Chapter Three:
"My cousin was in the North Tower..."
He's got a signature walk, it seems, for each of his moods. When he's angry, he sort of marches in an uncontrolled stagger; when he's amused, he walks with this almost cocky air about him, like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders; when he's sad, well, that's the only time he tends not to greet the world head-on, preferring to fluctuate instead on looking halfway between Heaven and Hell; when he's in love, he's got this full body happiness, this subtle, faint smile, this glow beneath his pupils, and this walk like he doesn't care where he's going, as though the only thing his mind can process is the simple act of being in love.
I've seen all these walks at different times and different degrees and sometimes I see them without even looking. The latter, however, has been absent from view for quite some time. I would see it at night when we'd sneak away, when I thought for a time maybe he was mine. I saw it when he walked in that bookstore, the way his voice yelled for me, like a blind rage, the way he clumsily assured Barry he was carrying nothing, the way he stumbled as he lifted me and breathed against my soul. For a moment, he really was mine. For a moment, I saw that walk, that look in his eyes.
I don't know if he realizes it. Maybe he wants me to know. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's not even aware of it. But he's walking towards me with a file in his hand, sliding it across the table to me. I could've sworn I saw the walk, the walk I've waited to see, for just a brief instant.
And maybe I should stop dwelling on the past.
"This Mr. Beckett matches a description of one of the perps at a bank robbery over in Buffalo a few weeks back."
"So you think he's the guy."
"I know he is."
I flip through the surveillance photos, praying it isn't him, but the evidence doesn't lie.
"You think the wife knew?"
"...he got out..."
He nods, touching his tongue to his lip like he usually does when the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.
"There's more. Get this, the wife worked at the bank that the husband robbed."
"You're kidding? Why would he do that?"
Jack grabs the papers, stuffing them hastily back into the folder, and smiles.
"That's what we're gonna find out."
"...he's never been the same..."
*
"I didn't know, honestly, I didn't. We just -- God, we needed the money so bad, and some buddies came to me about a week before the robbery, wanted to know if I wanted in. They -- they wouldn't tell me where it was, only when, and what to bring. I just -- God --"
His hands shake and he runs them through his hair over and over again.
"I got there and there she was and I just froze. She looked at me and said my name and they pulled a gun on her, but I -- I talked them down, said she wouldn't tell. We got away and they threatened her, my daughter, me. Then they called about a week ago, said they were worried, it didn't sit right with them, and I needed to take care of it. Shit -- they wanted me to kill her. So they took her, they just -- they just took her..."
Sometimes I think my life isn't so bad.
"Mr. Beckett, you realize the seriousness of this?"
He can only nod. "Do you think -- do you think they'll kill her?"
"If they don't get what they want...yes."
*
"Who played Michael Corleone in The Godfather?"
"Al Pacino."
"How'd you get that?"
"I have seen the movie, believe it or not."
"You're a girl."
"Since when has that stopped me before?"
Danny shrugs and pops another peanut in his mouth, leaning further against the seat of the car as we watch the Becketts' house. Stakeouts are highly overrated.
"Besides, your adoration for Al Pacino isn't exactly a closely guarded secret."
"Says the girl who fawns over Brad Pitt."
"He's sexy, Danny, I'm completely justified --"
"I would think someone of your caliber could pick a classier actor to focus her attention on. It's so cliche."
"And this conversation has gotten entirely too advanced for 3 a.m."
Danny leans back, chewing loudly as he sighs. "This is going to be a long night."
*
"Do you think about it?"
"I wasn't gonna shoot you..."
His youthful voice floats across the telephone and I pause as I write. A brief respite from the case, a moment to collect myself, and here I am talking to Ted, a painful reminder of an experience I'd rather forget.
"You've got her job now..."
"Sometimes, yeah. I guess."
I pause.
"Yeah, Ted, I do think about it."
All the time.
I can hear his hesitancy. He's young and heartbreakingly innocent in so many ways. His eagerness to help when I first saw him, his youthful exuberance, was almost contagious despite what I knew could soon turn into a dangerous situation. I would've given anything to shield him from it. To shield them all.
"I think about him, sometimes, you know? I don't think he was really that bad, I think...I think he just really missed his wife."
"She was so wonderful..."
"I think he always will."
"Did you lose someone, Sam?"
He's taken to calling me by that cherished nickname the last few months, and I always bite my tongue before denying him the comfort of what he's grown to believe is our friendship. I like Ted. I just wish I didn't meet him the way I did.
I change the subject for many reasons. Because the answer's always harder than the question.
"Have you heard from Fran lately? I think she's the lead in a new play."
His voice picks up, forgetting just as quickly that I ignored his previous question.
"Yeah, yeah. She called me a few weeks ago. It's opening next month. Want to go with me?"
I smile briefly. "I don't know that far ahead, but if not, I'll take a raincheck."
"Listen, Ted, I gotta go. I got this new case -- "
"Oh yeah, sure, I understand. Talk to you later."
"You bet."
I breathe a sigh of relief. For some reason, I find it a feat anymore to talk to him, to any of them.
"...just to smell her ashes..."
Did I lose someone?
I think, in a way, we all did.
*
TBC...