Serial

56

It required eyes that never quite closed.

Vitali and Mishkin had maintained a loose tail on Jock Sanderson for several days. Sanderson led a dull life. He left his apartment and went in to work about ten o’clock, wearing what looked like gray coveralls. Sometimes he wore regular casual clothes and carried the coveralls in a gym bag. Switching off the task of driving, one of the detectives followed Sanderson as he walked to his subway stop. The other simply drove there and waited, then left the parked car and picked up the tail. The car, and the first detective, would be waiting near the offices of Sweep ’Em Up when Sanderson arrived. Then they would tail the white van that transported Sanderson, along with other members of a cleanup crew, to whatever job they had for the night.

After that came boredom and a long night, with sleeping in shifts. Vitali and Mishkin had done this kind of work plenty of times and were used to it-inasmuch as anyone ever really got used to it. Both had learned the cops’ technique of almost sleeping, yet with part of the mind remaining alert and watchful. The watchfulness was accomplished through eyes that never quite closed.

By morning Vitali usually managed not to have been completely exasperated by Mishkin, and not to have injured Mishkin’s delicate feelings. Or Mishkin himself. As for Mishkin, he would seem unaffected except for being tired.

Then would come the daily routine in reverse, as Sanderson left work for home. Sometimes he’d leave directly from the job, and other times he’d return to Sweep ’Em Up in the white van and then go home from there. A normal, everyday, monotonous life. It was nothing like following a showgirl.

“This isn’t like following a showgirl,” Mishkin said, while watching the unmoving white van in his peripheral vision.

Beside him, Vitali said, “We’ve never followed a showgirl, Harold.”

“I’m imagining,” Mishkin said. “You must do that sometimes, Sal.”

“You’d be surprised, Harold, some of the things I imagine.”

Now and then Sanderson would eat out. Often he’d get takeout from a nearby deli. Sometimes he’d stop in at a small grocery store and stock up on simple food he could prepare in a microwave. He ate a lot of frozen pasta.

Vitali and Mishkin were patient. Varying their routine somewhat, they took advantage of slow-moving traffic that made it easy to follow Sanderson in the air-conditioned, unmarked car, even if he was on foot on his way to his subway stop. That way neither of them had to get out in the hot evening and walk. The traffic was so locked up that sometimes Sanderson, walking, would actually pull ahead of them for a while. They would catch up with him at intersections where he was waiting to cross. This kind of work required patience, as well as ways to counteract the boredom.

Vitali was driving the unmarked blue Ford tonight. He felt tired and irritable and by now doubted that Sanderson was anything but a poor ex-con who’d had his life turned upside down by a mistaken identity. He was on a treadmill of despair, and Vitali and Mishkin were on it right behind him.

Lounging next to Vitali, in the Ford’s passenger seat, Mishkin said, “I been thinking, Sal.” He continued watching the unsuspecting Sanderson through the windshield as he spoke. “Wouldn’t it be nice if this tail surprised us and panned out? Like maybe if Sanderson met a mysterious beautiful woman and they went someplace and talked like they had a big secret, maybe exchanged a brown package wrapped with string.”

“A MacGuffin,” Vitali said.

“Huh?”

“That’s what Hitchcock used to call packages like that, MacGuffins.”

“Who was MacGuffin?”

“Never mind, Harold.”

“What I’m talking about is a romantic assignation.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Harold.”

“It does in books.”

“We’re not in a book, Harold. Try to remember that.”

“How do you know we’re not, Sal?”

“Not what?”

“In a book.”

Vitali said nothing. Had his wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel. His gaze was fixed straight ahead on Sanderson. He knew that as long as the tail lasted, he’d simply have to endure Mishkin’s conversational meandering.

“You know that famous athlete that got in trouble because he was addicted to sex?” Mishkin asked.

“Do I know him?

“Of him?”

“Yeah.”

Vitali came more alert. Sanderson had stopped walking and was looking into the show window of an electronics shop. Only a few seconds passed before he walked on. Boredom again descended on the car.

“That athlete that checked himself into a sexual-addiction clinic, Sal. Ever think about sexual-addiction clinics? I mean, really consider them?”

“For myself, Harold?”

“Don’t try to be funny, Sal.”

Vitali said nothing.

“I been wondering what kind of places those are. I mean, even on the outside.”

“Like hospitals, I guess.”

“What sort of architecture?”

“Lots of towers, I imagine,” Vitali said. He didn’t move his head. His right wrist was still draped over the wheel.

“Yeah. I was thinking about the entrances. And the exits. Don’t forget the exits.”

Vitali gave Mishkin a look.

“Maybe dormers, Sal. Sets of big dormers on the roof.”

“Definitely big dormers,” Vitali said.

“Those people who get checked in there, Sal, how do you think they keep them apart?”

“I wouldn’t know, Harold. The doctors and staff, I guess.”

“These are addicts, Sal. What do you think they have for rooms? Do the doors have automatic locks? Are there little individual compounds topped with razor wire? Those people are like rabbits, Sal.”

Sanderson had reached his subway stop. He barely broke stride as he descended the concrete steps and disappeared underground.

Like a rabbit going down its hole, Vitali couldn’t help thinking.

Mishkin had the door open and was getting out. It was his turn to tail Sanderson on foot.

“I’ll pick you up outside Sweep ’Em Up,” Vitali told him.

“Try parking where you did before, Sal.” And Mishkin was out of the car and jogging toward the subway steps.

Vitali sat and watched Mishkin disappear underground.

Like another rabbit.

Or maybe more like one of those terriers bred to follow their prey into burrows.

“We’re sure Sanderson’s clean,” Vitali told Quinn, after five days on the tail.

Quinn nodded behind his desk. He’d already decided to end the tail. There were only so many suspects you could cover in the case. That was the problem, exactly as the Skinner had planned it. “Get some sleep and I’ll put you and Harold on something else.”

“Better use of manpower,” Vitali said.

“Weaver isn’t gonna like it that she was beat to a pulp for nothing.”

“How’s she doing?” Vitali asked.

“Out of the hospital. Her thoughts are a little scrambled, and she still has headaches. Renz has seen she gets medical leave, and she’s going to stay with her sister for a while.”

“So she’s out of the game on this one.”

“Like Sanderson,” Quinn said.