The Devil and the Detective by John Goldbach Page A

I’m not sure what. Gerald’s dead, Adam’s dead, and, most likely, I thought, Elaine’s dead. At the very least she’s gone. I wanted to get back to my apartment. I needed rest and time to think about the case. I’d gotten too close, obviously, and lost all perspective. I’d lost the forest for the trees, so to speak. Something had gone terribly wrong, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Something happened while I was trying to figure things out, while I was being, quite willingly, seduced by Elaine. So much escaped me. Everything changed while I had my head up my ass.

11
    â€˜R ick! Rick!’ I woke up feeling far from refreshed. My nose stung as I inhaled. O’Meara was standing over me, holding the cherry of a lit cigarette directly under my nose. I coughed and gagged. My eyes stung, too. ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead,’ O’Meara said. ‘I’m going to uncuff you but you’re not free to go. Understand?’ He looked out of focus to my bleary eyes. ‘Understand?’ he said and pushed me.
    â€˜Yeah, yeah,’ I said.
    He released me from the handcuffs and I rubbed my wrists, like in the movies, I thought, and kept rubbing my wrists. They were red and chapped and sore and I felt generally sick. ‘Can I get something to drink?’ I said.
    â€˜I want you staying put in this office,’ said O’Meara. ‘Is that clear?’
    â€˜Clear as mud.’
    O’Meara left and I sat rubbing my wrists. I was parched. My mouth tasted awful. I opened Gerald’s desk drawer and inside was mainly just a mess of papers – bills and receipts mainly – and some business cards. I sorted through them quickly but only recognized a lawyers’ card, Bouvert-Adamson (Bouvert was the name of the lawyer Elaine gave, I thought, when she first called), and I slipped it into my wallet. I looked around at the books and stood up and tilted my head and read the spines on the shelves. I pulled down a copy of The Art of War and opened it to a bookmarked page: ‘18. All war is based on deception,’ it said at the top of the page.
    O’Meara’s voice and footsteps were approaching. I shelved the book and slid back behind the desk. O’Meara entered the office.
    â€˜Did you fuck her, Rick?’ he said. I didn’t answer. Again, he said, ‘Did you fuck her?’
    â€˜No,’ I said.
    â€˜Are you telling the truth?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜If her body turns up and we find any of your DNA , even a hair, a single pube, I’ll make sure you’re locked up for eternity.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I said.
    â€˜This is serious, Rick. You don’t sleep with your client when you’re on a case. It’s these kinds of stunts that kept you from becoming a detective.’
    â€˜I am a detective.’
    â€˜A real detective.’
    â€˜I am a real detective.’
    â€˜Right. Keep telling yourself that, Rick.’
    After a few more minutes of O’Meara’s bullshit he said I was free to go for the time being, stressing the point, for the time being , over and over again, and I said whatever you say, then searched my wallet for Darren’s card.
    I used Gerald’s desk phone. Darren picked up after three rings. I asked if he wouldn’t mind grabbing me – said I’d explain in person – and he said he’d be there in fifteen minutes. O’Meara watched me the whole time but I didn’t give a shit. He didn’t intimidate me. He never does, I thought, though he thinks he does. He thinks going to the academy and rising up through the ranks of the force to become a detective like him is what I wanted, but that’s where he’s wrong, I thought. I never wanted to be that kind of detective.
    I sat on the front porch waiting for Darren. The police officers weren’t so friendly and I was anxious to leave the scene of the crimes. Light pink clouds drifted westward in the sunset.