| |
Fiona glanced at her smart watch, a habitual reaction when she felt cornered by unexpected happenings, and she made her exodus without acknowledging the two Queens’ detectives still working the scene. She concluded she didn’t like Sophie and elected to avoid her, while Sophie’s partner, Phil, who remained silent, was viewed more favorably.
“See you tomorrow, Gregory. If you find something new, or if you want to discuss today’s homicide, come on over. I’m taking my mother and her companion out to lunch, and then, I’ll be back in the city.” She was sure Gregory would stop by her apartment as always.
“How is Mrs. Sapiro? Please give her my regards,” Gregory stated as though to acknowledge his familiarity with Fiona’s family. She was fucked up for scrutinizing Gregory’s sincerity.
“Thanks, Gregory. She is fine. Call me or stop by.” She was full of regret for her thoughts.
Fiona entered her car and sat holding the steering wheel. She was thinking it was too early to knock at her mother’s door, although she had no doubt her mother would like to spend this time catching up and offering her suggestion that Fiona settle down and have a family. She tenuously remembered the last quarrel they’d had a year ago when she decided to separate from Jennifer, a brunette with marvelous legs and ties to the FBI. She dreamily flickered her eyelashes as if to wake herself from her daydream when a knock at her car window startled her.
“Detective, are you planning to move soon?” Sophie asked.
Fiona didn’t like her. She turned on the ignition and lowered her window, preparing to utter a smart remark when unexpectedly, Sophie rested her arms on her car door. The V of her t-shirt lowered, exposing her round, perfect breasts. Her sheer bra with lace trimmings brushed against her flawless skin and enhanced what Fiona was observing. Her breasts were perfect, and Fiona wanted to touch them.
“Detective, if you’re expecting us to work together, I need collaboration and respect. Please tend to your manners.” Sophie turned away with a speed that left Fiona breathless.
Fiona remained quiet, unable to articulate what was on her mind. She was still wedged between the perfection of Sophie’s mounds. Either she was horny—she liked what she had seen so far—or her coping mechanism was in full gear to erase the images of the dead victims that she had witnessed a few minutes ago. She decided she preferred to be lost in Sophie’s breasts.
“Goodbye, Sophie,” she said as she was unable to offer anything more intelligent.
She softly tapped on the gas as there were still people crowding the one-way street and patiently waited until it was clear for her to continue. Sophie had disappeared. She headed straight until she reached the intersection and then, she made a right turn, hoping her navigation skills would take her to her destination. She was determined not to go to her mother’s early, so she stopped at a diner for coffee, spending an hour at the bar talking to a waitress who absentmindedly ignored the rest of her customers. When she left, she had the waitress’s name and number on a napkin. How original, she thought.
She took Grand Central Parkway, leaving behind LaGuardia Airport and exiting onto Northern Boulevard. She had to go the local route today to kill more time. At noon, she rang the bell of her mother’s house. The Tudor brick style home of her childhood stood up impressively well. She had noticed that other Tudor homes were not made exclusively of bricks. Some other notable materials that were used included stucco, stones, and slate, although her old neighborhood obeyed the brick only law. She waited a few minutes before she rang again, becoming almost urgently intolerant with her mother’s delay in opening the door. She stepped back and looked up at the second floor as if that would offer her an explanation for the delay. The roof still appeared in good condition, and she appreciated the impressive, multi-gabled roof lines. Her father had told her once that these asymmetrical structures with the imposing roof lines were found in the northern part of the States where heavier winters were the norm.
“Fiona,” her mother exclaimed when she finally appeared at the door, “you’re early.”
“Sorry, Mom. I was in the neighborhood for business and finished earlier than expected.” She towered over her mother, kissing her forehead.
“No matter. Come in. Don’t stand there like a stranger.”
Fiona hesitantly followed her in, temporarily unsure how to greet her mother’s companion, then deciding at the last minute to follow protocols.
“Mr. Peters. How do you do?” She felt silly and idiotic.
“Oh, Fiona. Please use my first name.”
“How are you, Joe?” She felt much better as she kissed his cheek. Fiona had known Mr. Peters for a long time; he had always been around. He was her mother’s best friend, a fellow teacher, and they shared a passion for travel. Of course, they became lovers long after her father’s passing. Fiona was always uneasy when she met them, yet she tried to appear relaxed. The thought that they might have been involved before her father’s death had crossed her mind more than once. She wanted to ask her mother. She thought she had the courage. Once, she had articulated the words, but they became a mass of incoherent statements, which produced a bemused expression on her mother’s face, so she stopped trying to uncover the possibilities and just accepted her mother’s relationship. One day, she assured herself, she would ask, if she could ever find the balls and the courage.
“Are you ready?” she asked her mother, looking toward the entrance door. She was not in the mood to converse about her life, and she knew sooner or later her mother would bring the subject up for discussion as she skillfully attempted to intervene in her daughter’s personal affairs.
“Not yet, dear,” she answered, and Fiona knew she was going to have a long day.