Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  While standing with her eyes closed and head bowed, she thought of Fred Cooper again, wondering how she could have been so far off course. Everything about him seemed so perfect at first, helping her to recover from the mess her previous relationship had been. Jill wondered if the cause of her unrest had less to do with disappointment in romance than not having a case to work on; her self-worth had become dependent on the tragedies she’d immersed herself in trying to solve. She’d witnessed it happening to other detectives; they had no interests outside of the homicide investigations for which they’d sacrificed their lives. As long as they had a case to devote their time to, they might not give a relationship the attention it needed. Divorce was rampant among her colleagues.

  Standing quietly as minutes ticked by, she felt the anticipatory excitement bubbling up in her chest that preceded the materialization of important psychic information. But it was interrupted by a tap on the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, incredulous. She walked to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Mark, and seeing him looking straight ahead increased her pulse rate up a notch.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I saw your light was on and wondered if I could use your facilities.”

  “Of course,” she said, stepping aside. “It’s right through the bedroom.” He sniffed the air, and she could see the concern on his face.

  “It’s just sage,” she said, laughing. “I was doing a little smudging to clean the space of negativity.”

  He looked confused but nodded his head.

  “You’ve never heard of it?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything,” he said.

  She pushed the door to her room open for him, glad she was a compulsive bed maker; raised never to leave clothes lying around and to clean up in the bathroom was now paying off. She looked up at the ceiling and mouthed, Thank you, yiayia, a hysterical giggle catching in her throat. Having to use the bathroom during a stakeout was a problem for officers, and she was happy to know he wasn’t peeing in a bottle in the car; she shook the imagery away. She tried not to listen but could hear water running after the toilet flushed. Thank god, the man washes his hands. She busied herself at the altar until he came out, clearly embarrassed but willing to take the risk to see her again.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry for the interruption. I’ll let you get back to your smudging.”

  “Please, no problem at all. As a matter of fact, I can sleep on the couch tonight so you can come back if you need to.” About to protest that he didn’t want to inconvenience her, he saw the wisdom in her suggestion.

  “Okay, I’ll accept your gracious offer. I hope I don’t need to bother you.” He didn’t want to have to pee in the alley behind her house. She went to a chest of drawers in the hallway and rummaged through a small basket for a key.

  “Here you go. It’s my only extra, though, so I have to be sure to get it back.”

  She placed it in the palm of his hand, barely touching his flesh with her thumb, but she was aware of the contact with him, and that silly, fumbling schoolgirl mentality tried to overtake her again. She bit her tongue, some asinine comment ready to roll out of her mouth, but he must have read her mind and said the words himself.

  “I promise to only use the key for the bathroom.” But when she looked at him with a wide-eyed look, she could tell he was mortified. What was it about the two of them that they seemed to bring out the worst in each other? She giggled again, so glad he was the one to feel uncomfortable this time. “I mean I won’t rummage through your refrigerator,” he stammered.

  “I know what you mean,” she said, wagging her finger.

  “Goodnight,” he said, reaching for the door. But he turned and smiled back.

  2

  Albert Wong was so relieved to get out of work on Friday that after he said goodbye to Jill, he ran to his car. The past weeks since they’d solved a string of related murders had flown by in a haze; all he could think about now was getting to his grandmother’s and picking her up for a long weekend together. Nana Wong lived in a forgotten part of the city, and she loved to visit his spacious condominium overlooking the Detroit River. His partner, Roger, treated her as an honored guest, and they ate the splendid meals he prepared, good enough for royalty, or take-out from their favorite restaurants. They wanted her to move into their spare bedroom, but Nana liked her routine. Her elderly boyfriend, Don, lunched with her daily at their senior center, and she volunteered to rock newborns in the hospital nursery. But the weekends and holidays were lonely when Don went to Grosse Isle to be with his children and grandchildren. Albert was the only family Nana had left in the city; everyone else fled in the mass exodus after the riot of 1967.

  For all the attention it attracted when he pulled onto Nana’s street, the beat-up, unmarked car might as well have had twirling red lights with Albert screaming into a bullhorn. It was late afternoon, school was out for Christmas holiday and parents had to pay a sitter while they worked or press one of the older neighborhood girls into service. Most of the families on the block were headed by single females, and Albert thought they were raising a bunch of well-behaved, polite children. When he turned the corner, one of the girls saw Albert’s car and started to scream, “Mr. Albert, everyone!” When he pulled in front of Nana’s house, they came running. Screaming kids, jumping up and down, surrounded him when he stepped out, small story books to pass out in hand, fairy tales that were modernized for urban readers. The children grabbed the books, thanked him and ran to their homes to get out of the cold and, he hoped, to read.

  Nana was waiting at the door for him. “My grandson would make a great father,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Keep dreaming, Nana. The kid wouldn’t survive. I’m too old now, anyway. Where’s your suitcase?” She stood aside, and he could see that she was also bringing a large bowl of fruit-flavored gelatin full of cut-up fruit covered with whipped cream. “Oh, Nana, you’re supposed to let us feed you.”

  “Last time I was there, Roger didn’t serve dessert, and I thought I would die craving something sweet.”

  Albert frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have a stash of candy hidden from him. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  “How would I know what’s hidden around your house?” She pulled her coat and gloves on and pushed at him to get moving. “Come on, slow poke, my story starts at seven,” she said.

  “I thought we were going out tonight,” Albert said.

  “Not Friday, you know better,” Nana said, looking around the tiny house. Everything was in order. “Let’s go.” She waved him out of the door with her free hand. “Roger will be too tired to go out tonight anyway. You get involved with an older man, you suffer the consequences. Ask me, I know.”

  Albert started laughing. “Poor Don,” he said. “Does he even try to keep up with you?”

  “No,” she replied shortly. “Not anymore.”

  “Roger has more energy than I do these days,” Albert said loyally.

  Nana sniffed. “Your mother called me today.”

  Albert looked over at her as they put their seat belts on. “And?”

  “They aren’t coming home for Christmas again,” she said. “Your father has trouble with his feet and can’t walk the airport.”

  Albert nodded his head. The airport was even getting hard for Roger at age fifty. His parents were in their sixties and overweight, too vain to ask for wheelchairs. It would be easier for his mother to refuse to visit her own mother.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear it, but we don’t need them around, do we? I personally like the way we do Christmas, just the three of us, with Christmas Eve in Greektown.” Nana shrugged her shoulders. She saw less and less of her children as the years passed, no one wanting to come back to Detroit, and not thinking she might like an adventure getting out of the city.

  “To hell with them,” she whispered. “Less money I have to spend. If you don’t come, you don’t get a gift.”

  �
�Yes, I agree,” he said, laughing. He never knew Nana to make demands on her family. But she was generous. He would be the one who’d have to send the packages for her, last minute trips to the post office part of his Christmas duties for as long as he could remember. But being with her, fulfilling the small demands she made on him kept him connected to the human race. Both jaded from their stressful jobs, he and Roger led a hedonistic lifestyle. Nana Wong’s presence served to remind Albert that there was more to life than a beautifully decorated home and trips to St. Thomas. Yes, if having to stand on a postal line for an hour each December was all the dues he had to pay, he’d willingly do it for her.

  During the trip back downtown, Nana asked questions about Albert’s day. She thrived on the details of the homicide investigations he was involved with, recording the news programs which covered crime in the great city of Detroit. Albert fed her the same facts the media handed out.

  Roger was waiting at the door when they stepped off the elevator. “Here’s my family at last,” he said, kissing Albert on the cheek and bowing his head to Nana Wong, who didn’t like a lot of hugging and kissing. He stood aside so they could walk through the door.

  “Oh my God! Look at this place,” Albert exclaimed. “Were you off work today?” Nana Wong jumped up and down with little jumps, clapping her hands like a gleeful child.

  “So pretty,” she said.

  “I took the day off to surprise you,” Roger said, looking at his work of art: a copse of three fresh-cut pine trees situated at the side of the bank of windows that overlooked the Detroit River and the night skyline of Windsor beyond. The trees were of varying heights, decorated with twinkling lights and Roger’s collection of tarnished silver and mercury glass ornaments. Fresh cut, the pine scent from the trees was heady. On the other side of the room, a fire was burning in the fireplace, and a dining table in front of it was set with crystal, china and their best silver.

  “Well, you succeeded,” Albert said. “Let me get a picture of this.” He pulled out his phone and took a panoramic photograph, sending it to Jill in a text message. Nana was examining every bulb and artifact on the trees.

  “I love this one,” she said, holding up a tarnished silver set of miniature pinecones. Albert decompressed, the tension leaving his body with such force that he felt like he could fold into a bundle and drop to the floor. Roger saw the exhaustion in his face, the effort he was making to stay upright.

  “Why don’t you change into your sweatpants, honey,” he said, and Albert nodded and went to their bedroom. The ever-present shopping bag from TJ Maxx was on the bed. Albert sighed, dreading that it was more clothes for him. Roger was a compulsive shopper; the only thing saving them from a hoarding situation was that he was also a compulsive housekeeper.

  Pulling new sweatpants out of the bag, Albert’s usual response would be to put his rattiest pair on to prove that his clothing choices were his own to make. But in the spirit of Christmas, he decided to give in and wear the new pair. Roger watched the doorway and perked right up when Albert walked out wearing the new clothes.

  “You look nice,” Nana said. “Now maybe Roger can throw those crappy jeans you had on today in the trash.”

  Roger shook his head, putting his hands up in a posture of surrender. “Don’t worry; I won’t touch your clothes.” To Nana, “He’d just pick them out of the trash if I tried.”

  Albert wondered why he had such an aversion to getting rid of his old clothes. Maybe he was the problem, not Roger. “Just throw them away. I promise not to retrieve my old damn clothes.” They all laughed at the image of Albert rifling through the trash.

  Roger served a lovely meal, and they spent the rest of the evening relaxing in the perfectly appointed living room, watching Nana’s favorite TV show while Albert snored in his recliner and Roger addressed last minute Christmas cards.

  When Jill finally looked at the picture of Christmas glory at Albert’s house, it reminded her of how, once again, she’d failed at making a grown-up Christmas for herself. She’d avoided decorating her apartment, getting token gifts for people instead of thoughtful presents. On Christmas Day, she’d go to her father’s, not contributing anything to the meal like a spoiled child would.

  As she went through yoga poses that evening with Mark down in the car, an admonishing thread played through her mind in a loop, an unhealthy mantra beating her up about irresponsibility and selfishness. She fell on her back, sweating, and looking up at the ceiling said out loud, “It’s too late now. Christmas is in a week.”

  But the answer came to her when she heard a faint beep of her phone and reached for it, seeing she’d missed the text message a few hours back from Albert. She opened it up and saw the beautiful vista of Christmas in his apartment with the words, “Roger was busy today.” He’d accomplished that in one day. Surely, she could decorate her house and shop for gifts at the very least. There was no excuse.

  She got up off the floor and, as she passed the altar on her way to the shower, was hit with a pang; she’d gotten the message she’d asked for earlier. The recognition of prayer answered brought a smile to her face. “Thank you,” she said to the ceiling.

  At midnight, she stood in the window, looking down at Mark, and could see he was reading. Ready to make hot chocolate, an impulse to invite him up for a cup struck her, so she put her coat on and ran down to ask. It seemed like the natural thing to do, Jacob Parker forgotten now. He looked up from his book and saw her coming toward him, and the effect it had on his adrenaline was immediate as he rolled down the window.

  “Would you like to come up and have a hot drink? I’m making hot chocolate, but you can have tea or coffee if you’d rather.”

  He was so surprised to see her, he agreed without thinking that he’d already had a thermos of coffee and was about ready to explode.

  “Hot chocolate would be great,” he said. He got out of the car to follow her back up the stairs. Her overheated apartment with the radiators steaming away smelled like chocolate and cinnamon. Looking around, he didn’t see evidence of Christmas, his own apartment stuffed with Christmas cards and childhood decorations happily handed over by his mother when she moved.

  “Wow, I didn’t notice how calming this place is before. Not a sign of Christmas chaos.”

  She shook her head and started laughing. “Oh, now I’m really convicted. I just had a talk with myself about having a grown-up Christmas this year. There’s only a week left! I have a lot to do if I’m going to make it happen.” She poured hot water over instant hot chocolate mixes and brought the mugs to the living room.

  “My mom gave me all of her decorations when she moved to Florida last year. My apartment looks like a winter carnival,” he said. They talked about his family and their Christmas traditions, how he was trying to make his own since his mother had moved away. “My grandmother works during the holidays, so I can’t depend on her to make Christmas for me. She’s sort of depending on the family to make it for her. I bet your family makes a big deal out of Christmas.”

  “It all revolves around food. No one is that big on decorating or giving gifts, except now that my cousin and his two boys live with my dad, they have to pretend Santa is coming. There’s nothing like little children to propel you to make Christmas happen.”

  “I wouldn’t know. No one has kids in our family.”

  “Because now it’s your turn,” Jill said. “My cousin Andy is the only one with little ones.”

  She didn’t say children made her nervous, that she had as little as possible to do with her cousin’s kids, fearful he’d ask her to babysit if she became too familiar with them.

  “What about you?” he asked, reading her mind.

  Her right eyebrow went up. “What about me?” she replied, not going to make it easy for him.

  He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “Do you want children?” he asked softly, trying not to pry but losing.

  Do I? It wasn’t a question she pondered, afraid of babies, but worse, afraid of no
t having a stable relationship in which to raise children. When she was growing up, her parents didn’t have a happy marriage, and she was never the wiser because of the love and affection given her by her grandparents.

  Because her old boyfriend, Alex, was wallowing in substance abuse, she wouldn’t consider having children with him, and they’d been together for over twenty years. Was it possible she was meant to have children, just with a different partner? After wasting so much time, she was getting old, so whatever she was going to do she’d better think about it soon.

  “I guess I better make up my mind,” she said honestly, hoping he’d leave it alone.

  “Yeah, I never thought I’d be an old parent, but it looks like that’s where I’m headed,” he said. “Maybe I need to meet the mother of my children.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? Looking at her with an intensity he couldn’t squelch, Jill felt a wave of heat go through her body, unsettling her, and she looked away from his searching eyes.

  “Well,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s almost one. As much as I’d love to stay here all night talking to you, I guess I better get back downstairs and let you get some sleep. I’ll probably leave here around eight. Shall I ring you first?”

  “Okay,” Jill answered reluctantly. She didn’t want him to go, either. They said goodnight as she walked him to the door. “You have your key, correct?”

  “Yes, I do. I’ll slip it under the door before I leave.” Sitting at the window, she watched him go down to his car. He looked up and waved at her before she pulled the shade down. Making up the couch, she realized how tired she was. The couch was comfortable, and before she knew it, she was sound asleep.