donât usually make good historians. Even Churchill had his flaws. As for Patty, she was needy and broken, too. She was as insecure as I was. Our insecurities together acted as an accelerant to burn up our marriage. I taught her things of the world, too, made her happy for a time. The collapse of our marriage wasnât all my fault. Just mostly my fault.
I am too close to the events to recount them dispassionately.
I do know two things. One is that we married too soon. We werenât the people we would become. And I know a simple, transcendent factâ¦
11
Now I stood at the end of the same pier, the longest on the West Coast if I remembered correctly. A man fished off the south side and pairs of lovers strolled out toward me. My chest was tight and I could feel my heart trying to make its escape, my throat tightening. It was merely a panic attack. I knew that now. They never came in situations where a normal person would panic, only when I was quiet and alone. If I couldnât stop them, at least I could get away from other people so the attacks wouldnât cause me to do something inappropriate. Like tell the truth. Whatever.
I thought again about Patty. Contrary to Peraltaâs baiting, I wasnât afraid of seeing her. It would be nice, actually, to know she was happy.
As for my native prudence, that had gone away in the preceding months. Now I had barged into a strangerâs apartment and assaulted a man with a move that could kill, and I wasnât even a cop anymore. Get me a can of spray paint.
I wondered if she remarried and had children.
Now it was hard to imagine that lost love as even real, especially after Lindsey.
I remembered the Fussell book Patty and I had both been reaching for. Writing about World War I, he meditated about how our age couldnât understand why hundreds of thousands of British soldiers had gone âover the topâ to certain death from German machine gunners for something as abstract as honor . But for them, that sense of honor and obligation was as real as our age, drowning in illegitimacy and irony, is for us.
What a pity. Quel dommage .
I had brought Lindsey to O.B. exactly once, when we had first become a couple and I worried that I was falling for her too fast, this magical younger woman with the fair skin and nearly black hair. She had browsed the postcards and made fun of the tourists. The memories caused me to pull out my iPhone and text her:
âIâm in San Diego with Peralta, on a case.â
It was a foolâs errand. She wouldnât respond. I didnât say I loved her, even though I did. Why set myself up for the disappointment of her silence? She wasnât wearing her wedding ring now. I still wore mine, even though I operated heavy equipment: large-caliber firearms. I studied my ring and my hands that had changed the baby. I didnât even know the babyâs name, but I remembered his tiny hands and arms struggling against me, struggling against a world of trouble.
This little soul who hadnât asked to be brought into that world. I didnât even know his name.
That tattooed kid who was his father had better be on his way to Riverside.
Lindsey had worried whether she would make a good mother.
Now this childâs mother was dead. After meeting Americaâs Finest Pimp and learning about Graceâs venture as Scarlett, I wondered if the man in our office yesterday had been right to question the circumstances of her death. He hadnât said a word about Grace being a call girl. Had he not known? Hell, I didnât even know who he really was.
The pimp had mentioned a big man, an enforcer, someone he was afraid of enough to clear out and leave us alone. Was that the big man from yesterday, assassinated on Grand Avenue? And who was Edward, someone else the pimp feared?
Too damned many questions and barely twenty-four hours into our first case. I felt only my lack of ability. This was not what I had done
I am too close to the events to recount them dispassionately.
I do know two things. One is that we married too soon. We werenât the people we would become. And I know a simple, transcendent factâ¦
11
Now I stood at the end of the same pier, the longest on the West Coast if I remembered correctly. A man fished off the south side and pairs of lovers strolled out toward me. My chest was tight and I could feel my heart trying to make its escape, my throat tightening. It was merely a panic attack. I knew that now. They never came in situations where a normal person would panic, only when I was quiet and alone. If I couldnât stop them, at least I could get away from other people so the attacks wouldnât cause me to do something inappropriate. Like tell the truth. Whatever.
I thought again about Patty. Contrary to Peraltaâs baiting, I wasnât afraid of seeing her. It would be nice, actually, to know she was happy.
As for my native prudence, that had gone away in the preceding months. Now I had barged into a strangerâs apartment and assaulted a man with a move that could kill, and I wasnât even a cop anymore. Get me a can of spray paint.
I wondered if she remarried and had children.
Now it was hard to imagine that lost love as even real, especially after Lindsey.
I remembered the Fussell book Patty and I had both been reaching for. Writing about World War I, he meditated about how our age couldnât understand why hundreds of thousands of British soldiers had gone âover the topâ to certain death from German machine gunners for something as abstract as honor . But for them, that sense of honor and obligation was as real as our age, drowning in illegitimacy and irony, is for us.
What a pity. Quel dommage .
I had brought Lindsey to O.B. exactly once, when we had first become a couple and I worried that I was falling for her too fast, this magical younger woman with the fair skin and nearly black hair. She had browsed the postcards and made fun of the tourists. The memories caused me to pull out my iPhone and text her:
âIâm in San Diego with Peralta, on a case.â
It was a foolâs errand. She wouldnât respond. I didnât say I loved her, even though I did. Why set myself up for the disappointment of her silence? She wasnât wearing her wedding ring now. I still wore mine, even though I operated heavy equipment: large-caliber firearms. I studied my ring and my hands that had changed the baby. I didnât even know the babyâs name, but I remembered his tiny hands and arms struggling against me, struggling against a world of trouble.
This little soul who hadnât asked to be brought into that world. I didnât even know his name.
That tattooed kid who was his father had better be on his way to Riverside.
Lindsey had worried whether she would make a good mother.
Now this childâs mother was dead. After meeting Americaâs Finest Pimp and learning about Graceâs venture as Scarlett, I wondered if the man in our office yesterday had been right to question the circumstances of her death. He hadnât said a word about Grace being a call girl. Had he not known? Hell, I didnât even know who he really was.
The pimp had mentioned a big man, an enforcer, someone he was afraid of enough to clear out and leave us alone. Was that the big man from yesterday, assassinated on Grand Avenue? And who was Edward, someone else the pimp feared?
Too damned many questions and barely twenty-four hours into our first case. I felt only my lack of ability. This was not what I had done
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