The cold rain is exactly why I don’t stop in time and smash right into the back of a very shiny, very expensive Jaguar. The trunk crunches up into the back window like a paper bag. My fault, clearly. And I’m only two blocks from the bar.
We’re on North Avenue and we can’t exactly pull over; the few parking spaces that exist are always occupied on this street clear out to the expressway. The Jag edges over and stops in the right lane, and I stop behind it, though I’m sure we’ll be holding up traffic when the light turns green at Halsted.
The driver jumps out, holding his cell phone like a weapon.
“Sorry,” I mouth as he approaches. I root around for my insurance card, but can’t find it. If this guy’s calling 911 I’m in deep shit. With my luck Sarge will hear the call on the radio. He’ll hear me get collared for drunk driving. He’ll tell the arresting officer to fire me. Or maybe shoot me on the spot.
The guy taps on my window with his phone, and I am ready to accept full responsibility, but when I get out of the car he flips the phone shut and stands there like he’s in trouble.
“I didn’t see the light change,” he says, or something like it. I’m not really listening, because I’m looking at him, and he’s staring at my chest.
He’s staring at my star.
I straighten my uniform. “I apologize, I was in pursuit of a suspect,” I explain to the citizen. He’s out of place with sun-kissed skin, like he just returned from some South American vacation. Dark, unshaven facial hair casually frames his face. He wears overwashed jeans that are probably completely new. He even smells trendy.
I take a step back because I probably smell like a brewery.
“I really didn’t want to get the . . . uhh . . .” He smiles at me, raising his eyebrows, admittedly trying to think of a better word than cops. “The . . . you know, the authorities,” he says, snapping his fingers. “I didn’t want to get them involved.” He doesn’t have the attitude I’d expect from a Jag owner. Or somebody who could be on the cover of GQ.
“I’m not much of an authority,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.” I’m hoping my nice-cop routine will get me out of this without too much trouble.
“Thing is,” he says, “I don’t really want to call the insurance company, either. I just got this car. My premium is already more than my mortgage.” He seems almost apologetic, like he’s the one who hit me. If I was driving a new Jag and someone rear-ended me, apologies would not be necessary. Sedatives, on the other hand . . .
A car honks behind us and we’re starting to hold up traffic. I’m running out of time to get away with this.
“I have a friend who could fix this, at a body shop,” I say, more like an order than an offer. I use my smile like a sugar coating. “Of course I’ll pay for it.”
“So we can keep this between us?” he asks.
I nod shyly. Then I reach into my car, to the dashboard where there’s a little notebook with a pen stuck in the spiral.
“Let’s exchange information,” I say. “Phone numbers.”
“I’d like that.” He tilts his head and studies me as I write. He knows this was my fault. He knows I could write down a wrong number. So why is he smiling? Does he smell the alcohol on me? Is he flirting?
Another driver behind us lays on his horn, and the guy hands me his cell phone.
“Take this,” he says. “I’ll call you.”
He runs back to the Jag and takes off. I slip into my Mustang, hoping this isn’t my only stroke of luck for the day.
I make the rest of the drive to Fred’s more carefully, like anyone would who’d just rear-ended a luxury car. I’m fortunate that the guy in the Jag didn’t hate cops. Or that he liked me. Whatever.
I take Elston up to Kedzie since these streets aren’t as busy, and even if this route is a little out of the way, at least I’m sobering up. As I cut back east on Irving Park to Fred’s, I start to feel feverish; I don’t know if it’s from the alcohol or the shitty weather or the stress. I drive on, hoping my body isn’t suggesting that I turn around.
Outside Fred’s house I stand on the sidewalk in front of his bay window. Between heavy burgundy drapes, I can see officers milling about inside. I know I look bad. My hair is soaked from standing out in the drizzle after the fender bender. My makeup is wrecked from everything but crying. I look like I walked here. From Peoria.
Sarge helps an elderly couple out the front door and down Deb’s icy steps. Appropriate entrance.
MacInerny has prepared himself for me—his custodial expression doesn’t change at all between letting go of the old lady’s arm and taking mine.
“Smack. Where have you been? We sent Flanigan over to your place—”
“I was out,” I say, and as soon as he gets close enough he knows where. It takes the pleasant smile right off his face.
“Jesus. In your uniform?” he asks, without wanting to know the answer.
“I’m grieving,” I say. “I gotta talk to you.” I want to tell him my theory about Trovic’s accomplice.
“Now?” he asks, as if I’m going to say no. “Sam, are you here to pay your respects, or to cause a scene?”
“I’m here for Fred,” I say. I’ll hold off on the theory.
Sarge accepts this and escorts me inside. As he leads me through the living room, most of the guys avoid my gaze. I guess they can’t believe I showed up. I try to keep my eyes on Sarge’s back, following him as though he ordered me to. He ushers me to a corner. He’s trying to keep me out of circulation.
“When were you planning to fill me in on the case?” I whisper, since everyone else is. “Am I supposed to get debriefed by Channel Two?”
“There’s a procedure, Sam,” he tells me, “and you know it. If you want to discuss this further, you should come to the station. Now’s not the time. You should be here for Deborah. She’s a real mess.”
I see Deborah on the other side of the room flirting with Dave Blake, a cop with a rightly disgruntled ex-wife. Yeah, Deb’s a real mess. Blake’s so enthralled with her I could probably walk up and take his gun without him noticing. Whatever she’s whispering must be infinitely more interesting than anything Fred ever said to him.
“It’s brave of you to come,” Sarge says.
“It’s only brave if I’m the one responsible. Look, I don’t care what you told the press. I still want answers,” though I completely forget the questions when I see Mason and Susan across the room at the buffet table. Susan’s diamond ring sparkles as she feeds Mason a pig in a blanket.
“Sam. The investigation is not up for discussion here. Get that through your head or go out the way you came in,” MacInerny says.
I should probably take his advice about leaving, but, “No,” I say. “You’re right. We should talk about this at the station. Sorry.”
Sarge looks relieved until he turns around and sees what I see: Mason has left Susan’s side, and he’s on his way through a swinging door into the kitchen.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask, because there’s no way I can continue a conversation with Mason’s wife in my sight line.
“Samantha,” Sarge says, but I’m already making my way to the kitchen and he can’t stop me without drawing attention.
“I’m thirsty,” I say over my shoulder. I know Sarge is afraid I’m about to bother the managing investigator in my case, so I watch my time. He’s sure to be along soon.
In the kitchen, Mason is opening a beer from the fridge.
“Aren’t you working?” I ask him. He hands me the beer, like he planned it, and keeps a cool distance.
“You okay?” he asks. Asshole.
“Wonderful,” I shoot back. “Everything is great.”
He takes a soda for himself. He’s totally unaffected. How does he do that?
“Don’t make it worse, Sam,” he says.
“I want to meet her,” I say.
He laughs. He fucking laughs at me.
“You think it’s funny?” I ask, and I put my hand on the door to let him know I’ll go, I’ll tell her everything, so he changes his tone.
“Come on, Sam, what did you expect? I’m not trying to hurt you. You know who I want to be with.”
I believe him, but fuck it. “I want to meet her,” I say again.
“Fine. Introduce yourself.” He doesn’t mean it, because he’s taking a step toward me. Just as he extends his hand to me, though, Sarge comes through the swinging door.
“Sam,” Sarge says, eyeing the beer in my hand like it’s a problem.
I hand the can to Mason, and make that my exit.
In the living room, I spot Deborah moving deftly from one consoling conversation to another—and conveniently away from me. She winds up talking to a guy who’s paying less attention to her than he is to her baby grand piano. He’s wearing a real nice suit, so there’s no way he’s on the force. He sticks his head under the lid, checking out the strings and hammers like he’s some kind of expert. He must be John, the attorney from Northbrook; when Fred was talking him up one day he said John “moonlights as a keyboard player in a jazz band.” Whoopee.
I scan the room, hoping to find someone who wants to acknowledge the fact that I’m standing here. Unfortunately, Deb isn’t the only one avoiding me. All the conversation circles closed when I came back in the room. Guys who barely know one another are shoulder to shoulder. I might as well have shown up at Trovic’s family reunion. I wish I had a white flag to wave.
Even the civilians aren’t interested. A group of men who seem to know one another sit together quietly, in prayer. One of them looks at me like I’m a Protestant. Probably not a good idea to walk up and say hello. I wonder if they’re Fred’s cousins, or maybe his high school buddies. I assume they know who I am.
When every cop in the room has turned his back to me, I decide this whole thing is a bust. Why did I convince myself to come here? I’m about to make a break for the door when Susan catches my eye. Before I can decide which way to escape, she walks up and offers me her hand.
“Are you Samantha?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Shit.
“I’m Susan,” she says as she clasps my hand with both of hers, like a politician. Her hands are soft and dry and my palm is sweaty. I pull away when I feel the metal of her wedding band on the back of my hand.
There’s no denying her beauty. She is natural, her mannerisms assured, as though no one will judge her. Her eyes are bright, seeing the best in everything, and her smile is genuine, believing it. She practically fucking glows. “Mason has told me so much about you,” she says with a voice as warm as a mother’s, or a child’s. Her hair is pulled back, and when one strand falls forward with the tilt of her head, I know her locks are the true rich brunette they appear to be. Why did I ever dye my hair?
“I hear all the stories—well, you know, the ones I’m allowed to hear.” She obviously has no idea that most of the stories she’s not allowed to hear involve me without my uniform. I almost feel bad for her. I nod my head and I try to look interested as she goes on: “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. It’s a shame it has to be under these circumstances. I’m so sorry about your partner. I understand you two were very close.”
I look around, hoping for an interruption, because suddenly I don’t have anything to say. I see Blake whisper to another guy in uniform, both pairs of eyes glancing in my direction. They’re talking about me. My face feels hot.
Why does she have to be so nice? I was prepared to hate her—or at least to find some justification for sleeping with her husband.
Susan steps closer to me. She says confidentially, “I really want you to know, our hearts go out to you. We all know it was an accident. Deborah knows it—she just needs time, I think.”
Time to find another guy to push over, I think. On the other side of the room, Deborah hints at a smile as Flagherty refills her wineglass. I must be scowling, because Susan puts her hand on my arm to reclaim my attention. It reminds me of something Mason would do.
“You have a great support group here, including Mason and me,” she says. I thought she’d be vindictive like Deb. If nothing else, I thought she’d try to mark her territory.
Mason comes out of the kitchen, looking right at me. My pulse doubles. He approaches us, turns to Susan, and plants a kiss on her cheek.
“You ready to go?” he asks her.
“Only if you are.” She latches on to his arm and they stand before me.
“Nice meeting you,” she gushes, so sincerely that I think I’m even smiling while she says, “You’re more than welcome, if you need anything, you know—”
“She knows.” Mason cuts her off, letting me know he’s won the battle I didn’t mean to wage. Stunned by his nerve, I haven’t said a word.
“Take care of yourself, Sam,” Susan says. Mason takes her hand and they’re off to say good-byes. I stand there and try to recover from the blow.
I don’t know why I expected to have any allies in this place, but I didn’t expect the only considerate person to be Mason’s wife. From the buffet table across the room, Sarge catches my reaction and shakes his head, mid-carrot, disappointed. I want to slip into the periphery. Or out the window. I want out of here.
“Mason, before you go . . .” Deb says, intercepting him on his way to the front door. All the cops in the room watch Deb saunter over to Mason like they’re concerned for her welfare. What is she going to do, trip? I catch Randy Stoddard, one of the single officers, eyeing her ass as she steers Mason into the next room. Susan follows behind them without the slightest hesitation.
Two patrol guys compete for Sarge’s attention at the buffet, even though the buffet is winning. Flagherty and another cop are discreetly checking the score of the U of I game on TV. Blake and his buddy are sitting on the couch now, looking in my direction. Either they’re still talking about me, or there’s a clock above my head. I don’t need to catch wind of these conversations. Just watching them is enough to know that I’m the only one who wants to know what really happened to Fred. Everyone else just wants to fill in the spaces and move on.
I’m not surprised that when I walk out the front door no one says good-bye. No one wanted me here in the first place. Except maybe Susan, which makes about as much sense as anything else at this point.
At least I know now: I’m going to have to do this myself.
When I get to the sidewalk, I look back at the house. Fred loved that house. He bought it outright from an estate, and he worked hard to breathe life into a place where an old woman had spent her last lonely years. The summer we were partners, he spent almost all his time off remodeling, and all the rest of the time telling me about it. He put in the bay window himself, even though he had never done any carpentry. When I asked him why he didn’t just hire someone, he explained, “You can do anything as long as you follow procedure.” I think he meant it as some sort of profound advice from seasoned officer to rookie. The next time I picked him up, though, there was a gaping hole in the siding. I bugged him until he finally admitted that his math was off and it screwed up his measurements. He was so embarrassed, he begged me not to utter a word of it to the guys. I didn’t, though I did ask if this particular procedure included duct tape (since he used it to secure a plastic tarp over the hole). He said if I kept talking, duct tape would definitely come in handy.
Now, through the windows that Fred eventually installed correctly, I see Deborah and Susan fawning over Mason.
I feel like I need to grieve some more.