“Oh boy,” McGovern mutters, returning my attention to the living room, to my own mess. “He’s the investigator for these two men who were probably tortured and killed? Whoever Marino’s talking to?” McGovern inquires.
I give her a strange look as an even stranger sensation ripples through me. “How do you know about the two men who were killed?” I grope for an answer that I must be missing. McGovern has been in New York. I haven’t even autopsied the second John Doe yet. Why does everybody seem to be omniscient all of a sudden? I think of Jaime Berger. I think of Governor Mitchell and Representative Dinwiddie and Anna. A strong breath of fear seems to foul the air like Chandonne’s body odor, and I imagine 1 smell him again and my central nervous system has an involuntary reaction. I begin to tremble as if I have drunk a pot of strong coffee or half a dozen of those heavily sugared Cuban espressos called coladas. I realize I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life and begin to entertain the unthinkable: Maybe Chandonne was offering a hint of truth when he persisted in his seemingly absurd claim that he is the victim of some huge political conspiracy. I
am paranoid, justifiably. 1 try to reason with myself. I am, after all, being investigated for the murder of a corrupt policewoman who probably was involved with organized crime. I realize Lucy is talking to me. She has gotten up from her spot before the fire and is pulling a chair close to me. She sits and leans over, touching my good arm, as if trying to wake me up. “Aunt Kay?” she says. “You with us, Aunt Kay? Are you listening?”
I focus on her. Marino is telling Stanfield over the phone that they will meet in the morning. It sounds like a threat. “He and I rendezvoused at Phil’s for a beer.” She glances toward the kitchen and I remember Marino telling me late this morning that he and Lucy were getting together this afternoon because she had news for him. “We know about the guy from the motel.” Now she refers to McGovern, who sits very still by the fire, looking at me, waiting to see how I will react when Lucy tells me the rest. “Teun’s been here since Saturday,” Lucy then says. “When I called you from the Jefferson, remember? Teun was with me. I asked her to get here right away.”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say. “Well, that’s good. It bothered me to think of you alone in a hotel.” Tears flood my eyes. I am embarrassed and look away from Lucy and McGovern. I am supposed to be strong. I am the one who has always rescued my niece from trouble, most of it of her own making. I have always been the torchbearer who guided her along the right path. I put her through college. I bought her books, her first computer, sent her to any special course she wanted to attend anywhere in the country. I took her to London with me one summer. I have stood up to anyone who tried to interfere with Lucy, including her mother, who has rewarded my efforts with nothing but abuse. “You’re supposed to respect me,” I say to my niece as I wipe tears with my palm. “How can you anymore?”
She stands up again and looks down at me. “That’s total bullshit,” she says with feeling, and now Marino is returning to the living room, another bourbon in hand. “This isn’t about my not respecting you,” Lucy says. “Jesus Christ. Nobody in
the room has any less respect for you, Aunt Kay. But you
need help. For once, you’ve got to let other people help you. You sure as hell can’t deal with this all by yourself, and maybe you need to sit on your pride a little and let us help, you know? It’s not like I’m still ten years old. I’m twenty-eight, okay? I’m not a virgin. I’ve been an FBI agent, an ATF agent and am fucking rich. I could be any kind of fucking agent I want.” Her wounds inflame before my eyes. She does care about being put on administrative leave; of course she cares. “And now I’m being my own agent, doing things my own way,” she goes on.