CHAPTER SEVEN The look-off on the east side of the harbour was a refuge for Peterson, a place he went to think and to rummage through memories that sometimes brought him comfort, but mostly did not. He lowered the Jetta''s windows despite the cold and listened to the traffic crossing the older of the two bridges spanning the harbour, listened to voices that the water carried from the dockyard, listened to sounds from the houses on the street below. He had parked with the Jetta aimed at the harbour mouth, giving himself a postcard perspective of the naval base, two islands, and the concrete and glass of downtown. He looked without seeing Halifax as the "vibrant and safe capital city by the sea" promoted by the tourist board. He saw something else. He saw what cops see: the hard side, the ugly side, the side unreported in the press. The rising sun ricocheted off the rearview and had him angling to avoid it. He reached into the glove box for the spiral scribbler and the pen clipped to the first few pages and settled behind the wheel to write down thoughts and feelings.
Dr. Heaney had suggested it, and a few of the others in the therapy session had been doing it. But instead of words, he drew a large question mark. He traced it over and over, until the pen cut through the page. He closed the scribbler and watched a ferry cross the harbour. He remembered the day he''d taken it back and forth several times with his daughter. It was a sunny winter day like this one. He remembered laughing with her.
He could not remember laughing with her many times after. He thought about Cassie, and her face and his daughter''s blurred into one. He remembered Katy''s last words to him: "Fuck You." He shifted uncomfortably and felt something in his coat pocket. The Ruger. He set it on the passenger seat. There was something else in the pocket. He pulled out the napkin with Patty Creaser''s phone number and then his business card with Tanya''s number and the address of Logan''s sister where Cassie might still live.
Tanya had written something else: "The sudden loss of you left me hopeless." He closed his eyes, opened them. He looked at the Ruger and then at the sealed mickey in the open glove box. An uncontrolled breath escaped, and he rubbed his face. He shoved the Ruger back into his coat pocket and the spiral notebook back into the glove box. Tanya had said no cops, but he knew better. He needed them for their database and fast access to the whereabouts of the people he wanted to find. He waited for Bernie outside the police station in the employee parking lot.
He knew she''d be in an hour ahead of the morning shift. She parked her car, slid out, and zipped up her down jacket. Detective Grace Bernard, who insisted on being called Bernie. He got out of the Jetta and intercepted her before she got to the front door. "Have you been ducking me these last few weeks?" she asked. Her grin said she was glad to see him. "That goes both ways." She pretended to juggle.
"You don''t look overworked," he said, breaking out a weary smile. "A comment like that means you''re looking for something." "Something like that." "The deputy chief know you''re coming in?" "I doubt Fultz wants to see me," Peterson said, holding open the door. "Not enough time between us." "You know he''s up for chief as soon as Menard retires." "Peter Principle in action," Peterson said. "We could do worse than Fultz.
" "Not by much." Bernie led the way upstairs to the Investigation Unit. Peterson''s gunshot knee hurt on the climb. He was tired too, from walking the downtown streets all night. Bernie saw he wasn''t keeping up. "You still living at The Office?" she said "I don''t change much." "Except for trading your desk for a barstool." "Better company than listening to old men complain at a coffee shop.
" "You could go home," she said. "The walls and furniture talk too much." Two drug-squad cops in civvies came through the double doors and started down the stairs. One of them, Ryan Lewis, a giant of a man but a gutless wonder, the kind of cop who cuffed a suspect first and muscled him later, recognized Peterson and stopped. "I thought this place kissed you goodbye," he snarled. "Bad penny," Peterson said. "Good thing the government is flushing them," said Eddie Bigger, the other drug-squad cop. He was the opposite of Lewis in size, mouth, and attitude.
Like most little guys, Bigger was always looking for a scrap. Peterson took it in stride and faked a smile. "Yeah, but a lot of people are saving them. Pennies will be worth millions someday." Lewis wanted the last word but couldn''t think of anything to say. He turned to go, but not before giving Bernie a quick nod. "What was that about?" Bernie asked. She was holding one of the double doors open for Peterson.
"He misses me," Peterson said. "They all do," Bernie said. Wry smile. "You want coffee?" Jamie Gould, gelled hair, late thirties, held down the coffee room. Newspaper opened to the crossword page on the Formica table. He saw Peterson, rose, threw out his hand, and said, "Have you been forgiven, or am I just wishing it?" "I doubt I''ll get off the shelf," Peterson responded, shaking Jamie''s hand. "I should''ve known better," Jamie said. "Fultz would never take you back when he''s bucking for chief.
" They laughed as Bernie pulled two coffees and passed one to Peterson. "You remember Billy Moran?" Jamie asked Peterson. "I punched his ticket," Peterson said. "He backed over his mother and said it was an accident." "Know what he''s doing now?" "He''s out?" "He did four out of ten," Jamie said. "Good behaviour." "I''ll bite." "He goes door to door selling chairs in heaven.
" You could''ve hung clothes off Jamie''s grin. "I got it straight from his parole officer," Jamie continued. "Moran targets seniors and quotes them chapter and verse, you know, Jesus telling his disciples he was off to prepare a room for them in heaven. Then Moran feeds the seniors some shit about charitable gifts and buying themselves a chair. I mean who wants to go through eternity standing up." "People are buying them?" Bernie asked. "A hundred bucks a chair," Jamie said. "The parole officer said Moran sold eight.
" "What?" "Discount anything fifteen percent and old people''ll buy it," Jamie said. "Double the price and call the sale two for one, and seniors can''t give you the money fast enough." Peterson started for the door. "Moran''s lawyer is Lester Arnold," Jamie continued. "He''s arguing all religions take down payments on eternal happiness. So what''s the difference, huh? The Catholic Church, the Prods, they''re the ones selling the rooms in the first place." Bernie was still laughing. "Leon Ferris was another one of yours, wasn''t he?" Jamie said.
That stopped Peterson. "He''s out, too," Jamie added. "I heard," Peterson said. "Fourteen shaved down to seven and out in five, double credit for time served. Like what''s going on, right! The guy attempts a hit and the parole board goes short time on his candy-land smile." Peterson didn''t answer. Thinking. Jamie shook his head.
"Swinging door, know what I mean? It makes you wonder why we bust them in the first place." Jamie had a fresh thought. "You and Leon had a thing together, right?" Peterson feigned nonchalance. "A dust-up that didn''t go his way." He and Bernie carried their coffees down the hall past half a dozen early birds who waved or nodded to Peterson. "Dust-up?" she said. "That''s what you call it?" They entered the cupboard-sized room that a few detectives liked to use for private meetings. "I heard you broke his arm.
" Danny was inside waiting. His legs shifted uneasily under the wooden table, and his fingers drummed the half-dozen case files on top of it. "Whose arm?" Danny asked. "Leon Ferris," Peterson said. Danny''s smile faded. "You heard." "Little bird." Peterson leaned down to straighten Danny''s tie.
"It''s amazing how a good woman can change a man." He winked at Bernie. "He never dressed this way for me." "Not for me, either," Bernie said. "Danny has a steady girlfriend." Peterson smoothed a hand over the tie. "She must dress him in the morning." Danny slapped his hand away and tapped the files on the table.
"You can see how busy we are. We got forms up to here." He slashed a hand across his throat. "And reports like you wouldn''t believe. You jumped at the right time." "Pushed was more like it." "Either way, you miss out on all this paperwork. So, how about we close the Ferris file and call it past tense?" "Not if it''s happening now.
" Bernie saw the strained look exchanged between the former partners, Danny''s more drawn than Peterson''s. They had a twenty-three-year history together. Uniform cops sharing a car and half their lives. Peterson stealing time from his wife and daughter and making detective first. Danny three years later. Partnered again. Covering each other''s ass. Good cop, bad cop, with Peterson mostly coming off as Sir Lancelot with a grudge.
"Leon made a threat five years ago," Danny said, punching each word to sound convincing. "That doesn''t mean-" "Yes, it does," Peterson said. "I talked to Cory yesterday. Leon wants a reunion." Danny straightened the stack of files, lining them up with the table edge. Jaw set. Voice insistent. "You''re not the only cop on a nutso''s hate list.
" "Former cop. That means no badge." "Which means what?" "I keep an eye over my sho.