Red Rain

11

The radio squealed. Andy Pavano nearly lost his grip on the wheel.

“Vince, turn it down or something. Sounds like you stepped on a cat.”

“Hey, I’m always kind to animals. Can you hear me now?”

“The rain is messing with the radio.” Andy slowed the patrol car around a curve but still sent a tidal wave of rainwater washing over the narrow shoulder.

“It’s these old Motorolas, man. They’re not even digital.” Vince said something else but the signal broke up.

“Vince, what did you say?”

“I said maybe you could talk to your uncle about springing for a new radio system.”

“The chief isn’t my uncle,” Andy snapped. “He went to school with my cousin, that’s all.”

“Okay, okay. You’re both Pavano. So it’s an honest mistake, right?”

Headlights from an oncoming car blazed over the windshield. Andy tried to squint through it, but he couldn’t see a thing. Turn off your brights, bastard.

He opened his mouth in a loud burp. The meatball hero from that Italian place on Main Street. . What was it called? Conca d’Oro?. . it hadn’t gone down yet.

He swerved to avoid a lake of rainwater that glimmered darkly over the right half of the road. He could feel the wind push the car sideways. “Vince, this rain is killing me.”

“There’s a hurricane, Pavano. Down South. A big one. It pushed out into the ocean, but we’re getting the sloppy seconds.”

Andy snickered. “Vince, you’re a poet. Sloppy seconds? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Hey, what makes sense?”

Andy joined the Sag Harbor Police Force three weeks before, but it was long enough to know that what makes sense? was the height of Vince’s philosophy.

“The wind is trying to blow this fucking Ford off the road.”

The radio squealed again. Then Vince’s distorted voice: “Language, dude. Remember? People listen in. Civilians. Shut-ins. Keep it clean.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“You city guys don’t know how to drive. How long were you a New York City cop?”

“I was a Housing Authority cop.”

“Ooh, I’m wetting myself. I’m so impressed. How long?”

“None of your business, Vince. What’s up with the chitchat? You just lonely?”

“I’ve got a wife, an ex-wife, and four kids, man. How do you get to be lonely? Tell me.”

Andy didn’t have an answer for that. He had an ex-wife, too. The lovely Susannah. One of the reasons he moved to Sag Harbor.

All My Exes Live in Texas.

Someone should write one like it about New York.

All of Andy’s philosophy could be found in country songs.

He thought about Sari. Her dark hair falling over her forehead. Those beautiful eyes, oval and green like cat eyes. He should turn around and maybe drop by her house.

That first visit was awkward. No. Worse than awkward. She was ice. She tried to freeze me. All that talk about how she was in love, how she was going to get married. To a guy who owns the tennis shop in Southampton?

No. That’s crap. No way that was going to happen.

Now she’d had time to think about him, get warmed up to the idea of Andy being around again.

Sure, he blew it the first time with Sari. Maybe this time. .

“Pavano, what’s your ten-twenty?”

“I’m east on Noyac. Am I going in the right direction?”

“Maybe you need a GPS. Like the summer people. You’re still a tourist, Pavano. Why don’t you talk to your uncle about getting a-”

“You’re going to keep calling him my uncle, aren’t you.”

“Yeah, probably. My sense of humor, you know. Riding this desk you need a sense of humor.”

“Riding this desk? You been watching Cops again?”

The car rumbled past the turn at Long Beach. The rain formed a heavy curtain. He couldn’t see the bay. No cars in either direction. Who would be out driving in this?

“So tell me again where this house is, Vince.”

“It’s a left on Brick Kiln, then a left on Jesse Halsey. Go to the end. Take a right on Bluff Point Road.”

Andy sighed and shifted his weight in the seat. “Got it. You know, I didn’t sign on for shit like this. I came out here for peace and quiet. Maybe a domestic or two. A deer down on the road, someone steals a stop sign or takes a leak in a supermarket parking lot.”

“That sounds a lot like whining, Pavano.”

“Left on Brick Kiln, right? Okay. I’m here. I’m not whining, Vince. But, look-you’re riding a desk, as you so colorfully put it. And I’m-”

“Got another call. I’m out. You’re not the only cop out tonight, Sergeant.”

“Just about.”

The Sag Harbor Police wasn’t exactly a big force. Vince on the desk nights, the chief, and how many patrol guys? Four? Andy ran through their names in his head. Three Italian, one Irish. He made the left, then the right.

“Vince? You still there? I can’t do this. It’s making me sick. Really. I’m going to lose my supper.”

“Not in the car, please. If you’re going to blow chunks, stick your head out the window.”

“I have a weak stomach. Really. It’s in my physical report. You can check it.”

“Please don’t make me cry. My mascara will run.”

“I can’t see a thing, Vince. It’s total darkness here, and the rain-”

“You can do it. Just follow the regulations. Go to the house. Show them your ID. Say what you have to say. Then go throw up.”

“Why did I get this, Vince? I don’t even know where I’m going.”

“No one else would do it, Andy. That’s a ten-four.”

The radio made a loud click. Silence.

Bluff Point Road curved around the south side of a part of the bay known as Upper Sag Harbor Cove. The houses were far back from the road, hidden behind trees and tall hedges. Ahead of the clicking wipers and the splashing currents of rain, they rose up in the windshield like dark walls, blacker than the sky.

How’d they expect him to find the house? Oh. There. On the right, near the end of the street.

He made a sharp right, and the tires spun over the wet gravel drive. Slow down. You’re not in a hurry for this.

Behind a low brick wall, the house stretched across a wide lawn. A big modern house, gray shingles, with a terrace between the house and the garage. Small windows on this side. The side facing the bay was probably mostly glass. A single light cast a faint glow over the front door. Two well-trimmed evergreen bushes rose on both sides of the entrance.

Andy stopped the car near the front walk and cut the wipers and the headlights. He sat motionless for a while, staring at the rainwater rolling in waves down the windshield. Thunder crackled somewhere far in the distance.

He realized he had his hands balled into tight fists. The meatball hero weighed heavily in his stomach. You’re forty, Pavano. Maybe you need a better diet.

It wasn’t age. It was tension. Sure, he was tense. Who wouldn’t be?

Who on earth would want to do this job?

He glanced into the mirror. Saw his eyes gazing accusingly back at him.

Get it over with.

He picked his cap up from the passenger seat and pulled it down over his thinning hair. He had an umbrella, but it was in the trunk. He pushed open the door, slid his legs around, and climbed out of the car. He was drenched before he got the trunk lid open.

Perfect.

The umbrella caught and refused to open.

Even more perfect.

He spun away from the car, slipped on the flagstone walk, caught his balance, and jogged to the safety of the overhang above the front door. Lights were on, but no sign of any movement in the front window.

Water rolled down the brim of his cap. He shook his head hard, then pressed the bell. He could hear it chime inside.

Footsteps. Then a man pulled open the door and stared out at him in a pool of bright light. “Yes?”

Andy gazed at the man’s startled face. He was dark and had a stubble of beard on his cheeks. He reminded Andy of. . reminded him of that actor. . He had just watched Brokeback Mountain a few weeks before. Not his kind of thing, although the scenery was pretty.

And, yes. This guy looked just like that actor with the funny name. He wore designer jeans and a white dress shirt. He held a can of beer in one hand.

“Can I help you, Officer?”

Andy nodded solemnly. “Perhaps I should come in?”

A woman appeared behind the man. She had short black hair and a drawn face, kind of weary-looking. She had a baggy brown sweater pulled down over black leggings. “Who is it, Mark?”

“A police officer. I don’t understand-”

Andy felt his throat tighten. Gusts of wind blew the rain under the overhang.

Just get it over with. No way you can make it any better.

What was he supposed to say first? What was he supposed to ask them? He couldn’t think straight.

“Sir,” he started, raising his voice over the wind, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The man and woman both gasped. Her mouth dropped open. The beer can slid out of the man’s hand and hit the floor.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” Andy said, suddenly breathless. “But they sent me to tell you that your wife has been killed.”