Mercy Dogs Page 7

  “What kind of case, though? Why wouldn’t you want me to report it?”

  The server came back with two iced teas and put them on the table. When the guy was gone, Rob looked down at the glass in front of him. “Think about it,” he said.

  Ben did. He had been thinking about it ever since Rob sent the text message telling him not to call the police. Knowing she had been a witness added a key piece to the puzzle. Grace was trying to get away from something, maybe even hide from it. If the case had fallen apart, that meant that whoever she was supposed to testify against would remain a threat. Still, though, why no cops?

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “I didn’t think to ask before,” Ben said, not really wanting to know the answer. “Out in San Bernardino, what division are you with now?”

  Rob looked at him. “Internal Affairs.”

  When their lunch was finished, Rob’s plate clean and half a club sandwich on his, Ben still didn’t know much more. It was a narcotics case. Rob wasn’t worried about dirty cops in Long Beach, only that if anyone in an official capacity started asking questions about Grace in San Bernardino, word might get back to the suspect and give him some idea of where she might be. Or where she might have been. Ben thought about the red Camaro and wondered if it was too late on that account.

  “Come upstairs with me for a minute,” Rob said.

  His room was on the fourth floor. Rob went straight to the closet, while Ben glanced at several bulging file folders spread across the small desk by the window. How much of Grace’s past was laid out there?

  Rob ripped the packaging off of a new prepaid cell phone and powered it up. He dialed a number, and a few seconds later an identical phone on top of one of the manila folders on the desk beeped. “Here,” he said. “Take this.”

  “What for?” Ben asked.

  “So we can get a hold of each other.”

  “You really think we need burners?”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  Ben’s stomach churned. There was more in those folders than Rob wanted him to know.

  When Ben parked on the street in front of the house, he saw that the front door was open and his father was talking to a stranger on the porch. White guy, maybe thirty or thirty-five, old work boots and denim shirt fraying around the collar, lean and muscular, with blond hair cut short and a little too greasy.

  Peter saw him coming up the walkway and said, “Here’s my son. He can help.”

  Ben smiled, friendly and kind. “Sure. What can I do?”

  “His car is broken,” Peter said, concern and worry in his voice.

  “Is it?” Ben said. “That’s awful.”

  The stranger was wary, unsure what to make of Ben. “Yeah. I was telling your dad here I need a new fuel pump. Have a job interview tomorrow up in Santa Clarita. But I’m just a little short.” The stranger looked as if asking for help was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do.

  “Santa Clarita’s a long way away.”

  “Yes, sir. It is. I came to Long Beach for a job. Just a couple of days is all. To do some drywall on a remodel job just around the corner.”

  If any of the neighbors were having any work done, Ben hadn’t heard about it.

  Peter looked at Ben. “I said we could help him.”

  “How much do you need?” Ben asked.

  The stranger looked like he was embarrassed to say. He was thin, not tweaker skinny but maybe on the way there. “Forty would do it, I think.”

  Ben took a step closer on the porch. There was nowhere for the man to go now except over the railing onto the lawn or into the house. “No problem,” he said. Without looking at his father, he said, “Dad, would you go grab my wallet? I think I left it in the office.”

  “Sure.” Peter turned and walked back into the house.

  Ben reached over and pulled the front door closed without taking his eyes off the stranger. When the door latched, his smile was gone. Ben’s left hand found the stranger’s throat and he shoved him back up against the wall and held him there.

  “How many people you rip off today?” He pushed the heel of his hand into the man’s clavicle, thumb on one side of his neck, fingers on the other, ready to squeeze. His right hand found the place on his hip where his gun used to be.

  The man started to say something, but Ben cut him off. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Five or six.” His eyes were darting back and forth, searching for help or escape or something else Ben couldn’t guess.

  He grabbed the man’s shirt in both hands, pulled him away from the wall, and shoved him hard, toppling him over the railing.

  Ben didn’t watch as the stranger hit the lawn headfirst and rolled down onto his side. He darted down the two stairs and caught the stranger, dazed, as he was pushing himself up onto his knees.

  He was still on all fours when Ben’s New Balance stomped down on his hand, pinning it to the ground.

  Ben put his hands on the stranger’s shoulders and leaned in close. “You ever try to take advantage of my father again and I’ll fucking kill you. You understand?” He couldn’t tell for sure, but Ben thought he nodded. He yanked him to his feet and pushed him toward the sidewalk. After a few shaky steps, the stranger found his balance and sprinted down the street.

  Ben took several deep breaths on the porch, then went in and found his father in the office.

  “I can’t find your phone,” Peter said.

  “That’s okay, Dad.” Ben took his phone out of his pocket and held it up. “I had it the whole time.”

  Peter laughed and Ben tried to laugh with him.

  EIGHT

  1/11 2:30

  lunch w/ rob Marriott

  Grace witness—bad cop—hiding? Would rob know if he had her???

  Asshole trying to scam dad, told him off

  extra lorazepam (me not dad)

  Jennifer answered the call right away and he told her everything. Ben thought he could trust Rob. He knew he could trust Jennifer.

  “What if the guy he’s looking at, the bad cop, what if he took Grace?”

  “Did you ask Rob that?”

  “No, I was too stupid to even think of it.”

  “Rob doesn’t seem worried about that, does he?”

  “No.” Ben thought about that. Maybe Rob knew something about the guy. Maybe Rob had someone watching him. Maybe. But maybe it was even worse than that. “What if the guy just killed her?”

  “Ben,” she said, her voice soft and thoughtful. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? I think if Rob was worried she was in that much danger, he’d be acting a lot differently than he is. Don’t you think so?”

  She was right. Of course. “Probably.” He felt bad that he’d called her. Interrupted her with his paranoia. “I’m sorry I’m bothering you.”

  “You’re not bothering me. I talked to Becerra. He ran the Camaro. The partial plate number you gave him was enough to nail it down.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “No wants or warrants. Only a couple of parking tickets. Owner doesn’t have a criminal record.”

  “Nothing suspicious at all?”

  “Not really, no.” She paused. “Just that he lives in Corona.”

  “Corona?” That was halfway to San Bernardino. More than halfway, actually. Ben tried to remember the county boundaries. Was Corona in Rob’s jurisdiction? That wouldn’t matter, though, if the guy worked for the sheriff’s department. “What county is Corona in?”

  “Could be Riverside,” Jennifer said. “Let me check.” The line was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s Riverside.”

  “Did Becerra dig any deeper yet?” Ben asked. “Find out what the Camaro guy does for a living?”

  “I don’t think so. You want to talk to him, or should I?”

  Ben was glad she offered. He knew he’d get nervous if he had to make the call. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll ask him to get in to
uch with you if he needs anything else or comes up with anything.”

  “Thanks, Jennifer.”

  “I’m here if you need me,” she said. “And not just about the case.”

  Peter hadn’t been asking about Grace as much in the last two days. Sitting on the back patio in the Adirondack chair by her door, thinking about it, Ben was overcome with a wave of sadness. He knew the memories of her were fading for his father, and he didn’t know whether or not to remind him. How much did Peter need to know? Too much information would just confuse him and make it even harder for him to understand. Not enough and he’d start to worry about Ben. His father could always sense his anxiety, and even if Peter didn’t have the words to express or explain it, Ben knew it troubled him and made his symptoms worse. All of them—memory, language, even his stomach—they were all more troublesome when Ben was anxious.

  He looked at the door and thought about what Jennifer had said about patience. What he’d said about it himself, a long time ago.

  But Grace was gone now. Had she gone on her own? Was she running from the red Camaro? Or had something else, something worse, happened to her?

  It had been easy for him to preach patience when he’d been a detective. Because then he had some control, some agency. Patience was easy when it was a choice. Of course you’re happy with your speed when you’re the one with your foot on the gas pedal.

  Now, though, he wasn’t even sure who was driving or where they were going.

  Grace was gone now and getting further away, slipping out of his father’s memories. Would she slip from his own, too? How long would it be until all he could remember of her was what he’d scribbled in his notebooks?

  He thought about who she’d been before she’d gotten involved in Rob’s case. Was she the same woman he and his father knew?

  The more he thought about it, sitting there in the encroaching twilight, the more sure he was that the longer he waited, the further away she got. He was trying not to get caught up in his own projections, the way Emma had taught him, to ask himself how the situation would look to someone else, someone more objective. Like Rob, like Jennifer, like Becerra. Was that the right thing now? None of them knew the Grace who lived here, the Grace who drank coffee with his father on the patio and made him smile. None of them knew what was missing.

  That was the moment he decided. If no one had any news for him by tomorrow, he’d start digging and he’d find it for himself. Becerra seemed like the good cop Jennifer said he was. He’d keep working the case. Before long he’d be here with a search warrant for the studio. If Ben was really serious about not sitting around on his ass anymore and actually doing something, he’d have to go back inside before that happened.

  At first, Ben thought he was dreaming. He’d been sleeping fitfully, drifting off and waking again soon after. His dream had been one that had been visiting him recently, the one in which he relived his waking from the coma in the hospital and the slow realization that something was very wrong. He thought the moans were his own. Slowly, after two or three repetitions of the cycle, he sat up in bed, determined to leave the dream behind. Then he heard the moan again.

  It was Peter.

  In his haste standing up, Ben lost his balance and fell, fortunately hitting the edge of the bed on the way to the floor. The mattress absorbed most of the impact, so he was able to get back on his feet quickly and hurry to the back bathroom.

  The door was almost closed, letting only a sliver of light out into the hallway. He tapped his knuckle near the knob as he pushed it open. “Dad?”

  Peter was sitting on the toilet, hunched forward, hands on his abdomen, his face nearly touching his knees. He moaned again and Ben rushed to his side and kneeled next to him.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “Hurts.” Peter’s voice was thin and weak. More breath than sound.

  “Your stomach?”

  He nodded.

  “Is anything coming out?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can I look?”

  Peter leaned to the side and lifted one cheek off the seat. There was nothing inside. The water was clear.

  Shit. Did he have another bowel obstruction? No, please. Please, please, please, no.

  Ben focused on his breathing, tried to slow it down, deepen it.

  This wasn’t how it had been before. No, then it was vomiting. Peter almost never threw up. The only times he’d ever thrown up were before the trips to the ER.

  “Dad?”

  Peter didn’t seem to hear him.

  He said it louder, firmer. “Dad.”

  Peter looked at him.

  “Have you thrown up at all?”

  The question didn’t register. He wasn’t getting it.

  “Out of your mouth, Dad. Has anything come out of your mouth?”

  He shook his head. Ben put his nose in front of his father’s mouth and tried to figure out if he could smell anything unusual. It didn’t smell good, but he couldn’t detect any odor of vomit. “Are you sure nothing came up out of your mouth?”

  Peter nodded. He was rocking forward and back on the toilet seat, still holding his stomach.

  What was it? What could it be? Ben thought about it. He couldn’t remember giving him his medicine. That wasn’t unheard of—sometimes memories of their daily routines got lost in the shuffle. He must have, though. He wouldn’t forget that. He couldn’t forget that.

  “Stay right here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  Peter nodded again and Ben rushed into his bedroom and turned on the overhead light. His notebook was on the nightstand. There was nothing there about his father’s medicine. He flipped the pages back and forth. The entries went from dinner—mashed potatoes, decaf/boost—straight to Ben’s note about his own evening meds.

  It was his fault.

  He’d forgotten his father’s medicine. It was after four and he’d needed it nine hours ago. That was why his stomach was cramping and nothing was coming out.

  It’s your fault.

  You worthless fucking piece of shit, you worthless fucking pieceofshit, youworthlessfuck—

  “No,” Ben said out loud.

  “No.”

  He balled his hands into fists so tight he felt his fingernails digging into his palms. “No,” he said again, this time almost a grunt.

  Stop. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  The downward spiral he’d felt himself falling into seemed to be slowing. If he could just hold himself together for a few more minutes, long enough to help his father, he’d have the rest of the night to hate himself and spiral away into the nearest abyss.

  Peter was still moaning when he got back to him on the toilet.

  “Dad? It’s going to be okay. I forgot to give you your medicine. I’m going to get it right now, okay?”

  Ben mixed a big dose of Miralax into a cup of water. He had the bottle of Advil PM in his hand and decided it wouldn’t be enough. In his medicine cabinet were a dozen hydrocodone tablets left over from his father’s last surgery. He got one out of the bottle and hurried back to Peter’s side. The painkiller might worsen the constipation, but Ben was hoping the laxative would be enough to counter that potential side effect.

  “Here, Dad, take this.” Ben held out the large pill and Peter pinched it in his shaking fingers and slipped it into his mouth. He needed help with the cup and it took two tries to get it down, but he did it.

  For the next half hour, Ben sat on the edge of the bathtub and gave his father one small sip of laxative after another. By the time they finished, the pill had started to ease the abdominal pain and Peter was ready to go back to bed.

  “Thank you for helping me,” he said as Ben pulled the covers over him. “You always help me.”

  “And you help me, Dad. We help each other.”

  Peter smiled up at him in the dim glow of the night-light.

  1/12 4:30a

  Dad’s meds very late b/c FORGOT THEM! Very bad stomach/constip.

  -took hydroc
odone b/c I FUCKED UP

  Distracted thinking about Grace

  Focus

  Focus

  Focus!!!!

  Peter slept late the next morning. It was after ten when he finally woke up. That wasn’t good. A solid start to the morning, keeping on track and following the routine, always made for a better day.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Ben said.

  Peter swallowed a small bit of oatmeal. “Don’t sorry.” He reached out and put his hand on his son’s arm. “I was hurting and you helped me.”

  Ben wanted to apologize again, to explain what happened, to make sure Peter knew it had been his fault. The guilt was burning in his gut. He’d only had half a cup of coffee before he felt like he needed to vomit. If Peter understood—if he would only blame Ben, hold him responsible, get angry—then the shame would be validated. The dynamic was familiar. He’d talked about it with Emma over and over again. If no one else would blame Ben for all the shit that swirled around him, he would just have to do it himself.

  “How’s your stomach doing?” Ben asked.

  “Not too bad.”

  “Can I feel it?”

  Peter nodded, and Ben put his palm against his father’s belly. It wasn’t as tight and bloated as it had been early that morning. He’d filled the toilet before he came out for breakfast, so that was good. Maybe things were getting back on track.

  At a quarter past noon, Ben hadn’t heard anything from anyone except Emma, who had left another message about scheduling an appointment, so he went out into the garage and pulled down his old patrol bag from the shelf in the corner. It was wrapped in a big black trash-can liner to keep the dust off and the bugs out. As he slid it out of the plastic, he was hit with a flash of memory—hefting the bag into the trunk of an unmarked cruiser on the way to a callout. He couldn’t place the case or even the time frame, but it seemed specific rather than generic.

  The flashes hadn’t been coming like they used to. For about a year after he came home, he’d have them all the time. Twenty, sometimes thirty a day. They were confusing, a disjointed jumble of seemingly random moments of his life before the incident. He’d never been able to make sense out of them, and on the worst days they left him unsure of where and even when he was. Just another of the many symptoms that had faded as the doctors fine-tuned his medication and his recovery progressed.