The Fairlane flashed its lights, and the driver’s window lowered. Valentine walked over to the vehicle. Sitting behind the wheel was Mike Hatch, a detective on the force, and a guy he’d known since grade school. Hatch was shaking in fear.
“Why are you following me?” Valentine asked.
“Who said I was following you?”
“I did.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“You’re a lousy liar. Out with it.”
“Banko’s orders,” Hatch said.
Valentine put his gun away, knowing he was screwed.
Banko’s office seemed unusually cold. Sitting in a chair that faced his superior’s desk, Valentine saw why: The window behind the desk was cracked open, and winter had invaded the room.
“You’re damn right I had you followed,” Banko said, standing behind his desk. Hatch stood against the wall, avoiding Valentine’s stare. “You’re an officer of the law. You start acting weird, its casts a bad light on the entire department.”
Weird. It was a better description than crazy, and Valentine felt himself relax. Picking up the pad on his desk, Banko read aloud. “Three mornings ago, you walked out of the station house with a prostitute, went to her car, and were seen handcuffing her. You drove with her to another prostitute’s apartment, where you spent —” He glanced at Hatch, and the detective held up three fingers “ — thirty minutes inside. You got to work around noon. Two days ago, you went to the Rainbow Arms, then went and visited a psychiatrist. Again, you got to work about noon. Today, you visited Nucky Balducci, then were seen taking a homeless man to a flop house.” Banko looked at the clock on his desk. It was nearly noon, and his eyes fell on Valentine’s face. “Your job is to police Resorts’ casino. How can you be doing that when you’re on the street?”
“I can explain,” Valentine said.
Banko dropped the pad, and leaned on the desk with his fists. “You can explain disobeying my orders? That’s not an explanation I care to hear. You’re acting weird, Tony, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s making me nervous.”
Valentine struggled for something intelligent to say. Banko pointed at the door, and Hatch walked out. “I’m suspending you, with pay,” Banko said when Hatch was gone. “I want you to see a shrink, and get these issues ironed out. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let you return to the force so quickly after the shooting at the Rainbow Arms.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“No, just someone who needs help.”
Banko went to the door, and held it open. Valentine pushed himself out of his chair, thinking of Vinny Acosta and the person behind the voice and all the other people in town who wanted him out of the way. They’d gotten their wish, and he realized he had no one to blame but himself.
That night, sitting on the couch in Valentine’s living room, Doyle tried to make light of what had happened. “It’s no big deal. You see a shrink, talk about how your mother had you in diapers until you were eighteen, and get a clean bill of health in a couple of weeks. People expect cops to have emotional problems. It comes with the territory.”
“You think I have emotional issues?”
“No, no. It’s just what people expect, that’s all.”
Doyle and Liddy had brought dinner over to cheer him up. Liddy’s famous Irish stew, mashed potatoes, mixed green salad, and vanilla ice cream. By the time they’d started eating dessert, Valentine had started feeling like his old self.
In the kitchen, Liddy and Lois were dividing up the leftovers; then it would be their turn to clean the dishes. Valentine glanced at his partner. The job affected everyone differently. For Doyle, it showed in his face. His boyish exuberance was still there, only now it was masked by flecks of gray hair and worry lines.
Valentine felt his body melt into the cushions. The meal was taking its time settling in his stomach. The phone rang. Upstairs, he heard Gerry bound down the hall to answer it. “Hey Pop it’s for you,” his son called out.
He glanced at his watch. A quarter of ten. No one called this late except pesky salesmen. He pushed himself off the couch, went to the head of the stairs.
“Tell whoever it is to call back,” he said.
Gerry appeared at the head of the stairs. He’d stopped sleeping in his PJs a few weeks ago, and wore his skivvies. “It’s Mrs. Mink. She wants to talk to you.”
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“No, but she sounds upset. I just think she’s crying.”
Valentine glance at Doyle, and saw his partner bounce off the couch. “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” he told his son.
In the kitchen he found Liddy and Lois standing at the counter, popping lids on Tupperware containers. The phone hung from the wall, and had a long extension cord. Picking it up, he heard Gerry hang up, then said, “Gloria, this is Tony. Is everything okay?”
Gloria Mink sobbed into phone. “ No!”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s got a gun.”
“Who’s got a gun?”
Lois and Liddy’s heads snapped.
“My husband,” Gloria said, her voice cracking. “He started drinking whiskey this afternoon. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. Then he started breaking dishes and pictures and other things. Then he went and got the gun.”
“Where is he now?”
“In his study. He told me to leave the house. He’s going to hurt himself. He blames himself for what happened. Please help me. Please.”
“Did you call 911?”
“No.”
“Gloria —”
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Please come over and talk to him. You’re the only one who will understand. Please, Tony. Before he shoots himself.”
The Minks lived on the south end in a split-level ranch house. The area had an unusual reputation; it was predominantly lower income, yet had consistently produced the island’s best athletes. Gloria was at the door when they arrived, and had pulled herself together. As they went in, she grabbed Valentine’s sleeve and looked into his eyes.
“I tried,” she whispered.
At the funeral Valentine remembered thinking how the loss of her son had robbed her of her beauty. Now, something else was being taken away.
“Where is he?”
“In the study. Please bring him back.”
“I’ll try,” Valentine said.
Doyle remained with Gloria in the living room while Valentine crossed the house. He’d been to the Mink’s house several times for Sunday afternoon football parties, and remembered the study being right off the kitchen, the rooms separated by a swinging wooden door. He found the door, and tapped on it with his knuckles.
“Go away,” a voice said drunkenly from the other side.
“It’s Tony Valentine. Can I come in?”
“Get out of my god damn house,” Mink shouted through the door.
Valentine decided to take a chance, and pushed the door open with his toe, and stuck his head through. Mink sat behind a desk on the other side of the room, and looked drunker than a sailor on a Saturday night.
“Hey, buddy,” Valentine said.
“Don’t buddy me,” Mink snapped.
“You mad at me?”
“Go away. Now.”
“Come on. Let me in.”
Mink grunted drunkenly. Valentine took it as a yes, and entered the study. He saw Mink put his hands onto the desk, and ball them into fists. Both of his hands were caked in dried blood. An empty whiskey bottle sat on the blotter; beside it, an automatic pistol. Valentine held his palms out so Mink could see he was not carrying a weapon.
“I need to talk to you,” Valentine said.
“Really? And for the past few months, I thought you were avoiding me.”
“Can I sit down?”
“Go ahead.”
Valentine took a chair from the wall and pulled it up to the desk. Next to the chair were the display cases Mink had built to house Marcus’s impressive collection of football trophies. Mink had smashed the glass in each case.