The Blue Place

one

An April night in Atlanta between thunderstorms: dark and warm and wet, sidewalks shiny with rain and slick with torn leaves and fallen azalea blossoms. Nearly midnight. I had been walking for over an hour, covering four or five miles. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t sleepy.

You would think that my bad dreams would be of the first man I had killed, thirteen years ago. Or if not him, then maybe the teenager who had burned to death in front of me because I was too slow to get the man with the match. But no, when I turn out the lights at ten o’clock and can’t keep still, can’t even bear to sit down in my Lake Claire house, it’s because I see again the first body I hadn’t killed.

I was twenty-one, a rookie in a uniform so new it still smelled of harsh chemical dyes. My hat was too big. My partner and I had been called to a duplex on Lavista. It was me who opened the bathroom door.

As soon as I saw that bathwater, I knew. Water just doesn’t get that still if the person sitting in it is alive: the pulse of blood through veins, the constant peristaltic squeeze of alimentary tract, the soft suck of breath move the liquid gently, but definitely. Not this water. It was only after I had stared, fascinated, at the dry scum on the bar of soap, only after my partner had moved me gently aside, that I noticed her mouth was open, her eyeballs a gluey blue-grey where they should have been white.

I wake up at night seeing those eyes.

The sidewalks around Inman Park are made from uneven hexagons, mossy and slippery even without the debris of the recent storm. I walked in the road. A pine tree among the oaks smelled of warm resin, and the steam already rising from the pavement brought with it the scents of oil and rubber and warm asphalt. I smiled. Southern cities. People often say to me, Aud, how can you stand the heat? but I love it. I love to feel the sun rub up against my pale northern skin, love its fingers reaching down into muscle and bone. I grew up with subzero fjord winds edged with spicules of ice; to breathe deep and feel damp summer heat curling into delicate bronchioles is a luxury I will never tire of. Even during the teenage years I spent in England, when my mother decided the embassy could get along without her for a week or two and we all went up to Yorkshire to stay with Lord Horley, there was that endless biting moan over the moors, the ceaseless waving of heather and gorse. The American South suits me just fine.

Atlanta is lush. The gates and lawns and hedges I walked past were heady with the scents of trumpet honeysuckle and jasmine, the last of the pink and white dogwood blossom. By June, of course, all the small blooms would wilt in the heat, and the city’s true colours, jungle colours, would become apparent: black-striped tiger lilies, orchids, waxy magnolia blossom. By the end of August, even those would give up the ghost and the city would turn green: glossy beryl banana trees with canoe-sized leaves, jade swamp oak, and acre upon emerald acre of bermuda grass. And as the summer heat faded into the end of October, the beginning of November, the green would fade with it. In winter Atlanta became a pale black and white photograph of a city with concrete sidewalks, straw-coloured grass and bare, grey trees.

Thunder rumbled to the southwest and lightning turned the clouds the pink of Florida grapefruits: a long, long wait until winter.

I lengthened my stride, enjoying the metronomic thump of boot on pavement, the noisy sky, and when I took a corner wide walked smack into a woman running in the opposite direction.

We steadied each other for a moment—long enough for me to catch the expensive scent of her dark, rain-wet hair—then stepped back. Looked at each other. About five-seven, I’d say. Slim and sleek. Face smooth with wariness: after all, I’m big; I’m told I look frightening when I want. And that made me think how fragile she was, despite the hard muscle I had felt under my hand. It would be so easy—a step, a smile, swift whirl and grab, and snap: done. I even knew how she would fall, what a tiny sound her last sigh would be, how she would fold onto the pavement. Eight seconds.

She stepped back another pace. It was meant to look casual, but I noted the weight on her back foot, the set of her shoulders. Funny the thoughts we have at nearly midnight. I clasped my hands behind my back in an effort to appear less threatening, then nodded, stepped to one side, and walked away. All without a word spoken. As I moved past the big houses shrouded by dripping trees I fought the urge to look over my shoulder. Looking back would frighten her. I told myself there was nothing unusual about a woman walking the streets at midnight—I did it—but my hindbrain was stirring.

Thunder rumbled again, and water sluiced down in sheets as sudden and cold as spilled milk, beating itself into a froth on the sidewalk. The air was full of water and it was getting difficult to breathe. Lightning streaked down to my left just a bit too close for comfort. I turned for home and started to jog. No sense drowning.

The road jumped under my feet. Transformer, I thought, but then the sound hit, batting at me from both sides like huge cat’s paws. My eyes widened and promptly filled with rain. I shook my head, trying to get rid of the ringing in my ears, but the world jumped again, pavement slamming the soles of my feet, only this time the sound was as solid as a punch in the gut, and this time I recognized it—explosives. Then I was turning and running back to where I had just come from, back to the corner, towards a house unfurling in orange flame and black smoke, a brighter yellow at the center, like a gigantic tiger lily. I skidded to a halt in confusion. It’s too early for lilies….

I stood helpless, face getting hotter and hotter. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes but it didn’t help much. I had to step back a few yards. The flames roared. People began to appear in their doorways. Blinds twitched. I did nothing. Let the neighbours look their fill; if there had been anyone in that house, they were beyond aid, and no doubt someone had called the fire department. Not that there was much point: the fire burned very neat and clean; the neighbours’ houses were safe; I doubted even that the garage would catch.

It was far too good a torch to be the work of an amateur firebug who wouldn’t be able to resist sticking around to watch their work, but I looked anyway. No sign of the woman with the rain-wet hair.

My hindbrain was beginning to stretch and snuff now, so I thought about that woman. What was it about her that put my senses on red alert? She hadn’t done this: most accelerants had very particular scents, difficult to hide, and besides, she had been running towards the house, not away.

Sirens whooped in the distance. The police and firefighters would be all burly and adrenaline-harsh in their uniforms. They wouldn’t want me there, wouldn’t know how to act around me, and tonight I could not be bothered to put them at their ease just so they would call me Lieutenant out loud but wonder silently what I was doing wandering the streets alone at midnight.

The flames were dying quickly, leaving dark images like shrivelling leaves on my retina. I backed into the shadows.

I stripped off my wet clothes and sat cross-legged on the silk rug to rub my hair dry with a towel. Rain beat on the windows. Blood beat in my veins. Turning the corner wide…

It’s a simple thing. If you walk tight around a corner, you can be surprised by anyone who is waiting on the other side. It’s like sitting with your back to the door, like chambering a round and leaving the safety off, wearing a dress that will restrict your legs, or walking with your hands in your pockets: stupid. But so many people do it. Every now and again I go into a school to teach self-defence classes to young women. I ask: How many of you know which way to look before crossing a busy street? And every single hand will go up. So then I ask: Who knows the fire drill? And most of the hands stay up. Even if I ask who knows CPR, or what to do if you smell gas, there are a lot of hands. But if I ask how many know how to walk around a corner properly—or escape a stranglehold, or find out if the man behind you really is following you—they lower their hands in confusion. Yet these are all sensible precautions. It’s just that women are taught to not think about the danger they are often in, or how to prevent it. We’re taught to feel fear, but not what to do about it.

I’m used to people thinking I’m paranoid. I just tell them it doesn’t take any extra effort to walk around a corner properly, or sit with your back to walls in strange places, because it becomes automatic, like looking left then right then left again before crossing the road, and it could save your life. It’s saved mine more than once. I’m used to being the only one who believes that, the only one who takes these routine precautions. But that woman last night had also been taking the corner wide. And she had remembered to do it while she was in enough of a hurry to run.

There was no trace of the rain when I woke next morning. The tree outside my bedroom window was golden green with sunshine and birds were singing blithely. I stood under the shower a long time, letting the water quench lingering thoughts about that house burning like a hot lily.

I have a big kitchen; square, with a terra-cotta floor. French windows open onto the deck I built last year. In summer the whole thing is in shade but when the leaves are still small with spring, sunlight shivers lightly over the planking. I took my toast and tea outside and cut up an orange while a cardinal landed on the bird feeder. Someone burnt down a house practically under my nose. My curiosity was piqued, but it wasn’t my problem. My problem was to beat the morning traffic and get to the Spanish consulate in time for my nine o’clock appointment.

I ate my breakfast and thought about the second daughter of the Spanish Cabinet minister, who was coming to Atlanta for four days next week. I hoped she didn’t want conversation. I dislike clients who try to be my friend. The Spanish hadn’t told me, yet, the reason she was visiting. I hoped it was something boring, and safe. I like excitement but only in situations I have planned and can control. I don’t like to risk my life, or anyone else’s, to protect those I don’t know and care about even less.

I wiped my hands on a napkin, put the napkin on my plate, carried the plate and cup into the kitchen. Napkin in the laundry, dirty dishes in the dishwasher, butter in the fridge. Orderly house, orderly life. I dressed carefully. Although Philippe Cordova would have checked me out thoroughly before calling about the job and no doubt knew I didn’t need the money, it never did any harm to emphasize that fact. It saved time down the road. So I picked one of my handmade Kobayashi suits in soft grey, put gold at my ears and moussed my white-blonde hair behind my ears. Boxy European shoes. Pearl choker.

I felt sharp, rich, very good looking. It pleases me to wear silk couture and gold and pearls. I like the way it feels on my skin, the way it fits.

The jacket I wore last night was on a hanger in the bathroom, still drying. I transferred the leather fob of the car key to my pants pocket, the house keys to my jacket, dipped into the inside breast pocket…and found it empty. I checked again, then in all the other pockets. My wallet was gone.

I knew it wouldn’t be on the table by the door, or on the dresser, or on the floor or behind a cushion on the couch, but I checked anyway. I caught sight of myself in the long mirror in the hall. I looked utterly calm. I strode over to the phone, dialed Cordova’s private line at the consulate. While it rang I remembered the smell of the woman’s rain-wet hair, her wary face.

“Philippe? Aud Torvingen. How is your schedule? It looks as though I’ll be twenty or thirty minutes late.” I didn’t offer an explanation, he didn’t ask. People don’t, usually.

I put the phone down, breathed hard through my nose. Others hate the mess of crime, and the pain, the loss and bewilderment and anger, but what I resent is the inconvenience. Driver’s license, gun permit, insurance card…I looked at the phone again but didn’t pick it up. Something told me I wouldn’t have to make all those phone calls this time, and if I was wrong, well, two more hours wouldn’t hurt.

Whoever had my wallet had my address. When I left the house I set the alarm system.

Outside the birds still sang, the sun still shone. Trees shivered in a light breeze, dropping clouds of pollen. The screened porch was thick with it. My maroon Saab had turned greenish gold. It looked like a small furry hill in the driveway. I backed out into the road and left the motor running while I went back up the driveway and placed a few twigs and leaves in unobvious places. I memorized the pattern of footprints and car tires in the pollen.

The wallet was poking out from under a bush about four feet from the corner. I squatted down but didn’t touch it. It was clearly visible to anyone looking. The arson inspectors would have looked.

I touched the leather gently with a fingertip. Dry. I leafed through it. Nothing missing. I tucked it away in my inside breast pocket and stood.

I have a strange kind of face; people trust me. More than that, they see in my face what they want to be there. One old man I pulled from a car wreck said I had a face like a holy angel. Some think I’m the girl next door—the way she should have been if only she didn’t hang out with the wrong crowd, if she didn’t drink, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant when she was sixteen. Those I have killed have never expressed an opinion, though several did look surprised. My face is my most useful tool.

The uniformed officer standing by the tape around the burnt-out shell was young. He had no idea who I was. Wearing any other clothes I would have smiled and pretended to rubberneck, and he would have thought I was just like him and ended up telling me things he shouldn’t have. But I was dressed for the Spanish consulate. I walked up briskly and nodded at the figure in protective gear poking about in the ashes behind a wall thirty yards away. “Who’s the fire inspector?”

“Ma’am?”

I smiled pleasantly. “Bertolucci or Hammer?”

He slid his eyes sideways, unsure how to deal with this pushy civilian who was obviously more important than she seemed. Perhaps my impatience showed through. He stepped back uneasily.

“Never mind.” I stepped to one side. “Hoi!”

The figure in the hard hat jerked upright and scowled.

I knew that expression. “Bertolucci?”

“Yeah, who wants to…Torvingen?”

“The same.”

He took off his hat and wiped his forehead and stepped over the rubble towards me. “Been a while.”

“Yes.” Bertolucci had never liked me; he’d never disliked me, either. He was just cautious.

“Heard after you were kicked out you took a job in some podunk town north of here.” He waited, looked at my clothes. I said nothing. “Your name came up last night. Some woman told us you were walking around here just before show time.” He looked assessingly at the rubble. “You’d know how.”

A compliment. It had been a beautiful job. Fast and clean. Nothing touched but the target. “I watched it burn for a while. Did it reach the garage?”

“Funny you should ask that.” This time the assessing gaze was turned on me. He made up his mind. “Come and look at something. Mind your clothes.”

I stepped under the tape, past a late-model Camry that took up the driveway. “I’m thinking about getting one of these,” Bertolucci said. Too massive for my taste.

The garage was brick, unusual in Atlanta. The door was open. The walls were cluttered with the usual stuff: caked paint rollers; a rake and shovel, with red dirt still on the blade; a hose that had been badly coiled and was permanently kinked. Why were Americans so careless of things?

The inside was unfinished: raw bricks with mortar squeezing between them like cake filling. The mortar was grey and crumbly with damp and age. Spider webs smoothed all the corners. Bags of potting compost that looked about fifteen years old were piled against one wall. There was a lazy humming over my head—some kind of hornet nest. It was an ordinary garage. I wondered what I was supposed to see.

“When that woman came by and talked about you, Detective Nolan laughed and said, ‘Oh, Aud used to be one of us,’ and sent her away. But you know he had to have wondered.” I bet they’d all wondered. I knew my reputation. “He didn’t wonder long, though. Not after what we found in here.”

“So what did you find?”

“Coke. A lot. Six, seven keys.”

“Coke?”

“What with that and the professional torch, and the guy who died, he figured it for a drug hit. Revenge, or a lesson.”

It sounded plausible, until you stopped to think about it. “Recognize the torch?”

“Nope. Haven’t come across this one before.”

“Who died?”

“Name of Lusk. Jim Lusk. Some kind of art professor.”

“Any close relatives show up yet?”

“Nope.”

“He was found in the house?” He nodded. “And the coke was in here?”

“Right here.” He patted the shelf that ran the length of the garage. “Interesting, don’t you think?” It was, very. “I have to get back to work. Feel free to take a look around.” He grinned, a hard grin that said: You owe me a favor now.

I took a closer look at the shelf. Swollen with damp, pulling away from the wall at one end. Powdery holes and termite wings. A faint outline of white powder crisscrossed with silvery snail trails. It made absolutely no sense. No one in their right mind would store coke in a damp, insect-ridden garage. And if the torch had known the drug was here, he or she would have taken it.

I knew what Bertolucci wanted: someone outside to know that he knew the obvious explanation didn’t make sense. It would make him feel better when the APD accepted the obvious explanation and shelved the case. There was too much work to keep chasing after a murder that already had an explanation, even such a flimsy one. Politically, too, it made sense. Mayor Foley was fighting hard to get a special federal grant for the war on drugs. The APD, being smart enough to know that the war was unwinnable, would take the money and use it on something that might make a difference: five new cruisers, six months’ worth of ammunition, a week-long training course for half the SWAT teams. Jim Lusk’s death was just another ledger entry on the grant form, something to be used as a weapon in the increasingly bitter fight for money. The detective second grade who was in charge of the investigation would have four other homicides and dozens of assaults to deal with. His lieutenant would spend most of her time juggling meetings, writing duty rosters, dealing with an increasingly angry public. The precinct captain would be faced with a nightmare of budget stretching, trying to decide whether the squad room should have new terminals, which it needed, or that new air-conditioning system to replace the one that was responsible for the sick-building syndrome that meant officers on his precinct were overrunning their sick time and bringing down the wrath of the city accountants. Lusk’s killer would never be found.

But that wasn’t my concern. I wanted to know about the woman who thought this was something I had done, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry. Let her come to me.

I was halfway to the embassy when the car phone rang. It was Denneny. “Denneny. I was just thinking of you. Made that decision between the air-conditioning and the new terminals yet?”

“Terminals this month. Air-conditioning in June. I hear you were at the scene of the impromptu Inman Park barbecue last night. I thought we could observe the formalities and get a statement.”

“Do you have any plans for lunch?”

“Not so far.”

“How about Deacon’s at eleven-thirty?”

A very young man in button-down shirt and silk tie was waiting in the sunshine outside the consulate. He opened the Saab door for me smartly, and I handed over the leather key fob. He was practically salivating at the prospect of hopping inside.

“It has quadraphonic CD sound, too,” I said.

An uncertain blink, pink lower lip caught between his teeth. “Ma’am?”

I just smiled, and hoped he would have to drive around for a long time to find a parking place. He was probably some kind of admin intern who would be spending the next three months chained to a workstation freezing to death in the air-conditioning, all to pad out his résumé. I was willing to bet he’d never parked a car for anyone but his parents in his life. Consulates don’t usually provide valet parking. Most people don’t ask for it. I always ask for as much as I can get. It’s a matter of principle.

I hummed as I went through the heavy teak and glass doors. The carpet was a beautiful deep green. Much nicer than the cold marble of the English consulate. “Aud Torvingen,” I said to the woman behind the desk. Her hair was sleek as a seal’s and though she had the dark skin and eyes of Sevilla, her grooming was Southern: big nails, gold jewellery, an unnecessary bow on her blouse. As jarring as a beard on a drag queen.

I sat down in a comfortable chair. She glanced up at me once, then got on with her work: probably wondering who I was, probably also sure she would never find out. That’s what life is like in a consulate. A series of closed, comfortable rooms that most of the help never get to sit in.

Philippe came to get me himself. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. He had deep gold hair and very long limbs. According to the check I had done on him after his initial phone call, he liked to play racquet sports—squash, racquetball, tennis—and was pretty good at it. I imagined he surprised a lot of his opponents who expected his arms and legs to tangle and clutter together, but his walk was efficient, fast. I rose.

“Glad you could come.” We shook hands. My mother once showed me a dozen different handshakes. This is the one that means I don’t think you’re worth my attention: a quick shake, with her hand already sliding from mine before it was properly finished. This one shows I hold you in great contempt: a snakelike up and down, bending at the wrist, fingers stiff as though she couldn’t wait to shake off my sweat. There were others. Cordova’s was a mixture of reserve and haste: fast, light, whippy.

His office had a beautiful oak floor. We sat opposite each other on surprisingly comfortable Georgian chairs. He handed me a manilla folder. “Beatriz del Gato.”

Consular officers love details: dates, times, places; mother, father, lovers; education, employment, illnesses. I took the folder and put it down next to me unopened. “Why haven’t you informed the Atlanta Police Department of her arrival?”

He folded his hands onto his lap. “Miss del Gato will only be here for four days. She wishes to remain incognito and believes her visit is a matter of some…delicacy.”

I smiled, understanding. “She’s doing something that she would find personally embarrassing to have reported in the press, but that you wouldn’t, particularly?”

His mouth gave away nothing but there was a smile in his voice. “Miss del Gato wishes to work in an advertising agency. She wishes to be offered a job without her prospective employer giving her any special favours.”

“Why didn’t she try New York?”

“She did.”

“Ah.” Beatriz was too stupid, or unimaginative, or something, to be offered a job on her own merits. “I still don’t see why you can’t tell the APD.”

Now he did smile. “I did. They have no objection to you taking the job.” Why should they? It saved them money. Besides, I doubted Miss Beatriz really was important enough for either the consulate or the police department to go to any trouble. But Philippe was only doing what the diplomatic service of any country does best: saving everyone’s face.

I leaned back. “Tell me, what’s she like?”

He rolled his eyes. “Earnest, boring, and unreasonably stubborn. Would you like some coffee?”

I gave the admin intern who wished he was a valet parker a ten-dollar tip because he had polished the pollen off my wing mirrors, and because it really was a beautiful day. There was still a slight breeze and the humidity was below sixty percent. Even the etiolated young birch trees that were spaced as carefully as nursery seedlings every ten yards on the concrete sidewalk looked fresh and clean.

I played Diamanda Galas all the way to Deacon’s. I got there five minutes early. Denneny was already there.

Years ago, when he still wore a uniform, when his wife was alive, he would have been joking with the women dishing up the fried chicken and greens behind the counter, talking them out of a free side of cornbread, inhaling the rich steam of grits and gravy and grease until his ruddy complexion darkened to plum; but this morning he was sitting at one of the rickety Formica tables, looking around at the clientele as though he were a stranger, out of place in his city suit and silk tie.

“You look more like an executive than a cop,” I said.

He stood. “I am, these days.”

“Anything good on the menu today?”

It was an old joke—Deacon and now his heirs had always served exactly the same thing—but Denneny just shrugged.

We stood in line and loaded up our trays with chicken and greens and potatoes and gravy and bread and iced tea. I paid for both of us and got a handful of paper napkins. I took the seat facing the door.

“You look as though you’re doing well. Watch your clothes with all this grease.”

“That’s why napkins were invented.” I tucked two around my neck, draped one across my lap, and picked up a chicken wing. The best fried chicken in the city. “So. You wanted a statement.”

He took one of those miniature tape recorders out of his pocket, put it on the table and looked at his watch. “I forgot to pick up a fresh cassette, so there’s only about half an hour’s worth of tape left.”

“That should be plenty.”

So in between bites of hot chicken and forkfuls of mashed potato loaded with enough cholesterol to stun an elephant, I told him about crashing into the woman, about the explosion, and the flames. I gave him times, descriptions, even a weather report. He didn’t ask any questions, just nodded and ate. When I’d finished he turned the machine off and slipped it back in his pocket. “I’ll get it transcribed this afternoon. You can come in and sign it anytime. That should take care of the formalities.”

“Any leads?”

“Just the drugs.”

“Surprising, that.”

“I’ve passed the point of being surprised by anything those people do.”

“I don’t think it was drug dealers.”

“The drugs were there, and there isn’t a single other angle to pursue.”

“And why even try when there’s a nice, neat explanation?”

“Something like that. You know how things stand, Torvingen. If we don’t get our share of the fed payout, not only won’t there be any air-conditioning in June, we won’t even be able to afford batteries and tapes for this little machine.” He tapped his pocket. “So unless you have the address and confession of the guy who did it, butt out.”

I shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

He wouldn’t let it go. “Do you have some special interest in the case?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good, because I’d hate to get our wires crossed on this.”

“Why should I care who killed whom and over what? I’m not a police officer anymore.”

“And you never cared much even then.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

He applied himself to the potatoes for a while. “Do you miss it?”

“No.”

“Not even a bit?”

“Not even a bit.”

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t take that liaison job I offered you when you were pulled off the streets.”

“You know as well as I do that the mayor would have had kittens at the thought of me still walking around with a badge and gun in an election year.” I had better things to do with my life than be photogenic for the police department.

“True. So if you don’t miss being a cop, why did you take that job in Dahlonega?”

“It was work. Only now I don’t need to work.”

“Lucky you.” It came out sounding bitter.

“Sounds as though you could do with a vacation.”

“I’m taking one. Two weeks in the Napa Valley starting Saturday. Nothing but sun and the scent of the vine.”

When I’d first known him, he drank only beer and bourbon. There again, he wouldn’t have known a silk tie if it had bitten him. People change.

We looked at each other. I realized that his spectacle lenses were bifocals. He wiped his fingers carefully on a napkin. “Well, it’s been good talking to you. Come in to sign this thing tomorrow, after you finish with the rookies.”

“Anything in particular you want me to cover with them?”

He stood. “Nah. Just tell them how it works in the real world, so they don’t get themselves killed the first time they step out of the car.”

The real world. We had always disagreed about what, exactly, that meant. He had always believed in the rules, but rules are useless when lives are in danger. He never seemed to understand that.