Island of Bones(68)
Landeta unwrapped his finger, looked at it, and wrapped it again. “You ever think how ironic that sounds? Going blind? Like it’s a good thing, like you’re going somewhere you can look forward to?”
Louis came back to sit on the edge of the sofa. “How long?” he asked.
Landeta gave a small shrug. “About ten years now. Retinitis pigmentosa is a kind disease. Your eyes commit suicide, but it takes a long time.” He unwrapped his hand to stare at his finger again. “Gives you plenty of time to...adjust.”
Louis let his eyes wander around the room. No rugs to trip over, no knickknacks to knock off tables, no shadows to get lost in, no pretty pictures on the walls. Suddenly the place didn’t look so stylish anymore. It looked like survival.
He started thinking back, his mind clicking on images of Landeta, trying to remember what the guy had done to cover up his problem. Back in the mangroves, asking all those questions about Shelly Umber’s body. Back in the office, asking him to read him the autopsy report, and at the cottage, telling him to read him the reports on the missing girls and then knocking over the glass of water.
When they had been talking at O’Sullivan’s about making your own luck, and Landeta saying something about fate taking it away. And all those questions that had seemed so arrogant: Why don't you read me the report while I clean off my desk, Kincaid? What do you see, Kincaid? What does the scene look like?
Louis felt a twinge of anger at being used. And something else, a heat moving up the back of his neck, as if it were radiating off of Landeta —- the heat of embarrassment, swirling around them both like the cigarette-stale air.
“You want to leave,” Landeta said. He nodded toward the door. “Go ahead. Get out of here.”
Louis rose. Landeta didn’t look up. Louis went into the kitchen, picked up the bottle opener and popped off the Heineken cap. He came back and sat down on the sofa and took a long pull of the beer. It was warm. He didn’t care.
“Does Horton know?” he asked.
Landeta shook his head slowly. “He called me right after the thing in Miami. I was going to tell him then. But then he offered me the job over here. Once I got here and started working again, I figured I could pull it off.”
“This why you get Strickland to drive you everywhere?”
Landeta nodded.
Louis hesitated. “This why you left Miami PD?”
Landeta sank back in the leather chair. The front of his white shirt was splattered with blood. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Louis could almost feel the man’s wariness.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about —-” Louis began.
“Nah, I should. That’s what the shrink said.” He looked at Louis. “You ever seen one?”
“A shrink?” Louis nodded. “Yeah, once. Up in Michigan after my partner got shot. Department policy, that kind of shit.”
They were quiet. Landeta put his glasses back on and leaned his head back in the chair.
“So what happened in Miami?” Louis asked.
“I was still driving some then,” he said. “I knew the way to work by heart and if we had to go out at night, I’d have my partner drive. I knew I had to stop. I couldn’t even read the signs anymore. But giving up your wheels, shit, it’s like admitting you’re an old man.”
Landeta paused. “Then one morning, I was driving into the station and the pursuit call went out. It was instinct. I took off after the guy. I never saw the kid in the other car.”
“Horton told me the kid ran a light,” Louis said.
Landeta shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.” He took a deep breath. “The kid ended up in a wheelchair and the family sued. My chief found out about the RP. He told me he’d keep it quiet if I resigned. It was almost a relief.”
The room was quiet. Outside, a siren wailed and faded. A mile from the station, an easy walk, Louis thought.
“You want another beer?” Landeta asked.
Louis shook his head.
“I said do you want another beer?”
Louis started to shake his head again then realized Landeta hadn’t seen it. “No, no, thanks,” he said.
“So how much...?” Louis faltered.
“How much can I see? I’ve got tunnel vision and what’s there is like looking through a shower stall that’s got soap scum all over it.” He held up his glasses. “The yellow lenses give me more contrast. So does having things in black and white. Like my clothes. Makes getting dressed easier.”
He gestured to the television three feet away. “If I sit right in front of it and turn the contrast and brightness buttons on high I can see some TV, but lately it makes my eyes hurt.”