The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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Danbury’s car, the bumper festooned with birdwatching and wildlife stickers. I parked beneath my house, climbed the stairs and stepped inside.
Dani yelled, “I’m heading out to the deck. Join me.” The deck doors slid closed with a thump. I stood in the living room hearing only the soft hiss of the air conditioner. Normally Dani would have met me at the door.
What was up?
I paused to yank off my tie, toss it over a chair, follow it with my jacket. The shoulder holster and weapon went to my bedside table.
I heard the deck door slide open. “Where you at, Carson?”
“Changing.”
“Get it in gear, Pogobo.”
Pogobo – and its diminutive, Pogie – came from po-lice go-lden bo-y, coined by Dani after Harry and I were made Officers of the Year by the Mayor. Most of the time we were homicide detectives, but once in a great while we were the Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team. PSIT, or Piss-it, as everyone called it, started as a public relations gimmick a few years back, never intended to be activated. But somehow it was, somehow it worked, and somehow it bought us Officers of the Year commendations. The honor turned out to be, as Harry had promised, worth less than mud.
I slipped into cutoffs, T-shirt, and running shoes a half-mile short of disintegrating. At the kitchen sink I slapped cool water over my face and glanced out the window. Dani paced beside the deck table; on it something hidden beneath my kitchen towel. I dried my face on an oven mitt and went to the deck.
The waning day remained beautiful and springlike, enhanced by a salt tang breezing up from the strand. Gulls followed a school of baitfish in the small breakers, keening and diving. Several pleasure boats bounced across the Gulf, including a big white Bertram I’d seen a lot lately. High above, a single-engine plane banked at the far edge of the sky, so small it looked like a lost kite.
Dani stood beside the towel-shrouded tabletop in white shorts and red tank top. Sunlight shimmered from her ash-blonde hair, her big gray eyes made blue by the bright sky. I raised my eyebrows at the table.
“A magic show? You’re going to make a rabbit appear?”
She snapped off the towel. Centering the table was a bottle of pricey champagne iced down in a plastic salad bowl, flanked by my two champagne flutes, $1.49 apiece at Big Lots.
Dani thumbed the cork from the bottle and froth raced out behind it. She filled the glasses, handed one to me.
“We’re drinking to my elevation from reporter to…” she lifted her glass in toast, “a full-fledged anchor.”
I stared like she was speaking in tongues. “What?”
“They’re making me an anchor, Carson. I start this week.”
“This is out of the blue.”
I saw the edge of a frown. “Not really. I’ve felt it coming for a few weeks, caught hints. Heard a few feelers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s June, Carson. When was the last time we had a real conversation? Early April?”
“I was working.” I heard myself get defensive.
“I tried to tell you a couple weeks back. But one time you shushed me and went on writing in your notepad, and the other time I looked over and you were asleep.”
“Why not a third attempt?”
She didn’t appear to hear the question.
“I’ll start by subbing for anchors when they’re out. Do weekends. Get viewers used to me.”
“They’re already used to you.”
“People only know me as a woman holding a microphone. It’s important the audience comes to know me as an approachable presence. Someone they want to spend time with. Someone they trust. It’s like a relationship with the viewer, something you give them.”
It sounded like the kind of hoo-hah she’d always laughed at in the past. I was wondering what I’d missed or who she’d been talking to about viewer relationships and approachable whatevers.
“What’s this lead to?” I said.
“Regular hours, at least for this biz.”
“All we have now are weekends, and only sometimes at that. Didn’t you just say that’s when you’ll be –”
“A trial period, that’s all. Break-in period. Things will change.”
“Seeing less of each other is better for each other?”
“I can’t help it, Carson. This is my chance to try a high-profile position. Plus the money is almost double.” She changed subjects. “You already rented your tuxedo for Saturday, right?”
I slapped my forehead. Channel 14 was having their annual to-do on Saturday night, a formal event. I guess I’d figured if I didn’t have a tux, I didn’t have to attend; sartorial solipsism, perhaps.
“Get it tomorrow, Carson. This is the big wing-ding of the year and all the honchos from Clarity will be there. I’ve got to make an anchor-level impression.”
We sat on the deck and I listened as Dani told me things I probably should have heard weeks back. Her job change seemed rational and good for us in the long run; more time, regular hours. But somewhere, behind the hiss of the waves and gentle blues drifting from the deck speakers, I heard a faint but insistent note of discord, like my mind and heart were playing opposing notes.
I arrived at the department at eight the next morning. It was quiet, a couple of dicks on the phones, digging. Most of the gray cubicles were empty. Pace Logan was sitting at his desk and staring into the air. I didn’t see Shuttles and figured he was out doing something Logan didn’t understand, detective work maybe. After grabbing a cup of coffee from the urn and tossing a buck in the kitty for a pair of powdered doughnuts, I headed to the cubicled, double-desk combo forming Harry’s and my office.
I walked into our space, saw Harry on his hands and knees on the floor, looking under his desk.
“That’s right. Crawl, you miserable worm,” I snarled.
He looked up and rolled his eyes. “There’s a couple photos missing from the murder book. I figured they dropped down here.”
The murder books – binders holding the investigational records of cases – had sections with plastic sleeves to hold crime-scene and relevant photos, trouble being the sleeves didn’t hold very well.
“What’s in the pix?” I asked.
Harry stood, brushed the knees of his lemon yellow pants, and cast a baleful eye at the wastebasket beside the desk. It wouldn’t be the first time something disappeared over the side, dumped by the janitorial crew.
“I dunno. I got the file numbers. I’ll call over and get some reprints.”
I looked at the pile on his desk. Harry had been checking records and information removed from Taneesha Franklin’s office, adding potentially useful pieces to the book.
“Finding anything interesting, bro?” I asked.
“Funny you should ask. I was going over Ms Franklin’s long-distance records. Here’s a couple calls caught my eye.”
He tapped the paper with a thick digit. I looked at the name.
“The state pen at Holman?” I said. “What’s that about?”
“Eight calls in two days. Seven are under a minute. The final one lasts for eleven minutes.”
I