Chapter Twenty-nine

Monday, October 23, 5:35 p.m.

Free had bought a thirteen-inch TV for the living room, and she and Lydia were watching NBC Nightly News when she began to feel the baby kick in earnest. Free pressed her hand against the spot, feeling it both from the inside and the outside. She pulled up her shirt and tugged down the waistband of her pants, and then she saw it, the skin rippling up for a minute and then going back into place. Feeling a mixture of delight, amazement and fear, she began to laugh. Lexi looked over at her with a shocked expression, and Free realized she had laughed at the exact same moment as Tom Brokaw was describing how a man had shot his wife, son and new- born daughter.

“I can see the baby kicking,” Free explained. “Look – look right here.” She pointed at a spot a few inches below her ribs.

“Are you supposed to be able to see it?” Lexi looked like she thought they should call Peggy to make sure something wasn’t terribly wrong.

“I guess so. I never thought about it before.”

The phone rang, cutting off whatever Lexi had been about to say. She answered it, her tone already combative. Her soon-to-be ex-husband had taken to calling every night, each time with a new demand. Gene wanted Lexi to keep him on her dental plan. Gene wanted to dig up the flowering quince in the backyard. Gene was hoping to drop by to pick up the silverware, which he was now sure had been a wedding present from his side of the family. Each time she hung up, Lexi would calm herself with a cigarette in the back yard while Free listened to her rant.

But tonight, rather than launching into another rebuttal, Lexi just said, “Yes, she is. Just a minute,” and handed the phone to Free. “It’s for you.”

“Hello?”

“Lydia? Lydia Watkins?” A man’s voice, low. Free felt a spurt of fear. Who thought that Lydia Watkins lived here? Had someone tracked her down, thinking she was the real Lydia?

“This is, um, this is Lydia.”

“This is Sergeant Craig Cole. You know, from the hit-and-run on Friday?”

“Oh, hi!” Free told herself that the emotion that arced through her body was relief.

“One of the reasons I called was to see how things are going for you. Are you and the baby still doing okay?”

“We’re both doing fine.” It felt weird to talk about herself in the plural. “I have a bruise the size of a softball near my hipbone, so I guess I know for sure where I hit myself when I fell. But other than that I’m okay.”

“Good. I’m really glad to hear that.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone sounded clipped and official. “The other reason I was calling is that I need to follow up on Friday’s accident. We haven’t been able to locate the driver who fled the scene. I need to get a better description of the vehicle, as well as a detailed account of exactly what happened. As far as we can determine, you are the only witness who saw the whole thing from the beginning. Would you be able to come in tomorrow?”

She hesitated, but what else could she say? “Sure, I guess so.” Free didn’t really want to be in a place where she would be surrounded by cops, but she couldn’t think of a good excuse. And refusing to cooperate might draw more attention than simply going in, providing the little information she remembered, and leaving. They arranged to meet at eleven o’clock at Central Precinct, which turned out to be only a few blocks from the scene of the accident.

When Free put down the phone, Lexi said, “What are you so happy about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that cat-that-ate-the-canary look.”

“No, I don’t. It was only that cop who took me to the hospital on Friday. He’s just a nice guy, that’s all.”

“Mmm hmm.” Lexi looked back down at her paper.

#

As she got ready to go to the police station, Free washed her face and began to apply makeup, trying to emulate the expert application of the saleswoman who had sold her $149 worth of cosmetics at Nordstrom two days ago. Slowly, Free was learning not to start when she caught sight of her own reflection in a shop window, complete with hair and brightly colored lips.

Pausing on Lexi’s top step, Free took a deep breath. It was a perfect fall day. The snap in the air belied the patches of bright blue sky. A couple of days before, she had bought a pregnancy tape at Baby Togs, and now she pressed the play button on her Walkman. One of her legs felt numb and the other achy. The pregnancy tape described this as “ligament discomfort.” The narrator was a man with a cheerful, overly articulate voice. Free imagined that if it had been him feeling it, he wouldn’t have labeled it anything so half-hearted as “discomfort.” The tape came to an end, then switched to side two. This side was narrated by a woman. “Most women have very few problems in pregnancy,” she crooned, “but in the last three months it's not unusual to have heartburn, constipation, sleeping problems, nose bleeds, varicose veins, headaches, abdominal pain and swelling of the feet and ankles.” Free guessed this was the same woman they hired to do voiceovers in pharmaceutical commercials, the one who was able to say things like, “Side effects may include fainting, nausea, vomiting and kidney problems,” and make them all sound desirable. Free switched off the tape and stuck the headphones in her purse.

As she walked through downtown, a breeze scudded red and orange maple leaves ahead of her. People with briefcases marched along talking on their cell phones, seemingly oblivious to the beauty around them. Despite the faint ache in her legs, Free walked briskly, swinging her arms, feeling light on her feet despite her belly. On such a day, she told herself, it was only natural to feel full of energy, completely alive and aware.

Everywhere downtown were reminders that there was only one more week until Halloween. The store windows showed masks, costumes, strings of pumpkin lights and gauzy fake cobwebs. Even the clothing stores had managed to work Indian corn, scarecrows and hay bales into their displays. Free was reminded of her dad with a longing so painful it made her throat close. Bob loved Halloween, with its pagan roots. Every year he made elaborate paper mache masks for himself and Diane. More often than not, they had left Free and Moon to deal with the traditional trick or treaters, while they went off to an adult party that usually featured Wiccans, Druids and a strange mix of pagan rituals and modern drugs. Last year, Bob and Diane hadn’t made it home until dawn because they accidentally took Quaaludes thinking they were speed and ended up falling asleep on someone’s couch. “Never,” Free had scolded them, “never take anything unless you are absolutely sure of what it is.”

As she waited on the corner across from the central precinct for the light to change, Free wiped her hands on her jacket in case they were sweaty. In the parking lot next to her, a dark-skinned man was bustling around a permanently parked white catering van with a sign reading India Tandoori Oven. The front seats of the van were stacked to the ceiling with boxes holding plastic utensils and paper plates. On the side, a tiny metal awning sheltered three green plastic lawn chairs.

Central Precinct’s lobby was a circular soaring space, empty except for a green granite directory. The floor was laid out alternating squares of pink and white marble, set on the diagonal. On both sides of the room, a set of stairs curved upward in perfect symmetry, flanked by shining silver handrails. The stairs looked like they belonged in some movie from the Thirties, like a matched set of chorus girls dressed in feathers should come marching down either side. Instead, the stairs were empty. Blue-uniformed cops walked quickly past Free, their steps echoing. Posted on the wall was a warning that visitors had to check in at the front desk. She found it in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway tucked behind the lobby. Behind a thick sheet of Plexiglas, three clerks waited. Free leaned close to one of the round silver grills. Next to her, a Hispanic man pressed a torn scrap of paper against the glass and said, “I need to talk to this guy.”

“I have an appointment to see Craig Cole,” Free said.

After checking a list, the woman slid over a pen and a red and white badge that said Visitor with a line underneath. After a second’s hesitation, Free filled in Lydia’s name.

The microphone buzzed and snapped when the clerk spoke. “Go to the end of the hall and wait by the door.”

The door opened and Craig stepped out with a smile, his hand outstretched. She had been expecting him to be dressed in a blue uniform, like the other cops, but he wore a black long-sleeved polo shirt and black dress slacks. The long stretch of a single color made him look formal, reserved and in control. A few dark hairs curled over the edge of the white T-shirt he wore underneath the polo shirt. Free scolded herself for noticing, then wondered what he saw when he looked at her. A matronly blob? A silly girl who fainted over the sight of transmission fluid?

“I really appreciate your coming down.” Craig’s hand was warm and dry, his grip firm.

“It’s no problem. Besides, it gives me another chance to thank you for taking me to the hospital, and making sure I was all right.” Free found herself flushing as she thought about just how much of her he had seen, which was kind of silly. In her family, everyone had showered together in order to conserve water. This had included any overnight guests.

“I’m just glad everything turned out okay.” He turned all business. “Let’s go back to my office.” He walked ahead of her with an easy stride, nodding or saying hello to the half-dozen people they passed. It was clear Craig was on his own turf. After leading her through a rat’s nest of cubicles, he finally stopping at one that held a desk and two cheap-looking office chairs with orange upholstery. He took the one nearest the desk, and she took the other. Free looked around his cubicle with interest. In contrast to many of the desks they had passed, Craig’s was neat. Instead of blizzards of paper, there were orderly piles. Instead of walls covered by pushpinned photos of what she supposed were perps and victims, children and wives, he had a singled framed reproduction of an old painting, a portrait of a young woman. Wearing a dangling pearl earring, she looked at the viewer with wide blue eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” Free said, nodding at the painting.

“What? Oh, the Vermeer? It’s called Girl with a Pearl Earring. I was lucky enough to be back in D.C. for a conference in 1992 when they had the big Vermeer show at the National Gallery.” Craig took the top file folder off his desk and opened it, then picked up a pen. “Okay, I was wondering if you could tell me more about this truck that took off. The driver of the Camaro has turned out not to be too good with details. He’s still in shock about what happened to his quote-unquote classic car.”

Free closed her eyes. She saw the scene unfolding in front of her. “Well, the truck was definitely a Dodge. I remember staring at the name stamped on the tailgate after it passed me. A red Dodge. New, I think, or fairly new. And it was one of those oversized trucks - what do they call them - three-quarter ton?”

Craig made a note without answering her half-question. His fingers were long and slender, with nails so short she wondered if he bit them. “What shade of red was the pick-up? Dark? Light?”

“Bright red. I guess I would say blood red, only it’s kind of embarrassing to say the word blood after that fainting spell.”

“I’ve seen civilians make that mistake about transmission fluid before. And didn’t you say something about having been in a bad collision before?”

Free had planned all the lies she would tell, and she offered him one now that served the dual purpose of answering the question of where the father of her child was. “My husband was killed in a car crash a few months ago, before we even knew I was pregnant.”

Craig’s eyes widened in sympathy, and Free couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. “I’m so sorry. Were you with him?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t hurt.” She straightened up, trying to indicate that she didn’t want to talk about it any more.

He went on to ask her about whether the pickup had had any bumper or window stickers (none that she could remember) or whether she recalled anything about the license plate (only that it had been the ubiquitous white Oregon plate, the one with a green tree in the middle). Her description of the driver felt equally useless to her – a guy in his early twenties, with short blond hair. It became clear that Craig was just going through the formalities as he brought the interview to an end.

“I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention,” Free said. To her intense embarrassment, her stomach sent out a loud rumble.

Craig’s mouth quirked into a smile. “It’s sounds like I’m keeping you.”

“No, no, that’s okay. There’s no place I have to be.”

“That’s good, because I’d like to take you to lunch to thank you for all your help.”

Free felt herself color even more. “Oh, no, really, that’s okay.”

“I insist. And I’ll warn you, you don’t want to argue with me.”

“That’s really not necessary. Thank you all the same.”

“I told you, I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Could Craig be interested in her? Free’s belly loomed in her peripheral vision. There was no way this straight arrow cop would hit on a widow with a belly out to there. He probably felt sorry for her. She didn’t say yes, but she stopped saying no.

Taking a dark-colored zippered jacket off the back of his chair, Craig slipped it on. On their way back through the main lobby, they walked underneath a hand-carved wooden eagle, six-foot wings outstretched in flight, that was mounted above the door. She had expected that they would go to a nearby restaurant, but instead Craig headed right for the India Tandoori Oven catering van she had passed an hour ago as the owner was setting up. Now he was efficiently dealing with a long line of customers, many of them cops. Most nodded at Craig, or said hello, and all of them seemed to be looking at her with curiosity. Mentally, Free kicked herself again for not having wiggled out of his unexpected offer.

As line inched forward, Free started to fumble with Lydia’s purse.

“My treat,” Craig said “What do you want? The mutter paneer is good.”

“What’s that?” Only a few of the items listed on the white board menu sounded familiar, but the air was filled with the savory smell of seared meat and unfamiliar spices.

“Fresh green peas with cheese and spices. The vegetable korma is good, too – that’s assorted green vegetables with raisins and cashews. I’m going to have the Goa lamb curry.”

Lamb. Free had eaten meat on the sly when she was away from home, particularly chicken McNuggets from the McDonalds next to the Petorium, and now Lexi was introducing her to exotic meats like pancetta or basil chicken sausage. But to Free, lamb still meant little lambs gamboling in the fields. Her parents philosophy had always been not to eat anything with a face.

As far as Free was concerned, though, chickens didn’t count. When Free was growing up, she had been in charge of feeding the chickens and gathering their eggs. They were stupid, nervous birds that pecked her bare feet and insisted on laying eggs in places even they forgot about. “I think I’ll have the tandoori chicken.” Feeling adventurous, she added, “And a can of guava nectar.

After getting their order, Craig said, “Come on. Let’s go sit by the river.” They walked a couple of blocks and then waited at Naito Parkway for the light to change. When it did, he took her arm protectively, swiveling his head to make sure people turning left didn’t run into them. “You wouldn’t believe how many pedestrians have been killed on this street. People think they can jaywalk, but they don’t realize that some of these cars have just gotten off the freeway and are still going fifty miles an hour.

After crossing the street, they faced a long swath of green, as wide as a city block, that bordered the river as far as she could see. “Oh, this is beautiful,” Free said in surprise. There was something about the stretch of open space that she found immediately calming. Now that she knew about it, she would walk over here more often. Free would be glad when she could saunter through the city like a native, know the names of the neighborhoods, identify the mountains, anticipate the weather.

“You haven’t been down here before?”

“I just moved from Pendleton about two months ago.” Following him past the fountain, Free pushed the date back so that there would be no way he would connect her with the chain-reaction accident.

“You know, you don’t live that far from me. I just live in the John’s Landing area – it’s less than a mile from your house. There’s a nice park along the Willamette River down there, too. You should check it out. This is Waterfront Park. And there are events here nearly all year – Cinco de Mayo, a big carnival for Rose Festival, the Bite. My favorite is the Waterfront Blues Festival over the Fourth of July. People spread their blankets out on the grass and listen to blues and picnic all day, then watch the fireworks at night.“ As he spoke, Craig sat down on a bench facing the fountain and perpendicular to the river and began to spread out the food.

Free sat and turned to face the river. She hadn’t realized how tense she was until her breath let itself out as a sigh loud enough that Craig looked up and smiled. The jumbled buildings of downtown were to her back, a stretch of green to her left, and the fountain to her right. Directly in front of her was the river, bordered by an ornate metal fence.

“You can see why they sometimes call Portland Bridge City,” Craig said. Free saw what he meant. There were two bridges upriver from them and two down, each cutting the cloudy sky into a different and pleasing pattern of arches and curves. The other side of the river looked a lot less pleasant, mostly windowless industrial buildings surrounded by the loops of exits and overpasses. The steady traffic was far enough away that it looked like toys, and Free was reminded of her one plane ride with her sister, when they had looked down at the tiny cars.

Craig turned and pointed behind him at the fence that bordered the river. “During the 1996 floods, the water rose so high that they thought downtown was going to be flooded. The mayor asked for volunteers, and hundreds of them came down and bolted plywood along that seawall, hoping to stop it.”

“Did it work?”

“We never found out. The river ended up cresting about a foot below, so we got lucky.”

They began to eat, and Free found that she liked everything. With both of their mouths full, neither of them attempted conversation for a few moments.

Free pretended to watch the passersby, while stealing glances at Craig. He seemed like the All-American guy, the kind who still had a baseball glove and could lope quickly around the bases, the kind who held the door for little old ladies and coached his kid’s soccer team on weekends. The kind of guy who never talked to her in high school, the kind she had lusted after from afar. But those kind of guys dated the cheerleaders, or very occasionally one of the quiet, smart girls. Those kind of guys had never really looked at her, never seen past the buzz cut and the nose ring. She wondered what Craig would see if she took off her wig, twisted a silver ring back into her nose. Would he look at her the same way he was now? Every time their glances met, she imagined she felt a little hum of interest coming from him. And she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have a wedding ring, although that didn’t mean anything.

She found herself thinking of her parents again. They would be horrified to see her sitting companionably with a cop. Cops were jack-booted thugs on power trips. They hauled you in for smoking pot, which everyone knew was harmless, and they weren’t above planting hard drugs in your pocket to make for a better arrest. The fuzz tapped your phones, stole your mail, infiltrated your meetings and beat you up when they arrested you. So why did she feel so comfortable with Craig? It must be, she decided, that she was no longer so much Free Meeker, but more Lydia Watkins, a woman who had probably always trusted the cops.

“Were you a jock in high school?” Free spoke around a mouthful of chewy naan bread after a middle-aged jogger huffed past them, she and Craig sharing a repulsed smile at how his mesh T-shirt had showed off his pot belly and hairy back.

“Hmm - not really. I ran track, but that was about it.”

“You just remind me of the guys who were on the baseball team.”

“What do you mean?”

Unable to put it into words, Free smiled, shrugged and used the last bit of bread to mop up the final teaspoon of sauce. It was something about Craig’s tanned face, or the way he walked, with a bounce in his step as if he was always ready to steal a base or leap for a fly ball, or the way his green eyes continually seemed to be scanning the distance.

“Why did you move to Portland?” Craig said.

Free found an answer that was true, word to word, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “I couldn’t keep living where I had been. Too many memories.”

“It must get lonely being in a strange city, though. Isn’t it hard, not knowing anyone?”

“I’m meeting people. I mean, I have my roommate, Lexi, that woman who answered the phone. And I see my doctor once a week. I probably talk to people too much in the grocery store.” Not wanting him to ask her any more questions, she turned the tables. “So, why did you become a cop?”

“You know, to be the good guy. The guy in the white hat. The guy with the big ‘S’ on his chest. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be that guy.” Craig seemed to be laughing at himself, but Free thought he couldn’t hide that part of him still believed in what he was saying. “And the guy who lived next door was a cop. He was the best. My dad wasn’t around much when I was growing up, so in a lot of ways he was like my dad.”

“Do you work with him now? Or is he retired?”

He pressed his lips together and she guessed the answer before he spoke. “About five years ago, he was killed by a runaway kid with a stolen gun.”

“I’m sorry.” Free changed to a lighter subject. “So is this what you do all day? Interview people about traffic accidents?”

Craig looked down at take-out container, then back up at her. “Actually, it’s not. I have a confession to make. I used to be a patrol officer, but I’m not anymore. Now I’m a criminalist. I investigate crime scenes, not traffic accidents. I asked if I could do your follow-up interview instead of the traffic division. There’s only four of them, and they deal with twenty hit-and-runs a day, so they were happy to say yes. I just wanted to see you again, find out how you were doing. At the hospital you just seemed so totally alone. I was worried about you.”

Great. That was all she needed. A cop worried about her welfare. Fate offered her a way out when a big drop splashed on the end of her nose, followed by another on her cheek. Free looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Looks like it’s time to get going. Thanks so much for buying me lunch.”

“No problem. And if you remember anything more about that truck, give me a call. Let me give you my card. He took one from his wallet, and wrote on the back with a pen from inside his jacket pocket. “Here’s my beeper number. Sometimes it’s easier to reach me there.”

“Sure,” Free said, intending on throwing it away as soon as he was out of sight. “I’ll do that.”