Vertical Coffin

Chapter 29

I'm worried," Alexa said.

I was barbecuing chicken in the backyard, basting on my beer butter sauce and nervously watching the Santa Ana winds blow briquette smoke and sparks across the fence into the yard next door. I hoped my surfboard-shaper neighbor, Longboard Kelly, wasn't watching and cursing as my embers sailed over the fence. Franco was right at my feet, purring. He liked my barbecued chicken, so he was watching carefully.

"I'm worried too-these hot embers. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea," I said, trying to refocus the conversation.

"I'm not talking about the wind or the damn barbecue," she snapped.

"I know you're not, honey."

"How long until the sheriff's ballistics lab can get us a match on those casings?"

"I don't know."

The phone rang and Alexa jumped. She was that stressed.

"Delfina will get it," I said. "It's probably just Chooch telling her he's gonna be late getting home from football practice."

I wanted to tell Alexa about what I'd seen and how proud I was of the way Chooch had handled the team, but I didn't want to compromise the story by telling it while she was this upset.

After a minute Delfina walked outside. "It's for you, Shane."

I handed the barbecue tongs to Alexa. "Don't let my little chickadees burn," I said, doing a bad W. C. Fields. Then I gave her some Groucho eyebrows, trying lighten the moment. But she was in no mood to smile.

I went into the den and picked up the phone. It was Jo.

"You want the bad news, or the bad news?" she said. "Shit."

"We got a positive match on the three-oh-eight you and I pulled out of the apartment. The pin impression and ejection striations line up perfectly with a long gun from the sheriff's SEB armory. A Tango fifty-one. Serial number X-one-five-seven-eight. Brand new sniper rifle bought three months ago."

"Whose gun is it?"

"That's the problem. They don't assign individual weapons at SEB. They have an armory, keep 'em in the van when they roll, and pass 'em out when they hit the event."

She was right. That's what I had seen happen at Hidden Ranch Road.

"So anybody could have taken this gun out of the armory and used it," she finished.

"Great."

"Sometimes one of the snipers will check a long gun out and take it home if he's on standby. That way they can roll to a call from home. When that happens, they sign them out. I imagine certain guys get attached to certain guns. They like the way the sights line up or the way the trigger pulls, the balance-stuff like that. I figure, if this long gun kept getting checked out to the same guy, maybe that leads us somewhere. I'll get the records"

"Right. Good thinking." I tried to guess where this was going. No doubt we would now have to take the whole SEB Gray team off duty, print everybody, and hold them somehow.

"I called Sheriff Messenger," Jo said. "He's not a happy camper. ATF went out to our crime lab with a court order and took the two-twenty-three casing we found at Nightingale's house. They're doing their own ballistics match. Messenger's gonna send a print team out to our SEB SWAT house at South Fetterly. With that three-oh-eight casing match, we have enough PC to force a print check on everybody in our enforcement bureau. That's all the updates."

I stood looking down at the desk, trying to figure out what our next move was.

"Whatta you bet we also get a positive on that two-twenty-three casing from SRT?" she said.

"No bet," I replied.

"Your place or mine? We've got a lot to do here."

"Whatta we gotta do, besides wait?" I asked. "You figure we should go out and roll prints ourselves?"

"I've been working on your angle. Rebuilding Smiley's back-story-his history. Isn't that what you wanted? I've been doing computer runs all afternoon. I've got reams of county and city printouts. I could use some help sorting."

So, while I'd been at football practice Jo Brickhouse was down at the sheriff's computer information center doing runs on Vincent Smiley. I was impressed, and okay, a little embarrassed. I should have been on that, instead of watching my son coach. Figuring out priorities are a bitch.

"Your place," I finally said, because Alexa was in a foul mood and I wanted to get some air. Also, she hated my background approach, so I'd just as soon not do it right in front of her.

Just before Jo hung up I said, "Hey, Sergeant, Brickhouse?"

"Yeah?" Her voice was wary.

"Thanks for the help."

"We're partners, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but it was very thorough. The gun info, the background search-everything."

"Just doin' police work, Hoss," she said. "Nothin' special."

"Take the fucking compliment, why don't ya?"

"You sure it's a compliment, or are you finally trying to make up for being such an asshole?"

I could picture the dazzling smile spreading across her face. "See you in half an hour," I said, smiling myself as I hung up.

Outside, Alexa had her back to the house, facing the canal, talking on her cell phone. When she turned around, I knew it must have been Tony telling her about the casing match, because her face was pulled tight.

"You heard?" I said.

"They matched the casing," she said.

The chicken had been forgotten and was blazing merrily on the grill. Alarmed, Franco jumped up on the table to watch it burn. If a cat could frown, Franco was frowning. I grabbed the tongs and plucked a piece off the grill, but it was too late. Chicken briquettes.

"Now we're gonna have to get everybody on SRT off the street and printed," Alexa said.

"SRT?" I said. "Whatta you talking about?"

"Brady Cagel just called Tony. The two-twenty-three matched one of their AR-fifteens. What were you talking about?"

"I was talking about SEB," I said. "That was Jo. She said sheriffs matched the three-oh-eights to one of their Tango fifty-ones."

Alexa stood holding her cell phone, looking lost, her face a dark mask. She had always been my strength. Even though I hated to admit it, I looked to my wife for moral clarity and emotional guidance, because I was often at sea in those two critical areas. Now as I watched her I saw only confusion and fear on her lovely face. Suddenly she pushed past me and went quickly into the house, leaving me and Franco in the back yard.

"Not good, buddy," I said to the cat.

I had never seen her like this before. I turned and headed into the house after her. She was in the bedroom with the door locked. She never locked the door.

"Alexa?" I called through the wood panels. Nothing. "Alexa, please let me in." No answer. "Don't make me break this open," I said.

"Go away, Shane. Please." She sounded like she was crying. She wasn't a weepy woman. I had only seen her cry once, and that was when her ex-boyfriend and commanding officer, Mark Shephard, was murdered.

"Alexa, please. Please open up."

I heard the lock being thrown and she stood in the doorway, her face contorted, her mascara running. "What?" she said angrily.

"I'm not the problem here."

"Look, Shane, I'm having a meltdown, okay? Occasionally it happens."

She turned and went into the bathroom. Then I heard that door lock.

I sat on our bed and waited. Ten minutes later the door opened and she came out. She looked more composed, but she was still stressed. There was a tightness around her eyes. She saw me and paused, looking down without expression.

"Honey…" I started.

"No, look. I'm okay. I just caved in for a minute. Leave it be."

"Most of the time you're propping me up. Most of the time I'm looking to you, but when you get down, if you won't let me be a part of it, how's that supposed to work?"

Now she had the strangest expression. An ugly mix: confusion, anger, dismay. Her eyes were swollen from crying and lack of sleep.

"It's just a job," I said.

"No-no, please don't." She moved to the bed and threw herself down on the far side-on her side. Then she grabbed the extra pillow and held it in front of her, wrapping her arms around it as if it would protect her from me.

"We need to talk about this," I said softly.

"I was always the good little sister, the one who did it right. After Mother-after she and Dad…"

She stopped and her eyes started welling up. Her mother and father had died in a car accident when she was sixteen.

"I know how you feel about my brother Buddy," she suddenly continued, "and part of that is justified. It's just…"

Where was this going? Her older brother sold supermarket products to chains all over the country. Buddy was sort of the ultimate Bubba. I didn't much care for him because, when he wasn't being self-centered he was loud and overly friendly. He also treated Alexa like a servant. But she loved him and mothered him unreasonably.

"I always wanted to do the right thing," she went on. "People counted on it. I took care of Buddy until he left for college. My life was so confusing after he left. I had nothing. It was like I'd lost my job-my reason for being alive. Then I decided to become a cop. I don't know why it surprised everybody. Police work is about order. About rules and social design. All the things I was good at." She stopped.

"This is absolutely ridiculous." She pounded the pillow savagely.

"Honey, you haven't slept a full night since we got handed this case. Is it Tony?"

"Fuck yes, it's Tony. He's putting more pressure on me than I ever would have guessed. Every morning he calls me in and shouts at me. Nothing I do is right."

"Then I'll go over to his place and dial him down a notch."

"Jesus, Shane, would you stop it? This isn't a schoolyard. He's the chief of police. He's got major pressure coming down. The press, the mayor, Salazar, the governor. The feds are all over him; so is Bill Messenger. That dickhead Cole Hatton is threatening a malfeasance lawsuit." She stopped again.

"We're being threatened constantly. Not just lawsuits-the police commission. They could fire Tony. We could both get axed. Everybody's looking for a scapegoat, and if we don't handle this right we're it. So he's been hammering on me, telling me to keep you focussed. I'm trying to hold the line for you, but…"

"Is this because of the way I want to work the case?" I was stunned.

"It's about that. It's about us trying to investigate two sister agencies. I'm getting threatening phone calls at Division. Can you believe it? Right in the Glass House. A whispery voice telling me I'm next."

My heart almost stopped. She hadn't told me any of this. It was just like her. Taking it all on herself, never complaining until she broke from the strain. I came around to her side of the bed and tried to put my arms around her.

"Honey, I'm sorry."

"Just-just…" She stopped, and the tears started coming again.

She shouted at the ceiling. "Stop crying, Alexa!" then rolled over ancj^buried her face in the pillow.

down beside her and started stroking her back, whispering to her, telling her how beautiful she was and how she was the most important person in my life. After a moment she stopped crying and turned again to face me.

"It's not just about the job. It's the way I feel about a lot of things. It's all changing."

"Come here," I said and held her close.

We embraced for a long moment, until, male libido being what it is, I started to wonder if making love would help her. Would a priceless piece of Scully ass make things right here?

Shane Scully, the Loooove Doctor.

I rubbed her back and shoulders. She started to relax a little and cuddled close to me. I was still trying to figure out what to do when she initiated it.

We caressed each other for a long time, making the beginning moves. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and in moments we were naked.

Emotions are the basic currency of police work, yet sometimes I'm surprised at how little I understand. We made love once diligently, then a second time with abandon. The air conditioner clattered in the window, but our combined heat and the Santa Ana winds had us slick with sweat.

When we finished I lay in her arms. "You're the best," I told her. "You make all things worthwhile."

She snuggled closer and nuzzled my ear. "Sometimes I'm so lonely and afraid," she said in a voice so tiny I barely heard her. "Sometimes I don't have any of the answers I'm supposed to, and I'm just down there faking like a gypsy."

I said, "We all do that."

"I can take pressure. I'm good under pressure. It's self-doubt that I can't deal with."

"It's that way for everybody," I told her.

"Except, you always seem so sure."

I couldn't believe she said that. I always felt so unsure. Always following in the footsteps of other people, like Jigsaw John, or Tony, or Alexa.

"I'm never sure," I told her. "Every time I'm sure, I turn out to be wrong."

But then I started to work on a way to solve her problem. If it was my investigative technique that was causing trouble, I could change that. I could focus on the SWAT teams like she wanted, leave everything else, the tunnel and all my hunches, for later. Also, I had an idea how I could get Tony off her back.

I was just getting ready to lay some righteous stuff on her when she said, "I'll get past this. It's just a hitch in the road." Then she whispered, "And thanks."

"For what?"

"For just listening. Not doing what you usually do, trying to solve it."

So I scotched all my brilliant solutions and just held her.

An hour later I changed my clothes and got ready to go to work with Sergeant Brickhouse. As I was passing through the living room the phone rang. It was almost ten, and I was pretty sure it was Jo wondering where I was. I almost didn't answer it, but then changed my mind and snapped up the receiver. Immediately, I heard a whispering, threatening voice.

"You been warned Scully. Shut this down now or you pay the price, bitch."

"Wrong Scully, asshole," I said, anger and violence flaring. "When I find out who you are-and I will-I'm gonna reach down your throat and pull your asshole out."

Before I could finish the sentence he had hung up.