Watch Your Back

BEFORE I LEFT WILMA’S, I CHECKED WITH HER NEIGHBORS, THOSE who were home anyway, and they hadn’t noticed anyone suspicious hanging around, so I don’t have much to go on. Back at the station, I work at my desk until my shoulders start to ache.

It’s getting late. I walk through the squad room on my way back from the vending machine and notice that Chase is still here. He sits at his desk in his cubicle, working on his laptop. Pictures of his wife and their little boy are pinned to the gray fabric walls. Detective Chase Fuller and I have been partners for a couple years now and, despite the age difference, have become a pretty good team. He leans back in his chair. His short dark hair and his baby face make him look even younger than his thirty-something years.

“What’re you still doing here?” I ask.

“Sara and Charlie are at her parents’ house tonight, so I figured I’d catch up.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But I’m heading home in a couple minutes.”

“Yeah. Me too. You hear anything about the prints from the Parnell case?”

“Nothing in the system.”

“Probably an amateur then. Ms. Parnell thought maybe a homeless person. Or could be teenagers making mischief.”

“What’s next, Rita?”

“Well, we don’t have a whole lot going on around here, thank God. Let’s have a cruiser make a point of passing through the neighborhood the next few days. See if they see anyone hanging around that might be up to no good. And I’ll keep in touch with Ms. Parnell, make sure nothing else has disappeared.”

“You want me to call Roy’s?” Roy owns the closest pawn shop to Graybridge.

“Yeah. Do that. There’s a description of the stolen items in the report.”

My office is ice cold. It was hotter than hell this morning. Seems the ancient HVAC system has revolted. Too hot, hey? I’ll show you! I’m sitting, tidying my desk, getting things ready for the morning when my cell phone rings. My brother’s name pops up on the screen.

“Hey,” I say while searching my desk drawer for a candy bar that I’m sure I stashed in there recently. The vending machine choices had been subpar.

“Hi Rita. What are you up to?”

“Working. I don’t get a gazillion days off like you academic snobs.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Right. Listen, what are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

“Isn’t that a line from a song?”

“Maybe. I’m having a little get-together at my place and wondered if you wanted to join us.”

I was looking forward to relaxing at home, watching old movies, and eating junk food.

“You could bring Joe,” he adds.

“He’s out of town on assignment.”

“Well, come anyway.”

“Who’s going to be there?”

He sighs. “Charlotte and her boyfriend.” His daughter, who I’m close to. “And some people from work.”

The sound of his voice more than anything has me relenting. Danny and I are close, the closest of all the McMahon siblings. And I can tell he’s going through a rough patch. He is currently between girlfriends and that always leaves him adrift with too much time on his hands, which has him spending too much time in the past. A past where all nine of us were alive and relatively happy. We didn’t have much growing up in Boston, but neither did anyone else in our predominately working-class Irish neighborhood. But we were happy enough.

“All right. What time?”

He gives me the details and tells me not to worry about bringing anything. His mood, I can tell by his voice again, has improved, and that is enough for me.

It’s dark and cold, typical New England December weather, when I pull up my van at the curb in front of my building. My first-floor apartment is cold, too, and I turn up the thermostat even before I turn the lights on. It’s a small one bedroom but it’s enough for me. I rub my hands together trying to thaw them out as I walk over to my ancient stereo. I flip through my vinyl collection, select an old Elton John album, one of my favorites. I sigh as I place it on the turntable and drop the needle. I drink in the heavenly music that emanates from the speakers as I pour myself a glass of red. Wonder what’s in the fridge that will suffice for dinner?

Right on cue, there’s a knock on my door. Collin, my upstairs neighbor.

“Hey, Rita. You’re home late. I thought things were slow at work.”

“Come on in,” I say, and step aside. “Yeah. They are. Just slow getting myself together tonight.”

He’s carrying a covered casserole dish. God bless him.

“I brought you beef stroganoff from the café. I made too much. It didn’t go over as well as I’d hoped.” He arches a dark eyebrow, purses his lips.

“I’m sure it’s delicious.”

“It really did turn out terrific. Just a quiet day at the shop all around, I guess. The cold weather must be keeping everyone at home.”

Collin and I sit in my small living room. We’ve become good friends in the years he and his partner, André, have lived in the apartment above mine. Their café and catering business keeps them hopping. Between that and my schedule, we don’t see each other that often, but Collin always looks in on me, brings me food. His family is all in Florida, and I’ve become something of an honorary aunt for him, which suits me. He’s a good neighbor and a good friend.

We catch up. Gossip about the other people in our building, have a few laughs at their expense, nothing mean-spirited. Collin is too nice for that. He finishes his wine and heads back upstairs.

I flip the album over, then microwave the stroganoff and eat it standing at the counter. It’s so good. I refill my glass and collapse back on the couch. I pull my satchel over and dig out my notebook. Flip through the pages. It’s a little bigger than your typical detective notebook. I need room for my sketches. All my life I’ve drawn pictures. They help me think, organize my thoughts. While talking to Wilma, I’d sketched the first-floor layout of her house, and I think about that now. Would a homeless person have taken the toolbox and the crowbar? Seems like there might’ve been something smaller, more valuable to lift. But who knows? I set my notebook aside, sip my wine, close my eyes, and listen to the music.