a gang of others beaten senseless with bats and pipes another young woman thought to have cast a lascivious eye on her sister's husband. So Mary liked getting physical, she knew the ways of the world, and with Earl had been realistic and accepting – obviously hoping that, in return for favors rendered, he'd see to it her parole strings were loosened. Tonight, their first time together, she had told Earl at the outset that she was on her period, but had gone on to give him an amazing blow job, made more incredible by the skilled and tantalizing way she applied the large chrome stud bolted through her tongue. Earl had proceeded a bit later to fuck her anyway – to him it was not a date without that – and that had been, as predicted, messy. But such was life.

He was looking forward to a quiet dinner alone, some TV news, and then work in his study on the documentary, accompanied by slow sips of Stoli. The project was turning out to be more engrossing than he'd expected. Normally not one for reminiscence, Earl found himself replaying certain episodes several times, with a sense of what almost seemed like wistfulness: flashbacks to better, more innocent times. Dinner, TV, Stoli, documentary, and to bed by 10 –

"Superintendent!"

He turned. An obviously County-owned four door sedan was parked in the guest space across from his condo walk, and from it emerged two men in suits, coppers of course: Erkfitz and his much taller partner Love. Earl marched across the street toward them, on full glower. "What the hell you think you're doing?" he asked.

"There some problem?" Love asked. His brush cut was so fresh it looked painted on, and he stood at knobby storklike ease, all six feet six of him. Erkfitz, portly and pale as always, loose of tie and weary of countenance, stood silently at the open driver's side door. "We tried you at your office earlier," Love went on. "You were out."

"This is my home," Earl said quietly, stopping at their car trunk. "You're violating my privacy."

"Just have a couple of questions for you," Erkfitz said, "and we apologize for having to intrude this way."

"Just a couple of questions," Love echoed, sounding not at all apologetic.

Earl noticed the absence of the honorific sir. "What is it," he retorted, straining for his patented flatness of tone and expression.

Love had his little notebook out and he flipped pages. "The name, the name, the name," he muttered. Earl resented what he viewed as Love's enjoyment of the suspense. "Ah! Here it is."

"Navacarrada," Erkfitz supplied tonelessly.

"No, pard, it's. . .uh. . .Navacarrada," Love said, squinting at his notebook. He looked Earl's way. "Name mean anything to you?"

Earl let a silence drag, sorting through potential answers. It annoyed him that they'd made the connection, but it was not really a surprise, not for coppers obviously competent at their jobs. "Maybe, not sure," he said.

"Yeah," Love said, "she lived with our vic, this Medardo fella."

"Zamarippa," Erkfitz supplied tonelessly. "Get it right."

"Medardo's his first name," Love retorted. To Earl he went on, "We get this from a neighbor who used to watch her kids sometimes. Haven't seen her in a couple weeks, though. Kids either. Have you?"

"I don't know her," Earl said.

"She's on the work program rolls," Erkfitz said. "Makes her one of yours."

"Like I said," Earl retorted, "the name rings a bell. I --"

"Is that what he said?" Love cut in.

"What he said about knowing Navacarrada was," Erkfitz answered, "‘Maybe, not sure.'"

"But now he says the name ‘rings a bell,'" Love said.

"Inconsistent."

They watched him. Earl just shrugged. "Probably I've seen the name on the roster downtown."

"Well," Love said easily, "it's a link, Superintendent. Maybe just a coincidence."

"Probably is," Erkfitz said.

"Red Corvette, one of 22 in the County," Love went on. "Seen several times in Zamarippa's block. Which you say you were never there. Which is what the other 21 red 'Vette owners say. Difference being, Zamarippa, we now find out, was living with a woman tied to you."

"There's no tie. It's just paperwork. I don't know her," Earl said, doing a slow boil.

"Ever seen her anyplace?" Love asked.

"Asked," Earl said, "and answered." He made his flat, press-lipped smile. "Not that you boys need my help, but a theory does occur."

"About Navacarrada," Love said.

"That she went missing," Erkfitz added.

"'Bout the time Medardo got aced," Love put in.

"Suggesting she might be the doer," Erkfitz concluded.

"And is now on the run," Love speculated.

"Which is why we're looking for her," Erkfitz advised.

So am I, Earl thought. He smiled. "See? I knew you boys were way ahead of me. Now. If there's nothing else."

The two coppers stayed predictably silent, stretching out a long moment. Then Erkfitz tapped the rooftop of their car and said, "Have a nice evening."

"Bye now," Love added.

As they dropped into their car, Earl stepped out of the way. It started, swept back, and then roared toward the condo development exit, red tail lights glowing in the gathering twilight. Earl recrossed the street and headed up the sidewalk toward his condo door. He no longer had any appetite for dinner, no interest in TV. He had more important things to do. The documentary – once a pleasant exercise in reminiscence, and a long range potential preventative – had become a priority. An urgent one.

---

By the time Abigail arrived at the office the next morning, Mac had already been there an hour. She brought him his go-coffee and he waved and smiled, waiting on hold as distant metal clanking and machine sounds echoed in his ear. Finally a female voice, a bit breathless, sounded: "Hello?"

"Mac McGladrey. Glad I caught you, Jessica."

"Can I call you back on my break? We're real busy."

"This'll just take a second. I've got it set up. For after your work, just as you asked."

"Okay," she said doubtfully.

"You know the Frankfurt Inn? Lee Highway where it cloverleafs with the --"

"I know it, sure, I pass it on my way home."

"I've got a room there. 5 p.m. this afternoon."

"I just hope Mel don't keep us over. He does that sometimes."

"Need for me to call him? Explain things?"

"That'll just make it worse."

"But you'll be there, right, Jessica? This is important."

"How long will it take? I've got things to do tonight."

"An hour, at the outside. You just tell your story, just like it happened. Okay?"

"Yeah sure, okay." Silence. "Is there, like, any kind of reward for me?"

Mac winced, shook his head. Offenders: some of them never changed. "You get the same reward Diana gets. The satisfaction of doing the right thing."

"Right thing, wrong thing," Jessica said, "the result's always the same thing."

"Not this time," Mac said. "You follow through on this, and I promise you, I'll stand by you till the last dog dies." He paused, waiting for a response that did not come. "We're counting on you, Jessica."

"Yeah. . .yeah. . .I'll be there."

"I appreciate it. Thank you. Be sure to keep this under your hat. Word gets out too soon, there'll be hell to pay."

"Believe me, I'm not telling anybody."

"Call me if there's any problems."

"'Bye."

Abigail waited expectantly by his desk. Her look today was quite conservative: a navy suit with notch-collar jacket and calf-length skirt, with matching pumps and a thin slithery gold necklace. Her hair was, as always, tied back tight, this time with a gold clasp. She had good color, bright eyes: definitely on the mend, which Mac was glad to see. Quickly he filled her in on the evening's events. Staring at him, she clenched her fists just once in an abrupt gesture of victory, and said: "So when are the affidavits?"

"Diana's at noon, at the hospital. She --"

"But how rough for her," Abigail reflected. "This on top of the medical troubles."

"She wants to do it," Mac answered. "Sooner the better. Jessica's not so hot to trot. Diana talked to her last night, she called me later. She's with us, but just barely."

"Do we really need her?"

"In this kind of thing – to sew Bucaro up – make it certain – for that," Mac said grimly, "we need both of them."

"All right," Abigail said. "Listen, I've got an interview – but first, take a look at this." She handed him a paper. In her squiggly script was written an unfamiliar email address. "That's for Brody, I'm pretty sure," Abigail said. "I found it on the disk last night."

"Really. Could be something. If it's still good."

"I sent a test message last night," Abigail offered. "It didn't bounce back. So."

"Great. I'll drop her a line." They were silent a moment, smiling at each other. "I told you," Mac said quietly. "I said there'd be a break. Here it is."

"We're putting him away," Abigail said, with no small wonder. "Amazing."

---

Mac was just finishing up interviewing an offender – a run of the mill middle aged drunk driving housewife – when his screen splashed up a red box: COURIER DELIVERY.

Strange.

Mac walked the offender out to the lobby. At Janie's desk stood a uniformed bailiff. He waited at a sort of parade rest, dead-eyed, holding a large white envelope in both hands. "McGladrey?" he asked.

"You got him."

He extended the envelope. Mac took it. "Delivered," the bailiff said crisply, and turned and left.

Mac glanced at Janie, who rolled her eyes and shrugged, then buzzed himself through the door and strode up the hallway, tearing open the envelope. Stepping through the chopped wall, he extracted the single sheet of paper and saw the heading: NOTICE TO APPEAR.

What the hell.

With an effort he saved it till he was back in his office, seated behind his desk.

Back at his desk, Mac smoothed the notice out on his desktop, leaned back, and thought. From Abigail's office came the faint sounds of conversation as she worked with one of her offenders. After a bit Mac picked up his desk phone and mashed four numbers. Katie Killeen answered: "Office of the Chief Judge."

"Morning, Katie, Mac McGladrey. May I speak with His Eminence?"

"You're asking for Judge Wildern?" came back Katie, friendly but reproving.

"Indeed."

"'Fraid he's unavailable, Mac. Care to leave word?"

"If he could call me, please. Soonest."

"Most certainly."

Mac pressed the cradle button, then released it and mashed four other numbers. Clare answered on the first ring: "Epple."

"About this notice I just got?" Mac began.

"News to me," Clare said stiffly. "I just now got mine."

"You mean, you're being hauled up too?"

"No, I've been called to testify."

"Really. Against me?"

"I have no idea what they're going to ask about."

"So, you didn't put me in for this?"

He expected a laugh. But all she said was, "No."

"Know who did?"

"No." She hesitated. "Since I'm your boss, whoever they are, should have come to me first."

Leave it to Clare, Mac thought, to put form over substance. "Thanks, boss."

By now Abigail had finished her interview. She came into Mac's office, and he slid the notice across to her. She glanced it over and shot him a concerned look. "Good God. What could you have done?"

"Bests me," Mac answered. "But somebody, somewhere, thinks I've done something wrong."

"Not fair," she observed, "that they don't even tell you who's accusing you."

"Well," Mac observed, "this is what passes for ‘due process' when you work for Recorder's Court."

She let the sheet drop like an unclean thing. "Well, I don't like it. This just happens to pop up right now? Doesn't the timing seem awfully suspect?"