Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery Page 4

  Ron gasped for breath, bringing me to my senses. I let go of him and spun him around to face me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but—”

  “Fuck you,” he screamed.

  I thought he was going to try for the door again. He didn’t. Just sat in the chair and cried.

  I wanted to hug him. Tell him how sorry I was. Instead, I mustered up the guts and set the vial on the table in front of him. “I still need you to do this.”

  He grabbed the plastic container and headed toward the bathroom.

  I followed, jamming my foot in the door when he tried slamming it shut. “You can turn your back, but I’m watching to make sure it’s a clean test. No dilution or additives.”

  “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

  Again, he almost had me feeling sorry for him, but there’d be plenty of time for sorry if he passed the test.

  When he was done he handed me the sample, now covered, and washed his hands. “I gotta go. I’m late.”

  I grabbed him as he tried squeezing by me. “You’re going nowhere until I do this test.”

  Ron yanked away again. “What’s the big deal? So I smoked a little weed.”

  I led him back to the kitchen. In a couple of minutes, I had all I needed. “A little weed?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but his eyes were burning holes in the table. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “This test says a little weed, a few opiates, and some benzos.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Are you saying the test is wrong, because we can do it again.”

  “I didn’t take any of that.”

  I stared at him, knowing as both a cop and his father that he was lying, but desperately wanting to—or needing to—believe him. Now I understood all of the parents I had doubted when they did the same thing. “You swear?”

  “I already told you.”

  “You swear on your mother’s grave?”

  “I can’t believe you’d use Mom like that.”

  “Swear to me on your mother’s grave that this test is lying and you didn’t take any of these drugs?”

  He started crying again, his head buried in his arms. “I’m screwed up, Dad. I’m really screwed up.”

  I walked over and put my arms around him. “It’s okay. Everybody makes mistakes. We’re going to get you help.”

  I let him cry for a minute. When the tears stopped, I helped him up. “Come on, it’s late and we need to get going.”

  “You’re driving me to school?”

  “Yeah, I’ll drive you.”

  He rode with his head leaning against the window, not moving until we passed his school.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’re going to get you help. Remember?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m checking you into a rehab.”

  “No way I’m going to any rehab.” He reached for the door handle but I pressed the locks.

  His defiance was good for me. Gave me the strength I needed. “You’ll go to rehab or you’ll go to jail. You choose.”

  He laughed, a shitty, taunting laugh. “You wouldn’t send me to jail.”

  “Not the Ron Cataldi I raised, but this one, the drug addict…I would in a heartbeat.”

  “Come on, Dad. I won’t do it again. I swear.”

  I said nothing.

  “Dad, did you hear me? I said I won’t do it again. What do you want? Blood?”

  Still I said nothing.

  “You wouldn’t do this if Mom were alive. She wouldn’t let you.” The tears came again. I almost turned the car around…but then I remembered what the druggies I dealt with sounded like. The pleading and begging and promising to change. It was all the same, only this was my son. Other than that, there was no difference.

  Ron put his hand on my shoulder. His voice reflected a plea for mercy. “Dad, for Mom’s sake, for mine, you have got to let me fix it on my own. I won’t let you down, I promise. I just screwed up a little. I can fix it. You can help me. I know I can do it if you help me.” Ron was pulling out all the stops

  Jesus Christ. I felt like Ulysses when the Sirens called him, and I wished for some of the wax he put in his men’s ears. “You’re going in,” I said. “Don’t say another word.”

  After that the ride was silent. He didn’t even try to persuade me anymore, which told me that the entire effort had been fake to begin with. I felt better knowing that. Knowing that I hadn’t given in to my feelings being manipulated.

  It took a while to get him checked in, going through insurance and signing papers. He put me through hell before I got out of there. By the time I left, Ron had cursed me for everything bad that happened to him since he was born. That was after he tried crying and begging again. He should have stuck with that; it almost worked. And who knows, maybe he had it right. Maybe I was to blame for the whole mess—all of it. God only knows I fucked up my own life.

  By noon I was out of there and on my way to work. A note from Coop lay on my desk. She wanted to see me.

  I shook my head as I picked it up and headed for her office, expecting the worst. Cindy barely said hello, another bad sign, and I was too tired to try and get insight from her into what was going on. I walked into Coop’s office ready for anything.

  “Sit down, Gino. Do you want coffee?”

  Steam rose from her teacup; Cindy must have just delivered it. If Coop needed another cup of tea to have her chat with me, it couldn’t be good. “I’m fine. What did you want to see me about?”

  “I’m taking you out of Narcotics and putting—”

  I jumped up from my chair. “You can’t do that.”

  “Sit down, Cataldi.”

  Her voice carried that stern warning that everyone knew. I sat.

  “You’re going to be assigned to training recruits for six months.”

  “Six—” I stopped myself before saying something I’d regret.

  “I don’t like this, but…never mind, let’s leave it at that. I don’t like it. You’ve got six months to show me you can act civil. If all goes well, you’ll be back to Narcotics.”

  “May I ask why, Captain?”

  Coop lifted her right hand and took off her glasses. She set them on the desk. Her eyes looked meaner without glasses. “For the record, because the psychologist believes you need a rest. Off the record, because I know you had something to do with Rico Moreno’s death.”

  She got even closer to me. Her face scrunched up.

  “And I don’t like it one bit. Not one fucking bit. I don’t know how you did things in Philadelphia, but down here we don’t condone vigilantes.”

  “I’m taking the day off,” I said. I let some attitude go with that statement, maybe hoping she got offended. Maybe looking for an argument.

  “Good, you need it. Take tomorrow off, too, then report to Bill Mercer in training. He’ll be expecting you.”

  On the way home I listened to the radio, trying to find something to lift my spirits. Music usually did that. The DJ was talking about how nice a day it was.

  “What do you think of this day, folks. Seventy degrees, sun shining, low humidity—you have got to love life on a day like this.”

  I laughed. Not really, I almost cried. I was trying my best to love life, but life wasn’t loving me back.

  I decided to visit Mary’s grave. Those occasions were normally reserved for Christmas, our anniversary, and her birthday in October, but today I needed help. I checked the rearview and side mirrors then pulled across a couple of lanes and got ready to exit. About ten minutes later I entered the cemetery and parked a short walk from where she lay. I bent down and straightened a rope necklace draped over the headstone. I had made it myself shortly after she died. It had our names formed from knots—Gino, Mary, Ron. It was simple, but Mary always liked simple things, and anything made out of rope she had a special fondness for.

  Despite my disgust for the church, I’d do anything for Mary, so I knelt and blessed myself, sayi
ng a prayer as I did. God bless her, she had kept her faith through the last breath, never once blaming God, even while I cursed Him. There had been no reason for God to take her. Not when He let scum like Rico run the streets.

  I took a deep breath and held it, then mustered up the courage to speak. “I know it’s not my time to visit, Mary, so you’re probably wondering why I’m here. I don’t even know myself. I guess I felt I had to.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. I lowered my head. My voice turned into a whisper. “My life’s falling apart. I don’t know what’s going on. And I’m having so many problems with Ron.” That whisper turned quickly into a voice that reflected my tears. “My God, I wish you were here. You always knew what to do when things went wrong with Ron. You were the voice of reason, when I yelled. Calm when I grew frustrated. Remaining calm seemed so easy for you.” I tugged my handkerchief out of my pocket, tried to stop crying, but couldn’t.

  “I miss you, baby. I miss the time we should’ve had together, the places I should’ve taken you. And I miss seeing your face when I did one of the few good things and surprised you on our anniversary. I hope you’re doing well. I hope even more that you can’t see what’s happening to Ron—that would break your heart.”

  I leaned in close and kissed the part of the necklace with her name. “I’ll never love anyone like I loved you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  GOOD OLD GIRLS

  Houston, Texas

  Cybil read the letter for the third time, not quite believing what it said. That son of a bitch isn’t coming. And after all we did for him.

  She clutched the letter with both hands, and, for a moment, thought of tearing it up. But it was a personal letter from the president. There was no sense in tearing the letter up, despite the content. She tucked it into a drawer of her private desk then prepared for the meeting with the girls.

  ***

  Coop pulled her car into an empty space in the garage and walked across the bridge to the building, taking time to evaluate what might be discussed or proposed for the meeting. Cybil had told her about Tom not attending the celebration, which meant she would be in a tizzy and likely unpredictable. That wasn’t good. But RB Ingle would be there, with all the power and influence money can buy—and he had enough to buy a lot.

  Cybil might have been the most ambitious woman ever born in East Texas. If she’d been born a minnow, she would have aspired to be a whale—that, or a great white shark. At age seventeen she decided to leave East Texas, not unusual by itself, but her determination was so great that by the time she turned eighteen, she taught herself to speak without her native accent. Two weeks after her birthday she ran away to Houston, leaving family behind. Whispers from the envious ones say she got her start at a strip club, where she met Rusty Johnson, a man she later married and whipped into becoming mayor.

  She was the one who took Coop under her wing and supported her—drove her actually—to become captain. If her after-meeting comments were taken seriously, Cybil now had her sights set for Coop to become Houston’s next chief of police. It was a fine line Coop walked between dealing with Cybil to get the support and putting up with her demands.

  The captain walked through the big double doors, nodded to the receptionist, and turned left toward Cybil’s office. When she entered, Cybil already had a drink in her hand. Not a good sign.

  “Captain Cooper, you’re punctual, as always.”

  “I live to serve, Your Grace.”

  “Shut the hell up and tell me what’s new in my city.”

  Coop raised her brows. “Your city? I didn’t know Rusty bequeathed it to you.”

  “Rusty’s not dead yet, but it won’t be long.” Cybil lit a cigarette, blew out a long thin stream of smoke, then laughed. “Whenever I suffer through one of his lovemaking sessions, I extract something else from him—information, a promise, a new connection, something. Pretty soon he’ll have nothing left but his baggy boxers.” Cybil stood in front of a wide floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city and sat on her desk. “Speaking of sex, how will you answer if someone asks your preferences?”

  “This is the twenty-first century. They can’t ask questions like that. And besides, where the hell did that question even come from?”

  Cybil swirled her gin and tonic, letting the ice cubes rattle in an annoying rhythm. “They can’t but they will, and I’d like to know how the woman I’m going to make my new chief of police will answer the question.”

  The captain raised her eyebrows. “Is this question personal, philosophical, or political?”

  “A mixture.”

  She nodded but never let her gaze leave Cybil’s face. “When you narrow it down, let me know. I’ll see what kind of answer I have then.”

  A devious smile appeared, and Cybil’s eyes hardened. “I’m the one who made you. Don’t forget that.”

  Coop took a step closer to her. “If you want to think you had something to do with me getting my job, fine. But don’t ever get the idea that you own me, Mrs. Mayor.”

  Before Cybil could respond the intercom blared.

  “Janice and Millie are here.”

  “Show them in,” Cybil said, then turned to Coop. “We’ll finish this later.”

  People always talked about the “good old boys” network in Texas, but nobody realized there was another network that was more powerful and got more done. Cybil headed up that network, and it included half of the wives from the “boys” side, plus Captain Gladys ‘Coop’ Cooper, and a few other singles.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Janice said as she entered. “Did you hear the news?”

  Cybil stared from her perch on the desk. “What news?”

  “Tom Marsen assigned the First Lady to head up his new fight against drugs. I’m sure she’ll be coming to Houston before long.

  Cybil almost spilled her drink. “I can’t believe he appointed her.”

  Janice made her way to the bar and grabbed the gin. “Now that Tom is in the White House maybe we can get things done and bring some civilization to the city.”

  Millie snorted, trying to control her laughter. Allergies played hell with her breathing. “Tom might have been born in Texas, but that only goes so far. He seems to be firmly entrenched in Washington with his new friends.” She took a slug of gin and tonic. “And I don’t know if any of you have looked lately, but none of us are invited.”

  “We’ll make our own party,” Janice said. “Besides, we don’t need Tom as long as we’ve got RB Ingle.”

  Another snort from Millie. “RB might be rich, but he’s not president.”

  “You’re right,” Cybil said. “He’s not president. But I’d bet three dead armadillos he’s got more than a couple of hands in Tom’s pockets.”

  Coop closed her eyes and shook her head. “Where the hell do you come up with those sayings?”

  The door to Cybil’s office opened. “Anne is here,” her admin said, and a tall, slim brunette walked in.

  “Well if it isn’t Mrs. RB Ingle,” Cybil said.

  Anne bristled.

  “How is Mr. RB?” Janice asked.

  Anne smiled. “He’s fine.”

  “Fine my ass,” Cybil said, and took a swig of her drink. “I happen to know he was getting a lap dance last night. I know this because he was with my husband.”

  Everyone laughed, and Anne moved over and gave Cybil a hug. “It’s better if he gets what he needs outside. I sure don’t want him coming to my bed.”

  “You never know what he might find,” Millie said, and everyone laughed again.

  The incessant rattling of ice in a tumbler brought everyone’s attention to Cybil. “Back to business, ladies. It’s true that Tom hasn’t been good to those that worked so hard to support him, but everyone has a few skeletons in their closet. I grew up with that son of a bitch, and I know exactly what drives his desires.” A smile popped onto Cybil’s face. “And if I have to bring a few of those skeletons out to wring a little more cooperation out of that dishrag, trust
me…I can do it.”

  “We might even convince RB to help,” Anne said. “He’s not happy about Tom shunning this celebration.”

  Coop sat in one of Cybil’s plush chairs, legs crossed. “We’ve got more pressing things to discuss than Tom Marsen’s plans for Houston.”

  “Like what?” Janice said.

  “Have you forgotten Rusty was re-elected? You remember him Cybil—your husband. And despite the president not attending the event, RB’s celebration will draw a lot of big names. That might not mean much to those of you who only have to worry about cocktail dresses and gowns, but I need to think of event security.”

  Cybil narrowed her eyes and kept her gaze locked on Coop. “I would have thought you’d have things like security figured out by now, Captain.”

  “I learned long ago that anytime you think you’ve got it figured out—that’s when the shit hits the fan.” Coop stood and set her drink on the bar. “I think we’re done, Cybil. I believe you said you had to look for skeletons, and I’ve got my own work to do.”

  Coop exited the building, and slowly made her way to the car. She had a headache that wouldn’t quit, and she felt sure Cybil had been the cause of it. Her or Cataldi.

  That thought reminded her of something she had to do, as if she didn’t have enough already, Rusty Johnson’s celebrations, and the possibility—no matter how remote—that the First Lady might come to town…Coop pulled the remote from her purse and clicked it, unlocking the car door. She started the engine and blasted the air conditioner on. It was on days like this that she wished the A/C had an ‘Arctic Blast’ setting. She stood outside while the car cooled, especially the seats. Coop dialed a number from memory. She didn’t have it on speed dial and she had erased it from the ‘recents’ list.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Do you have any news?” Coop asked.

  “I told you I’d let you know when I did.”