When I wake up, Mason is gone. My head still hurts despite the fact that I went to sleep sober. Sober, but crooked. My arm is asleep, and I can hardly feel my fingers when I try to touch my head. I can definitely feel my head, though, sore from the stitches. I don’t want to know how I must look.
The sun is peeking through my curtains for the first time in days, encouraging me to get up and get going, but I am content to stay in bed for a while to savor the warmth of my covers. For once I think I can let go of the reins and let Mason handle things.
He was right to point out that I keep mixing up my feelings about his marriage and my case. He’s so close to both, I guess all my insecurities have come to the surface.
The truth is, I don’t want him to think I’m weak. That’s why I let him go back to Susan the first time; that’s why I kept him at a safe distance when he came back. I’ll never let anyone think they can hurt me just because they say they love me. That’s what relatives are for. And I’m not going to let Mason believe that my existence depends on him, either. I was all right before we met, and I will move on, somehow, if I have to.
Since Fred’s death, though, I’ve come to regret that I’ve guarded my feelings. At work, we learn to put emotion aside. That’s why most offenders we collar don’t like us: They think we don’t care. I did the same thing to Fred. I kept emotion out of it, best I could, anyway. But outside of work, it’s called pride. And outside of work, I was just a hurt friend.
I should have cleared the air with Fred when I had the chance, but I wouldn’t let my guard down. I don’t want to make the same mistake with Mason. I don’t want to pretend I’m unaffected. I am heartbroken about Fred. I am in love with Mason. Pride doesn’t do me any good.
The night Fred died, Mason and I had a date. The way he’d been talking, I had a feeling he had big news. I thought he was going to tell me he’d served divorce papers to Susan. Truthfully, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared to let down my guard. I wasn’t prepared to take the risk.
Now, I don’t have a choice.
The next time I wake up it’s to the tune of “Little Red Corvette.” I roll out of bed and find the cell phone in my bag.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Sam, is this a better time?”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost five-thirty.”
I can’t believe I slept the whole day. My body must be in recovery mode.
“You busy tomorrow night?” the guy with the Jag asks.
I don’t know what to say.
“I’m asking,” he answers my silent question, “because I was hoping I could get the number for that body shop.”
“I can give it to you now,” I say, because that doesn’t make sense.
“I was also hoping we could settle this. Over dinner.”
Uh-huh. Dinner.
“I should tell you,” I say, “I’m seeing someone.”
“I should tell you,” he says back, “he’s not invited.”
Okay, then. How do I respond to that?
“What if I put it this way?” he answers the silence again. “You wrecked my car. You owe me. I’m willing to negotiate, but there are terms.”
“Besides dinner?”
“Starting with dinner.”
“I’ll check my schedule,” I say. “Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Have a good night.”
He hangs up before I remember to ask his name. I stick his phone in my bag and decide to deal with him when he calls back.
The clock on the coffeemaker reads five forty-five. It’s getting dark outside. I’m starving, so I start a pot of coffee and root through the fridge for something to eat. Mustard, soy sauce, Hershey’s syrup; two Budweisers left in a six-pack. All the ingredients for takeout. I go through some menus; then I order egg rolls and a bacon-and-pineapple pizza from Ming Choy’s.
“Won awaa,” Ming or Choy says.
I have coffee and a smoke and then I hop in the shower.
I shave my legs and under my arms. I use a loofah to wash my wintered skin. I can’t shampoo my hair yet, because of the stitches, but the steam helps. I come out smelling like star fruit, or what the bottle claims star fruit smells like. I feel clean.
I put on cotton bikini underwear and a bra and a pair of jeans. I pull my hair back to cover the stitches. They don’t look so bad anymore, and my head feels better, clearer. I put on mascara and moisturizer, my favorite evergreen cable-knit sweater and some thick socks. I am doing just fine, I think.
I can’t deny that I’m a little excited about having some hot-looking guy after me. Not that I’ll do anything about it, or that I’m even remotely interested. I think what excites me is the possibility of making Mason jealous. It’s not a competition, really; it’s more like a reminder. Fred used to call it “keeping a guy in the bullpen.”
I love Mason, but I’ll lose my bullpen when Mason loses his wife.
On my way out of the building I notice an unmarked car across the street. Mason was right: Alex O’Connor is watching me. He must have absolutely nothing better to do. It doesn’t appear he’s going to follow me, but I cut through a few alleys on my way to State Street just to make sure.
I make pretty good time walking down State, maybe because I’d stored up energy sleeping all day, mostly because I don’t like anyone keeping tabs on me.
I get my food and cab it back to my place. I can smell the bacon and the pizza dough and it takes all my manners to keep from devouring an egg roll right in the cab.
When I get back and O’Connor is still sitting in his car, I tip the cabbie, cross the street, and open O’Connor’s passenger door, pizza in hand.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Nice place,” he says.
“What did you expect, HUD?”
“How do you make that rent, on a cop’s salary?”
“I baby-sit on my days off,” I tell him. Why did I come over here? My stomach rumbles in protest.
“Your luxury condo, is it part of some beneficial relationship?” O’Connor asks, sounding like a john asking for a date.
“If you call having a dead grandmother beneficial,” I say. So Grama had some cash tucked away in her West Side two-flat, and I got it all because my brother never turned up. Doesn’t matter how I got it; it’s none of O’Connor’s business.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick a place closer to the north side,” he says. By his tone I think he’s working his way toward some assumption about Mason, but I’m already playing enough guessing games, so I say—
“Look, I’m starved. What do you want?”
“Close the door,” he says, gesturing for me to get inside the car. “It’s cold.”
I close the door all right, and head for my building. The heat from the pizza box warms my hands and I can’t wait to dig in.
O’Connor gets out of his car and follows me across the street.
“Wait,” he says. “We can help each other.”
“You’re right,” I say and his ears perk up. Then I say, “It is cold.”
“Tell me what happened,” he says insistently. “You weren’t supposed to work the night Maloney died. Why did you go in for William Wade?” He attempts to get in front of me, as if that’ll get me to talk.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, I know my rights.” I keep walking, even though he’s guarding me like we’re shooting hoops.
“There are some holes in the report,” he says, “and I’m looking into it. I’m helping you.”
“So you’re sitting outside my building?”
“I’m learning a lot of interesting things sitting outside your building.”
“You must not get out much.”
“Suppose I hang around the station instead. Start listening to the rumor mill. Start picking up bits and pieces of conversations about the night of Maloney’s death. About your relationship with him.” He slows down the word relationship just enough to piss me off.
“Jesus, you sound like his wife. I was never in love with Fred; I was in line with him. If you’d spent a day on the street you’d understand that.”
“How about your attitude, then? Your negligence?”
“I wasn’t negligent,” I stop him. “It was an accident.”
“Oh. Right. But will the gossip spread in your favor? Or will people wonder, will your next partner want to ask you how it’s possible to accidentally kill someone who’s wearing a vest? Maybe not. Maybe no one will talk about this. Maybe the case’ll be dropped before anyone raises an eyebrow.”
I don’t want to let him think he’s a step ahead, but maybe he is. Time to go.
“Let them talk,” I say as I get to the entrance of my building. Omar holds the door for me as O’Connor calls out,
“It’s easier to tune out, isn’t it? Like you don’t care. You think if you keep your mouth shut you won’t get hurt. Did that do you any good with your father?”
He didn’t need to say that. I turn around and glare at him.
“I read your file,” he says.
“Then you know I have a line that should not be crossed. See it?” I draw an imaginary line on the ground that runs between us. I want to whip the pizza at his head.
“You want to know what happened to Fred or not?” he asks.
“I know what happened to Fred,” I tell him.
“Then you know why no one’s listening to you.”
“You included.” I turn to leave again, with Omar still holding the door.
O’Connor says, “I believe someone else was there, Samantha. I believe someone else killed Fred Maloney, and I think you know who it was.”
I pause. I know O’Connor is looking for a reaction, but what do I say? Jump on board, let’s get Trovic!? I wish I could be as straight-faced as Omar.
“If we don’t help each other, your case will be closed, and someone is going to get away with murder,” O’Connor says.
“I don’t want your help.” Without turning around, I go inside. Omar closes the door behind me and I pray O’Connor does not pursue me. I cannot continue this discussion. I am a cop, not a traitor.
I open the fridge and trade dinner for one of those Budweisers. I’m too riled up to enjoy the food. I smoke one cigarette after another and try to calm down.
O’Connor thinks I know who shot Fred. Of course I do. But why bait me?
He had a lot of nerve bringing my dad into this. Let the records show, I should have said, I did not knowingly participate in a crime. I had no idea my own father was using me.
The police report should have said something like this: After four years without so much as a postcard, my dad showed up at my door like he’d just been out for cigarettes. For the first time in my life, I knew exactly how my mom felt.
I gave him five minutes to explain. In two, he had me convinced. He had changed, and he was coming back to his family; and that meant me. It also meant my brother, and my dad’s second wife Linda, and their kids. He didn’t ask me to trust him; for once, he didn’t ask me for anything. He gave me a hug and the keys to a new Mustang, and the next thing I knew, I was invited for Sunday dinner with the family. I knew the car was his attempt at an apology; I didn’t know he used someone else’s money to buy it. I had no idea how sorry I’d be for taking it.
I had the car less than a week before she showed up: Helen Harper, my reluctant benefactor. She came to my condo with the PI who’d tracked the Mustang. They were out-of-towners, I guessed Georgia from her Southern drawl. The detective was a hillbilly in a tie, and he didn’t like me at all. He acted like my dad and I plotted to take down the Ford Motor Company instead of one measly Mustang.
My dad always had a way with women. Helen was no different. She was sadly beautiful, with the spent features of an aging starlet. She had money, but the self-bought collection of jewels that sparkled on her fingers meant as much to her as the boxes they came in. She wanted more: She wanted my dad.
Did I know where my father was? Yes. Would it do me any good to tell them? I didn’t think so. Helen wanted my dad; so did I. So I lied. I told them he’d skipped town.
Helen’s warmth turned to fire. She threatened to involve the “aathoratees.” I offered to give her the Mustang, but the PI said I’d need a whole lotful of cars to make up for what my dad took from Helen. I didn’t know if he meant that literally. I played dumb anyway, thinking another conversation with my dad would clear this up. If he’d extorted money from her, he’d pay her back, right?
I showed up for Sunday dinner early that week, but there wasn’t one. Linda had those tired tears in her eyes, just like my mom, and I knew once again my dad had disappeared.
He was gone, and according to the aathoratees, he took about a half million bucks with him. He left Linda with a diamond ring she had to give back. I have a feeling there was some cash she didn’t mention.
I never heard from my dad again. Evidently Helen Harper didn’t either, because she forwarded the car payments to me. An attorney in Nashville contacted Linda when my dad died. He’d been living with a girlfriend, and she didn’t know where to bury him. That was nearly three years ago.
I finally paid off the car last July.
I force myself to eat an egg roll and I’m washing it down with the last Bud when the phone rings. I know it’s Mason. I reach for it.
“Sam, baby . . . what’s up?”
I want to tell him. But I don’t.
“Just got something to eat.”
“How ya feeling?”
I want to tell him. I won’t.
“Better,” I say. “I slept.”
“Good. Look. I ran into a little roadblock. Don’t freak out. Jackowski assigned me to another case.”
Son of a bitch. O’Connor was right.
“They closed my case?”
“Not exactly. But just like I thought, Captain Jack is pressing us to let it go. He said IA was talking negligence and he wanted it shut, classified an accident, before it got to the superintendent’s office.”
I wonder if anyone knows O’Connor thinks otherwise. I can’t tell Mason.
“I’m not giving up on this, Sam,” Mason says. “I’ve still got that lead at the state’s office. I’m going to stay on tonight, see if anything turns up in our favor, but I’m headed to another homicide. Some high-profile Czech nationalist. I’ve got a few fires to put out before I can get back to this.”
“What about Trovic?” I ask.
“I was all over town tonight and I couldn’t get any leads. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Be patient, baby. Get some sleep, and I’ll be in touch again as soon as I can.”
Sleep. After all this.
“I gotta go. I love you.”
It is hard for me to tell him I love him, too. But I manage.
As soon as we hang up I pour myself a stiff drink and make a call of my own.
“Four-one-one; city, please.”
If I’m going to get to the bottom of this, it looks like I have to find Trovic myself.
“Chicago, Illinois. Last name Trovic. T-r-o-v-i-c. And I need the address.” It’s the first place I’m going in the morning.