“Yes,” I said. “I can.”
“Good.” He patted my shoulder for the second time. “Prove it.”
He got up and walked away.
PART 2
. . credo ch’un spirito del mio sangue piangala colpa che là giù contanto costa.
. . a spirit of my own blood laments the guilt that brings so great a cost below.
Dante accepts the idea of neutral agents
in the quarrel between God and Satan. And he puts
them in Limbo, a sort of vestibule of his Hell.
We are in the vestibule, cher ami.
CHAPTER 11
Saturday in the Heights. Johnny Cash on the stereo and steaks on the grill, the neighbor’s automatic sprinklers wick-wick-wicking on the far side of the wooden fence. I’m stationed, spatula in hand, comfortable as a lizard in the sun, trying to tell myself this is the life and I could get used to it. Charlotte, who’s flowering now that she’s practicing law full-time, has lectured me twice already about a man being more than his job description.
I’m trying to take it in stride.
Behind me, Carter Robb is trapped in a conversation with Cavallo’s husband, Dean, who gulps down Shiner like water and has none of the veteran’s stereotypical reticence when it comes to boasting about wartime exploits. Robb slips in the occasional yeah and uh-huh. Most of Dean’s stories seem to involve some combination of exploding goats and friendly fire, and I suspect he plays up the details, testing the young reverend.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, though, being over there,” he says, “it’s that people are more similar than they are different.”
“Uh-huh,” Robb says. He must know, judging by what’s gone before, that there’s more to Dean’s heartwarming pronouncement than meets the eye.
“Take this, for example. The Arabs, they think all the bad stuff that happens to them is the result of some international Zionist conspiracy. The family goat walks into a minefield, and they blame the Jews. Crazy, huh?”
“Yeah,” Robb says.
“Then I come back here, and Terry says we’re going to church. And I meet this old guy there, and when he finds out where I’ve been, he starts in on how the president won’t produce his birth certificate and steel doesn’t melt just because some jet wrecks into it. See what I mean? Different players, same idea. Somebody’s running things behind the curtains. Nothing ever just happens.” Dean chuckles to himself. “Although this guy, he really seemed big on Israel.”
Cavallo’s husband may be a bit of a blowhard, but I figure he’s earned the right. And it’s not like he doesn’t have a point.
“Don’t get me started on conspiracy theorists,” I say.
Dean perks up. “Oh yeah?”
“I’ve got this cousin who thinks her brother was murdered by Dean Corll-you remember him? He was a serial killer here in the Heights back when we were kids. The Candy Man, they called him. Anyway, she devoted a website to all this, convinced all these other fruit loops that she was right-”
Charlotte brings out a bowl of tossed salad from the kitchen, her sundress fluttering in the breeze. “Who are you talking about?”
“Nothing, dear.” I smile ironically and Dean starts to laugh.
“Don’t talk bad about people behind their backs.” With a wink she rejoins the women inside. A moment later, they all emerge, their arms laden with plates, glasses, pitchers-Cavallo in white shorts and oversized sunglasses, Gina Robb pink-skinned and waddling, looking ready to pop, but still as radiant as she was in front of the camera.
Carter rises to make room around the patio table, probably relieved for the deliverance.
Over lunch, Dean fades a little, not having much to contribute to a discussion of baby names and due dates. The Robbs have settled into their new place, but they’ve had to suspend their planned repainting because the fumes are giving Gina headaches. She lights up as she describes the nursery’s two perfect marigold walls and the two untouched sides that still sport the hideous original flocked velvet wallpaper, dating back to before either one of them was born. “When I’m at the hospital in labor,” she says, “I told Carter he has to run home and finish painting the room.”
Cavallo gives Dean a few meaningful looks during the baby talk, which he either doesn’t pick up on or chooses to ignore. According to Charlotte, Theresa’s gone a little baby crazy: “She’s tired of snoozing the biological alarm clock.” A hard image for me to square with her flinty work persona. It would be strange if she rode Wanda’s coattails into Homicide only to take a time-out for maternity leave.
“So how are you settling in at the new job?” I ask.
Charlotte makes a threatening motion with her steak knife. “No work at the table!”
“I’m just asking.”
“It’s fine,” Cavallo says. “They think you’re some kind of legend, the other detectives. They ask a lot of questions about. .” She pauses, glancing over at the Robbs. They actually knew Hannah Mayhew, the subject of my recent comeback case, whereas for us she was just another victim, albeit an all-important one. “About the task force,” she finishes.
Dean jumps in. “I’ll bet you’re a legend now, the way you put that shooter down. Terry told me all about that, man. That was righteous.”
Cavallo gives him an elbow. The rest of them ignore the remark.
Yet I find his approbation strangely satisfying. Dean strikes me as the type who’s a boor on principle, the kind of guy who tramples social conventions like he wouldn’t know what else to do with them, but would carry a wounded buddy out of enemy territory, humping fifty miles if he had to. When he met Cavallo, he was a cop and an Army reservist, and he’ll probably end up working on one of the city or county tactical response teams once he’s considered all the options. I like him, but I’ve never quite figured out the attraction between the two of them. I have a theory it was mainly physical, intensified by Dean’s long absences, and now that they’re together things aren’t going particularly smooth.
Trying to segue, Cavallo produces her new business cards and starts showing them off. I take one, turning it over in my hand, remembering the first time I’d seen my own name and the word HOMICIDE on the same card. I gave those cards out to everyone.
“So you’re keeping your maiden name?” Robb asks.
Next to me, Charlotte deflates. Doesn’t anyone besides her know anymore what questions are appropriate to ask? I try not to smile. Dean makes a show of turning in his chair to face his wife, like it’s a question he’s wondered himself and he can’t wait to hear the answer.
“We haven’t really talked about it,” Cavallo says, not looking at Dean. “For me, it’s sort of like how celebrities, once people know them by a certain name-”
“But it’s not like you’re famous or anything,” Dean says.
“I know that.”
“Is it maybe a feminist thing?” He grins at the dig. “Now, Charlotte, you’re a professional woman. Did you change your name when you two got married?”
Charlotte sputters, caught on the horns of a dilemma. She doesn’t want to side with Dean against Theresa, but on the other hand she’s about as traditional as they come. Her father was a conservative kingmaker in Texas politics back in the day, and as the elder daughter, Charlotte took after him, leaving her wayward sister to drift toward the other extreme.
“I did,” she finally admits, “but I can understand what Terry’s saying. Anyway, what’s in a name? The important thing is that this girl right here waited for you a long, long time, and now that she’s got you, I’ve never seen her happier.”
“And that’s the truth,” Cavallo says, raising her glass.