by J C Paulson
Good riddance if the place does get torn down, Adam thought, fighting the urge to hold his breath.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m a cop. Detective Sergeant Adam Davis. I’m not here to roust you. I’m just looking for a little help.”
“Heeey, Sarrge,” one of them slurred. “I seen you around. What’s happening?”
“I have a dead guy I’m trying to ID. I need to know if you recognize him. It’s not a nice photo, though. You up for it?”
“Yeah, shurrr, no problem,” said the man.
He leaned to one side, rocking slightly, and took the photo with an unsteady hand, forehead furrowed in concentration.
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I dunno him. You guys?” he asked, passing the glossy to his companions. They simply shook their heads. No.
Adam decided not to bother with Tom Allbright’s photo. If they didn’t recognize John Doe, it didn’t matter all that much whether they recognized Allbright since Burt already had. Adam mostly wanted to know if they’d been seen together. Were they friends, former colleagues, drinkers in arms? So far, it didn’t look that way.
James was having similar bad luck with the ladies, although they were all over him, touching his shoulder and back, rubbing their breasts on his arms. They didn’t seem to care that he was a cop yet chose their words wisely.
“You’re lovely,” purred one of them, named Misty. “Maybe I could make you happy.”
“I’m better,” said Nikki, her companion. “What I could do to you, pretty boy.”
James, accustomed to such attention, laughed, protested he was very busy, and suggested they answer his questions. He wasn’t there to pop prostitutes, and no mention of payment had crossed their lips.
Pouting, the two women dragged their eyes away from James and to the photos.
“Seen him,” said Misty, pointing to Tom Allbright.
“Ever spend time with him?”
“Nope. Too fucked up, likes to fight too much. Kinda scary.”
“Not the other one, though?”
“No. Never seen him. Hey, is that your friend?” she asked, spying Adam. “Maybe he’s not as busy as you are. Mmmm. Nice.”
“He’s even busier. That’s my sergeant. Okay, ladies, thank you very much. Have a nice evening.”
“Boo,” said Nikki. “Well, drop by for a drink sometime. We could have some fun.”
James simply waved, smiled, and moved on to the next table.
Twenty minutes later, he and Adam were back outside, breathing deeply.
“That wasn’t much help,” James said, snorting from the stink that stuck in his sinuses.
“Well, we didn’t get an ID, but so far it looks like Tom Allbright and John Doe didn’t know each other. Allbright had been in that bar. Doe hadn’t. And Father Cey recognized Allbright, but not our Saskatoon vic. It’s unlikely they knew each other, at least from the street.”
“Early days,” James warned.
“Yeah, but it’s also an indication. If it bears out, Allbright is not as likely to have been involved in John Doe’s death. He couldn’t have done it himself; he was either at Ferguson Lake or in the Meadow Lake jail. If he didn’t have John Doe killed, he didn’t kill Elias Crow. This was the same murderer.”
“But he could still be involved.”
“He’s definitely involved with Elias Crow’s death. But he knew Crow. I don’t know how well, or even how, but he knew him and where he lived. I’m starting to doubt that he knew our other vic.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Elias Crow knew John Doe. That’s our link. But who the hell is he?”
*****
Further canvassing brought the same results. Some of the street people they approached were too out of it to respond; others recognized Tom Allbright; none had seen John Doe.
Adam and James returned to the station, where they sent out the unidentified dead man’s photo to the RCMP, Regina Police and the forces in smaller Saskatchewan cities. Adam called in the officers on shift for a debriefing.
“We didn’t find anyone who recognized John Doe, but did find a few who knew Tom Allbright,” Adam told the assembled officers. “Anyone get anything different?”
“No,” said Lorne. “Same thing.” The other officers nodded in agreement.
“Okay. I’ll keep the canvass going on the night shift until the bars close. Thanks, everyone. Keep it front of mind until we figure this out. Ask everyone you catch up to on the streets. See you tomorrow.”
Returning to his office, Adam sat down heavily in his chair, exhaling sharply. His hand stung and ached, and the dead men’s faces swam before his tired eyes.
“Sarge?” Charlotte’s head poked in through the half-open door as she knocked. “I have an update on our property owner.”
“Come in, Char. Tell me.”
“Are you all right, Adam? You’re a little pale. Is it your hand?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I hope the pain means it’s starting to heal.”
“You need to take care of it, and of you. Don’t dwell on the past, but don’t forget it, either, okay?”
Adam gave Charlotte a lopsided, affectionate grin. She had dragged his butt through the worst of the early days after he’d been shot, and likely saved his career to boot. Adam had descended into heavy drinking after he was released from the hospital, until Charlotte confronted him and forced him to seek help. Eternal gratitude and deep fondness didn’t begin to cover how he felt about Char.
“You’re right, I know. Thanks, Char, for the reminder. I think Grace will be all over it when I get home.”
“How’s it going? It’s been all of a couple of weeks since you moved in, yes?”
“Not even. But so far . . .” he stopped, stuck for the right word.
“So wonderful?”
“That’s pretty close.” So domestic, so amazing, so erotic . . . Adam could have added several more descriptors.
“I’m so happy for you. Both of you.”
“Thanks, Char. So am I. So what have you found?”
“Mrs. Margaret Muriel Robertson, age 72, lives in Sherbrooke Nursing Home. She’s been there for about two years with encroaching dementia. Not too far along, but she couldn’t live at home anymore considering she has a few other issues, including peripheral neuropathy. The numbness in her feet affects her balance and she’d fallen a few times. Living alone on an acreage didn’t improve matters, not to mention the lack of proximity to health services. Her husband passed away a few years ago; he was older than she.”
“Well done, Char. Any kids?”
“The home thinks she has two kids.”
“Thinks she has?”
“Two they know of.”
“Any other relatives they think they know of?”
“A sister.”
“Okay. When can we meet Mrs. Robertson? Please say tonight or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Two-thirty. Too late for her tonight; it’s almost seven, and she goes to bed early. She has therapy in the morning, and I’m told she’ll be brighter after her post-lunch nap.”
“I’ll want you with me, Char. Can you do it?”
“Of course, Adam. Now, can you please go home to Grace and take care of that hand?”
“I should stay, see if anyone identifies our guy.”
“Not happening, in my opinion. And I’ll tell the staff sergeant to call you if it does.”
“Why do you say not happening?”
“You’re right, I think. James told me what you said outside the Barry. If no one had a sniff today, he’s not from here, or at least he wasn’t on the streets.”
Adam nodded. Charlotte’s validation meant a lot to him.
“Okay. Thanks, Char. I’ll head home, but make sure they call me if anyone recognizes him, name or no name.”
As Adam turned off his computer, he dragged his brain for answers.
If John Doe was not from Saskatoon, how did he end up dead in a vacant home near the c
ity?
If he was not a street person, why did he look so very much like one?
And how was he connected to Mrs. Margaret Muriel Robertson?
Chapter Fifteen
Grace roamed around her little house, images of the past few days flashing through her mind. Rarely so twitchy, the bizarre events at the lake had her rattled, she had to admit. Not unlike the day Adam had moved in, she couldn’t help checking her watch every few minutes.
At seven-thirty, he finally walked through the door, and she flung herself at him.
“Hey, Grace, are you doing okay?” he asked.
“Better now that you’re home. I can’t seem to settle in. How did the day go?”
“Brace yourself. We have another dead man.”
Bloody hell, thought Grace, as he told her about the second victim found dead on a nearby acreage. She would have wanted to write the story, but had decided to stay home and get organized, damn it. And all she managed was a perpetual pacing from room to room.
“I should have gone to work,” she said. “I considered it, but I thought, what could possibly happen after everything went down at the lake? Next time, please call me.”
Adam’s set face betrayed his exhaustion and pain, and Grace relented.
“Oh, Adam. I’m sorry. I know you were busy.”
“I thought about calling you,” he said. “It all happened so damn fast. Before I knew it, we were in a car and out at the crime scene, then back in town looking for someone to identify the body. Won’t they let you work on the story anyway?”
“They might. Well, probably, since I filed the Elias Crow piece. But you’re not telling the media you suspect a connection between the two murders yet, are you?”
“No.” He sat down abruptly, wincing.
“Let me see your hand,” Grace said, story forgotten in her worry over his pallor and obvious discomfort.
Gently, she unwrapped the bandage to view the angry, stitched crimson skin, crinkling at the edges of the slash. She felt Adam’s forehead; he was damp, but not feverish.
“It looks mean, but it doesn’t look infected,” she declared, deeply relieved. “It’s not puffy or an ugly colour. And I don’t think you have a fever. You must be reacting to the pain. When did you last take a painkiller?”
“Last night, I think.”
“You went all day without any pain meds, for God’s sake?”
“I don’t like the damn things. I don’t feel sharp when I’m on them.”
“Well, you don’t have to be sharp now. Dinner’s almost ready, but maybe you could lie down for a few minutes? I’ll bring you some dope.”
By the time Grace returned with pills and water, Adam was out cold, breathing deeply. She drew the TV-watching blanket over him, put the meds on the coffee table, and retreated into the kitchen.
First thing tomorrow, she thought as she opened a bottle of red wine, she would start a deep dive into Elias Crow’s past — even if she had to file Freedom of Information paperwork, a task she hated. She didn’t know for certain that he had served in Somalia; it was her best guess, though, and she would start there.
Twenty minutes later, after planning her attack, she gently awakened Adam, fed him and led him off to bed. He fell asleep immediately, but Grace lay awake for a long while, wondering what the night would hold.
*****
She started awake at three in the morning. She felt Adam twitching first; then heard a low moan, more of a growl, emanating from his throat. Was it pain, or a nightmare? Both?
No fear, she told herself. No fear. Give him a minute.
She turned and regarded him, lying naked, partly uncovered and sweating, head thrust back. It was all she could do not to touch him, cover him with her body. An abrupt toss and a cry sent her into action.
“Adam,” she said, quietly and firmly. “Adam, it’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe, love, here with me. It’s just Grace, here in bed with you, in our home. Sh, now, you’re all right.”
That didn’t work. He continued to moan and thrash. Grace breathed in sharply and tried again more loudly, the words catching.
“You’re safe, Adam. It’s only a dream. You’re here with me, Babe, here with me, Grace. You’re asleep and dreaming.”
He gradually stilled. Did he hear me? she wondered. She mentally went back over her words. The second time, she had told him he was just dreaming. Did that break through?
Adam’s eyes, directed at the ceiling, snapped open; a moment later, he turned his head to stare at her. Is he awake? Please, let him be awake . . .
“Grace?” he said, voice thick and low.
“Yes, Adam, it’s me. Are you all right?”
“I . . . think so. Was I thrashing?”
“Yes. Can I comfort you now?”
“Oh, God, Grace. Make love to me. I can only touch you with one hand, but I want you so much. I need . . . I need to feel alive, awake, whole. I hate this . . .” he held up the injured hand.
Grace reached for it, kissed it, knew it reminded him of being shot.
“It doesn’t matter, Adam. And it will heal; you will be all right, very soon. You hurt it to save me . . . oh my God.”
“It wasn’t your fault . . . “
“If we hadn’t been at the lake . . . “
“It’s not your fault.”
Tears were now pouring down Grace’s cheeks. She curled up at Adam’s side, hand roving over his chest in a passion of arousal and guilt. He was damp from the nightmare, muscles still rigid. Pull it together, she told herself.
“Just a minute, Adam. Just one minute.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“I’m going to get a warm cloth. Don’t move.”
She slipped out of bed, hurried to the bathroom, soaked a small towel in warm water and wrung it out. Returning, she removed the sheet half-covering Adam’s body and gently patted the towel over his forehead, cheeks, throat and chest.
“Is that all right? Does it feel good?” she asked.
“Yes. Please, don’t stop.”
Grace continued, rubbing down his arms, moving to his abdomen and finally his legs. Ducking her head, she found the healed blue wound on the muscular left thigh with her lips and kissed it, drawing a groan and a small, tight buck of the hips from her aching man. The towel moved higher, softly bathing Adam’s groin.
Hard as steel. Grace moved in.
Tongue and lips met Adam at the base and slid upwards, delicately licking and sucking.
“No!” he said. “No, Grace. I want to be inside you. Stop, please, come here.”
She’d heard that before, from her own lips. But she craved him, and couldn’t help herself from sliding up his body, straddling his thighs and slipping him inside, taking his entire length in one smooth motion.
“Don’t move,” he gasped. “For God’s sake don’t move, for a minute.”
Grace felt his muscles tighten, stretching for control, even as he raised his head, pulled her to him with one powerful hand and latched his mouth roughly to her nipple.
“God Almighty, woman,” he muttered, releasing her and seeking the other breast with his lips. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
He had never said that before, using the expletive. The intense language had a strange effect, sending Grace over the edge of arousal. Her body responded, clenched, rocked; she couldn’t stop. Adam’s hand went to her hip, in an effort to still her movements, but it was far too late. Grace was beside herself, grinding into him, gasping, clutching his shoulders and finally crying out; and Adam came to her uncontrollably, thrusting upward and shouting her name.
For a moment, Grace stared at Adam’s face, gulping air, her breasts heaving; then she collapsed on him, arms tight around his neck. His good arm came up around her back, the hand sliding under her mane of curls.
“One day,” Grace muttered into his throat, “someone is going to get hurt.”
“I have no control with you, most of the time. I’m trying, though, Grace. I’m so s
orry.”
“Sorry for making me lose my mind, do you mean? There are two of us here, you know. Did you . . . awaken aroused, Adam? I assume you remember your dream.”
“It wasn’t erotic. Line of fire sort of dream. It still gets the juices flowing, so to speak. The body rises to the danger.”
“Do you want to tell me?” Grace asked, straightening so she could see him.
“No.” Adam paused. “But Grace, I didn’t want to make love because I awakened with an erection. I wanted you, to be with you. Admittedly, I needed to feel normal, and it had also been a while.”
“Two days, I think.”
“Well, it felt like longer.”
Still inside her, Adam reached for a breast, then her face, and drew her down to kiss her.
“You are all I want. Always.”
“You are all I want, Adam. More than I could ever have imagined.”
“Oh, Babe . . .”
Grace burrowed into him, emotion overtaking her. The thought crossed her mind, even so, that she had dragged him out of the dark dream and into the bright flame of her love. It worked, Anne Blake, my brilliant friend. Thank you.
*****
What was it about Adam, Grace wondered, that made every lovemaking episode unique, intense, mind-altering? Yes, the man was beautiful. But that wasn’t the whole explanation. Intelligence helped; so did his ferocity. He was imaginative, reactive, engaged, expert.
As Grace gazed at her sleeping lover, knowing she had to awaken him soon, it came to her in a burst of amazement that speared her heart: he was vulnerable to her. He allowed himself to be vulnerable to her. My God, she thought, moved all over again. Why me? How did that happen?
“Adam,” she whispered. “Adam. I love you.”
His eyes opened at her words.
“Grace. I love you. So much, Babe. Good morning. Do we have to get up? What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Hell.”
“Can you hold me for just a moment?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Adam’s shift started at seven, but he tucked Grace against his heart, closely enough that she could feel its strong, regular beat under her breast. Finally, she reached up, kissed his mouth and smiled, a little sadly.
“I’ll make you a quick breakfast. You can hit the shower.”
