Fifty

“ARE you in bed?”

It was Mike Quinn’s warm voice in my ear, calling around midnight.

By now I’d fed, petted, and brushed my Java and Frothy into purring paradise, done a few chores around the apartment, dealt with another crop of Cinder Fellas (even more unsettling than the previous), and left another voice mail message for Tucker.

I was tempted to call Joy, too, but didn’t want to rush her.

Our DC coffeehouse, which featured live jazz on its second floor, was crazy-busy on Friday nights. Joy usually closed the kitchen around eleven and was free by midnight.

“I’m waiting up for Joy’s call,” I told Mike. “She wants to talk.”

“Okay to talk with me in the meantime?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Are you in bed?” he asked again, but this time his voice had gone all low and throaty, and I sensed a mischievous tone in it.

“I’m in the bedroom,” I told him, “changing into a nightshirt.”

“Can I watch?”

“That depends,” I said. “Where are you exactly?”

“In a conference room at One Police Plaza.”

“Are you alone?”

“Not if you count the dozen other senior officers from the Joint Operations Anti-Narcotics task force. But they’re very distracted, and I’m in a corner by a window.”

“Mike, I am not engaging in phone sex with you while you’re on the job!”

“Really? That’s a new rule.”

“Consider it an addendum: only when you’re totally alone. Like that stakeout you were on forever and were bored because there was absolutely no action and your fellow officers left for a meal break. But that’s it!”

He laughed. “I was missing you, sweetheart, that’s all. Can I come over tonight? I’ll just slip into bed.”

“That would be nice.” Now my voice was going all low and throaty. “Yes, I’d like that. Very much.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon . . .”

Mike signed off, and I climbed into the antique four-poster. The night had gotten colder, and the bedroom felt chilly, but I was too tired to light a fire—and, honestly, though Mike’s call was short, it succeeded in getting me sufficiently hot and bothered. As I drew the bedcovers over my legs, my furry feline roommates cuddled up.

“You can stay,” I told the pair, scratching their purring heads. “But when the big guy gets here, you better make room for him . . .”

Yet another royal fanfare sounded on my phone. I muted the Cinder alert, but kept the device on. Joy should be ringing any minute.

I couldn’t help recalling what Sergeant Jones said about the worries he had for his single daughters, out there on uncertain waters, trying to navigate their way through the “hit-it-and-quit-it” dating app culture.

More than ever now, I was glad my Joy was in a loving, committed relationship with a good man. With a yawn, I put my head on the pillow, staring at the phone on my nightstand, waiting for that special ringtone, “Always Be My Baby.”

But my daughter’s call never came.

Instead, a text alert sounded. I scanned the phone screen to find another cryptic message from her.

2 tired 2 get into this by phone.

Let’s talk tomorrow.

I collapsed against the pillows. Get into what exactly? What on earth could be wrong?

My ex-husband would say I was being ridiculous, overthinking two simple messages—but I knew my daughter.

Though I would always think of her as my baby, Joy was a tough young woman with remarkable resilience and strength. I knew because I’d suffered with her through every heartbreak, every costly mistake, including the shame of being expelled from culinary school. Thank goodness, Joy refused to let it break her. Instead, she dug deep and applied herself to a demanding apprenticeship in a Paris kitchen. First, she learned. Then she soared. Her culinary ideas even helped earn the restaurant its first Michelin star.

Now, Joy had the best kind of confidence, born of experience, and it made her bold and frank when it came to discussing any issues with me or her grandmother about our business. She was a great manager, a superb cook, and got along wonderfully with everyone in DC—which is why I doubted this “talk” was going to be about her work.

Whatever was wrong, I’d have to be patient, just like I was when Joy was a teenager, all quiet and sullen, reluctant to open up about some problem at school or fight with a friend, until I pulled it out of her.

With my mind working overtime—not just about my daughter but about my flagging business downstairs and my assistant manager going AWOL—I turned to face the wall.

Beautiful artwork hung there, part of Madame’s large collection, but it gave me no comfort tonight. The room was too dark. All I could make out were grim shadows of swaying tree limbs, crawling across the frames like the crooked arms of a looming monster . . .

Monster.

The word brought a chill that had nothing to do with the cold state of the room. It was a monster who ended Haley’s days, emptied her pockets while she lay dying, and threw her body away like trash.

I wanted to see Heart Girl again, smiling at our counter. But I never would. Not even in my memories. The only image I could dredge up was the one still on my smartphone. A corpse in the water, hair floating around her, bloodred tattoo on a cheek pale as death.

Tears rose in my eyes, and I took a breath, let it out. Mike would be here soon and I was glad. I needed to see him.

Fearing nightmares, I fought against sleep. But the day had been long and my worries weighty. Instead of keeping me awake, they pulled me down, making my eyelids heavier and heavier, until I slipped beneath a wave of black.