he continued to climb, Clegg was the closest thing the Boston PD had to a detective who looked like an actor playing a cop.
“You’re late,” Clegg said, not bothering to check his watch for the time. Cops like Clegg just knew.
“Sorry. Unexpected delay.”
The unexpected delay was that I didn’t want him to see me leaving an apartment that I shouldn’t have been leaving. I looked him over again, searching for any reason I should be nervous, or more nervous than usual. Clegg had a way of setting people slightly on edge. Four of his past partners had asked to be transferred within a month of their assignment, and though Clegg has received numerous commendations from the BPD, he’s also been a regular visitor to Internal Affairs. A self-described amalgam of “Dirty” Harry Callahan and the narcotics sergeant Martin Riggs from the Lethal Weapon franchise, Clegg relished life on the edge, which explained his passion for climbing and his penchant for pissing off his superiors.
I loved the guy like a brother.
“So what’s been going on?” Clegg asked.
“Nothing much,” I said.
“Nothing much,” Clegg repeated, acknowledging the ridiculousness of my response while taking a swig of his beer as I did the same with mine. “How ’bout I get more specific? How’s Ruby?”
“She’s hanging in there,” I said. “We won’t know for a few more weeks if her medication is working or not, but we’ve got reason to stay positive.”
“Well, at least you’ve got each other.”
I nodded quickly, because it was true. Then paused because it was odd the way Clegg had phrased it. He emphasized you’ve as if to imply that he didn’t have someone, which I knew not to be true, because he was married to Violet. I got a sinking feeling that another casualty of that day on the Labuche Kang was Clegg’s marriage to his high school sweetheart.
“I swung by your place the other day,” Clegg said, “but you weren’t home.”
Because I don’t live there anymore, I wanted to say.
“Yeah? What day was that?”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” I said, musing. “Tuesday . . . not sure where I was. Probably a doctor’s appointment with Ruby. What were you doing in Somerville, anyway?”
“Looking for an apartment.”
“Oh, no,” I said, groaning. “What happened, man?”
“She wants a divorce,” Clegg said.
Funny how Clegg’s divorce bombshell felt like a relief compared to what I thought we might be here to discuss.
“Why?” My voice carried a harsh edge, like it was Violet’s fault.
“She says I’m depressed. Hates that I still climb.”
I did, too, but only because I was envious that he could still do it.
“Are you depressed?” I asked.
“My therapist seems to think so,” Clegg said and chuckled.
“I’m really sorry. What are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” Clegg shrugged. “Look, I don’t blame her. I haven’t been a lot of fun to be around. To be honest with you, I can’t believe we lasted as long as we did.”
People carry guilt in different ways. Mine kept me from going up an escalator. From what I gathered, Clegg could tune his out with Johnnie Walker and a few chips of ice.
“What about your kids?” I asked.
Sammy and Tate were four when I spared their father’s life. Now they were going on eight, prime years for parenting.
“It’s going to be hardest on them.”
“Is it really over? Can you salvage it?”
“Resentment is its own form of cancer, Johnny. And that’s the cold, hard truth.”
“So what happens now?”
“What happens is I move out. The kids broke down crying when I told ’em. That’s when Violet begged me to look for an apartment or small house closer to Hingham. Thinking it means she’ll agree to joint custody, but who knows. Look, I’m sorry to drag you away from Ruby to cry on your shoulder, but I needed someone to help me drown my sorrows.”
“Fellow cops don’t do the trick?” I asked.
“Divorce is as common as a cold in my precinct.”
“What are you? A glutton for punishment? I’m a married man. Wouldn’t you rather hang out with divorced guys?”
“Nah, they’d tell me that they’re happier now,” Clegg said. “That would just make me feel worse.”
“Well, it’s good to know you have feelings,” I said.
“Cut me and I still bleed,” Clegg said dramatically. “Of course, I’ll also stomp on your face and then fill your mouth with pepper spray.”
“Have I ever asked if you’re a registered loose cannon?” I said to him, smiling.
“If that registry exits,” Clegg said, “then my name is most certainly on it.”