A man does stupid things for love, so I say: “I ain’t obstructing you. Not yet.”
Ronnie raises her eyebrows. “Are you serious? You wanna to get into it for a nutcase?”
My blood is up now so the voice of reason in my head is barely a mosquito whine.
“Yeah, I wanna get into it. And Sofia is not a nutcase.”
And, as if on cue, I hear her small voice behind me. Every word saturated with despair.
“Yes, Daniel. I am. I’m a freaking nutcase.”
Sofia came up behind me in bed socks so I didn’t hear a thing. Was a time a mouse couldn’t surprise me but now I’m getting old and my senses are as ragged as my emotions.
“No. No, darlin’. You say things you don’t mean. You remember things that didn’t happen, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”
Looking at her standing there with every spark of the girl she used to be drained out of her by that monster Carmine I realize that I believe maybe 60 percent that she is innocent and the other 40 percent does not give a shit.
Whatever it takes. This woman will be happy.
“I’m here, Sofia,” I say, scooping her into my arms, and she seems smaller that she did minutes ago. There’s a radical weight-loss plan: Develop psychoses and homicidal tendencies and watch those pounds melt away.
“We’ll get through this,” I say. “I ain’t leaving.”
“That’s touching,” says Ronnie, in the room now, thumb hooked through the cuffs on her belt.
I shoot her a poisonous glare. “You enjoying this as much as you’d hoped, Detective?”
Ronelle scowls. “No, I ain’t, Daniel. I’m closing a cold case here, which oughta be a feather in my cap, and you’re making me feel like I shot this Carmine douche myself. Don’t you know that gloating is one of the perks in this job?”
I hold Sofia tighter. “Sorry to piss on your glory day, but this is a person we’re talking about.”
Sofia pats my chest. “Carmine is a person too. If I did something to him, something terrible, then I should answer for it.”
I don’t see any way that Sofia is not going to Police Plaza for questioning. I hold up a finger to Ronnie.
“Just gimme a second, okay?”
“I’ll give you ten, killjoy. Then I’m calling for assistance.”
Sofia pulls away from me. “You gotta let me go, Dan.”
I grip her shoulders, making full eye contact. “Okay, darlin’. They’re going to put you in a cruiser and take you downtown for questioning. What they’re really doing is fishing because they got nothing but a phone call made by a drunken, bipolar woman who doesn’t remember a thing about it. Don’t say a word until I get a lawyer down there and even then, your story is you don’t remember. Got it?”
“I don’t remember,” says Sofia, then gives herself away by attempting a brave smile.
My heart sinks. Sofia will say whatever I tell her until the interview room door clangs behind her, then she will say what the depression tells her. I feel my extremities tingle and a blackness eats at the edges of my vision, and for a second I understand Sofia’s despair.
“It’s okay, baby,” she says, reaching up to stroke my cheek. “It’s better this way.”
Ronnie taps her cuffs and I know my time is up. If I don’t release Sofia right now the restraints are coming out and the backup will rush the stairwell.
“Just hold on for me, darlin’,” I tell her, as close to tears as I’ve been for a while. “Hold on until I get there.”
“I will, Dan,” she says and I know it’s all over.
She would sign a contract with Satan now if it meant earning herself the punishment her disorder thinks she deserves.
Ronnie has Sofia by the wrists and is gently pulling her from me when I register a figure at the door, and my Celtic sixth sense of doom informs me that things are about to get worse.
How the hell could things get worse?
The guy in the doorway looks like he had the crap beaten out of him by monkeys. His hair is all up on one side, and styled into a perfect quiff on the other. He’s wearing a neon-blue suit with honest to god shoulder pads that are either retro or way ahead of the fashion curve, and his fleshy upper lip is adorned by a Prince moustache that ripples like a worm in time to his heavy breathing. Physically, he doesn’t appear to pose much of a threat unless he clamps himself onto my face and smothers me with his beer gut, but for some reason the sight of this greasy character extinguishes the last spark of hope that I was nurturing that this day might turn out okay.
“What the hell is going on here?” Is the first thing out of his mouth, plenty of attitude, like he’s king of whatever hill he happens to be sitting on, and not a short guy with bad hair and a worse suit. Then he sees Ronnie and the twinklings on her belt and everything changes. The guy stands himself up straight and drops his eyes to the floor. Instant and total submission.
Ex-con, I realize. And not all that ex.
I glance down at Sofia and her eyes are wide like she’s witnessed the second coming of Elvis and she’s taking those rapid little breaths that are music to any man’s ears.
Then I get it.
Christ no. This runt can’t be him. I believe in coincidence but this would be way beyond coincidence. This would be a goddamn miracle.
Detective Deacon takes the lead. “What are you doing here, sir? There’s an arrest in progress.”
The runt keeps his eyes down. “I live here, officer. This is my apartment.”
Ronelle laughs. “You gotta be kidding me, right? You’re Carmine Delano?”
“That’s me, officer,” he says, and with those three words Sofia is lost. All the work of the past year sloughs away as she steps out of my arms.
“Carmine,” she says, holding out her hands to this guy who abused her for years. “Carmine, baby.”
The guy flicks his eyes upward toward her and shakes his head.
Not yet, the motion says. Wait until the cop leaves.
The guy has been in prison all these years. Not dead, banged up.
Ronnie is having a hard time accepting such a mind-boggling a coincidence.
“You’re Carmine Delano?” she says again. “Showing up here at this precise moment. Unbelieveable.”
“All’s I did was come home, officer,” says the man who purports to be Sofia’s lost husband, come home at the very time his wife is about to be whisked downtown for his murder.
Ronnie knows prison discipline when she sees it. “Show me your arm, convict,” she orders and Carmine does not hesitate, dropping his duffel bag and rolling up one sleeve, revealing a forearm covered in ink.
“Prison tats,” says Ronnie. “Aryan Brotherhood. My favorite. When did you get out?”
“Two weeks,” says Carmine sullenly. “I did a twenty jolt without parole.”
“Where?”
“Eastham, Houston.”
Ronnie whistles. “The pig farm? They do not fuck around down there. You got any ID?”
Carmine pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it over.
“Just my release papers.”
“Tell me what landed you in the farm, Mr. Carmine Delano,” says Ronnie, studying the papers.
“Armed robbery, Officer. I was heading for Mexico and ran out of funds.”
“You kill someone, Carmine?”
Carmine shuffles like a guilty schoolboy outside the principal’s office. “A guy died in the bank. An old guy. Heart attack they tell me.”
Ronnie stuffs the papers into the envelope. “So, no parole. You were lucky not to end up with the needle and an audience.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Carmine, but Ronnie is not impressed by his politeness.
“Ma’am? I don’t think the Brotherhood call people like me ma’am. Ain’t you noticed what color I am, son?”
“I was just trying to survive, Officer.”
Detective Deacon palms the papers into Carmine’s chest. Hard. “Yeah? Well, that supremacist bullshit don’t wash
up here. I got your face in my lexicon now, Delano, so you better hope that nobody perpetrates any hate crimes, ’cause if they do, I’m coming directly to this address. Got it?”
“Absolutely, Officer. Those days are behind me. And I’m gonna get these tattoos lasered.”
“Good. Daniel here knows a cosmetic surgeon. He ain’t the most reliable but he’s cheap.” She turns to Sofia. “And you! Stop wasting police time with your boozy confessions. Next time I’ll find something to charge you with.”
Ronnie might as well be in another dimension for all the attention Sofia pays to her. I know the feeling.
Deacon pulls the flap of her coat across the gun, badge and cuffs. “Looks like you’re out in the cold.”
I turn to Sofia, to see if this is true. I shouldn’t have, because I’m invisible to her now. She will not even acknowledge me.
“Carmine, sweetheart,” she says, and I swear she is glowing. “I knew you’d come back. I knew you loved me.”