Murder Feels Crazy

by Bill Alive

  Ceci laughed. “I’m sure my back will heal way sooner.”

  Mark spoke, low and warm. “How are you?”

  “I am absolutely fine,” she said.

  Mark cocked an eyebrow, then winced a bit. “I wouldn’t say absolutely.”

  She laughed. “I really am doing great! Turns out the care in this place is top-notch.” Her smile sparkled, like this was some private joke. “But how are you all?”

  She said it to everyone, but she looked at me.

  I couldn’t speak. I probably looked sick.

  “Hey,” she said, and her eyes went soft. Have I mentioned that her eyes can turn super pretty? Yep. “Are you okay?” she said.

  Honestly, I was almost ready to ask her out right then.

  But my phone rang.

  I frowned, jolted out of the spell. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t really get that many calls. Was it Vivian? She’d never call me this late.

  I pulled out my phone.

  “Pete?” Ceci said.

  “Sorry, I’ll be right back,” I said. “It’s… my mom.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a twinge of concern. “Tell her I said hi.”

  I stepped out into the hall and clapped the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom,” I said, all nonchalant. “Everything okay?”

  It’s not that my mom never calls. She’s just not the sort to idly chit-chat. And her reaction to reading news articles about me chasing murderers hasn’t exactly been unbounded enthusiasm. (She did try to read Murder Feels Awful, but I don’t think she finished it. It’s hard to compete… she’s really into Janet Evanovich.)

  I braced myself, wondering what juicy new tidbit Hannigan-Quinn might have dug up on us and posted to his news site.

  “Hello, Peter,” my mom said.

  Now I really went tense. No, she doesn’t usually call me Peter. And even for my mom, her voice sounded distant and strained.

  “I’m calling about Thanksgiving,” she said. “I just want to let you know it’s going to be a little different this year.”

  “Different?” I said. “Like how?”

  “Your father and I…” She stopped. She took a long, deep breath, and it quivered and caught.

  “Mom?” I said. By now my heart was thudding. “Mom, are you crying? What’s going on?”

  She exhaled, and her voice was flat. If she was crying, I wasn’t going to be the one to hear it. “Your father and I need to figure some things out,” she said. “For this year, we’ve both decided it’s best if we spend this holiday with our own families.”

  “What?”

  “If you were still in school, that might be different. But you’re an adult now, Peter. You’ve got your own place. You’re welcome to come with either one of us—”

  “What do you mean either one of you?” I said. “What are you talking about? What is this, Mom?”

  A distinguished-looking doctor pacing down the hall eyed me with a quizzical glare. I realized I was practically shouting, so I clamped my mouth shut and gave him a curt, competent nod, like, no worries, nothing to see here, my mom isn’t springing it on me out of nowhere that they’re getting a divorce.

  The doctor favored me with a skeptical, warning frown, and then strode into Ceci’s room.

  I turned toward the wall so I wouldn’t have to see anyone else. On the wallpaper, cartoon butterflies grinned back at me.

  “Peter,” my mom said. “Please don’t make this any harder.”

  I forced myself to keep my voice calm. “Make what harder, Mom? It doesn’t sound like you guys just couldn’t agree on how to cook the turkey.”

  “Peter. Listen. Nothing’s decided yet. Okay? I know you’ll want to talk and that’s important to us both, but it’s been a very long day, and right now I am very, very tired. Okay?”

  I knew that tone, and it cut me deep. Parental weariness. I couldn’t remember a time when my mom hadn’t been tired, bone-deep weary after a day’s slog in the corporate jungle. My dad would come home tired too, but he’d get a second wind, looking forward to his evening of TV and other perks. My mom never seemed to get that boost, ever. And when earnest young Pete would rocket over and try to cheer the lady of his heart, she’d only get more drained. Plus, half the time he’d accidentally break something.

  “No problem, Mom,” I said. “I love you, get some sleep. I’ll, uh… I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks. I love you too,” she said, and hung up.

  I leaned against the wall and rested the phone against my forehead.

  I’d never felt so utterly alone.

  Chapter 15

  When I had stopped shaking, mostly, I opened my eyes and tried to re-enter the surrounding world. I reminded myself that, for one thing, I wasn’t alone; my two besties were right across the hall in that open room. Through the doorway, I could see Ceci laughing and smiling, and I had this surge of wanting to go tell her what had all just happened. Right then, I didn’t care either way about the romance thing. I just wanted my friend.

  Then she winced.

  And I thought, dude, you can’t go dump all this on her right now. She’s in the freaking hospital. Your job is to cheer HER up.

  That was hard. Ceci was my rock. Had been for years. But for once, I could actually notice and care when she was the one in pain.

  As her wince cleared, she caught my eye, and she gave me this questioning look. I knew she was asking about the phone call, but also… I saw that same flicker of uncertainty that she’d had in the lobby the other day. Whatever was happening with my parents, or anything else in my life, she was still going to keep looking at me like that until I gave her a clear signal either way. And I couldn’t just procrastinate forever while I mulled. If I kept acting like the Incident hadn’t happened, my answer was already clear.

  I churned up all over again, trying to muster up a soothing noncommittal smile.

  She frowned, confused, and then clenched with another wince.

  And that’s when I first heard the doctor.

  In a warm, rich voice that purred with concern, he said, “How bad was it that time?”

  Ceci’s face had already cleared. She flashed him a grateful glance, and I followed her look and got my first solid view of the man standing in her room.

  Basically, he was the perfect handsome TV doctor.

  I hadn’t really noticed this when he’d glared at me in the hall; at the time, I’d been otherwise occupied. But now that I had a few brain cycles to spare, I could see that the guy clearly had it all: the implausibly dark hair graying at the temples… the lean, weathered, intelligent face… the “active lifestyle” build shimmering under his white coat. He was probably the one person in Back Mosby who biked to work.

  Okay, fine, he wasn’t perfect. His nostrils did flare kind of wide. But noting that seems petty.

  The thing was, as I watched, this doctor drew so close to her that he was practically leaning into her bed. Though I wasn’t familiar with any official medical regulations on the point, this did seem mildly inappropriate. Especially when she could barely move.

  Except she did move. She rolled and turned toward him, and her eyes were bright.

  “I’m doing fine,” she said.

  “Hmmm,” he said, with that patented doctor poise. “Your pain levels are still much higher than I’d like. I think we should increase your dosage.”

  On the other side of the bed, Gwen stiffened. “And what dosage would that be, Dr. Paul?”

  Wait! I thought. Pain levels? Dr. Paul?

  “You’re the pill mill guy?” I blurted.

  Nice, Pete.

  Pretty much everyone scowled my way — Ceci, Gwen, Dr. Paul, and even Mark, who had taken a corner chair and gone into Invisible Mode.

  But Dr. Paul was the first to recover. “I see you’ve been reading the paper,” he said, with a rueful smile. “But as Sergeant Jensen here can tell you,” and he nodded at Gwen, “we only prescribe opiates as a last resort. We’re very fortunate to have other pa
in management tools at our disposal.”

  “And you’re using those others with my sister, I trust?” Gwen said.

  “Gwen, please,” Ceci said, mortified. “I already told him that I don’t want opiates. The pain’s not that bad, and I’m healing up fine. In a week or two, I’ll be back on my feet.” Her pleading face was adding, would you please not do this NOW?

  Gwen eyed her, and then Dr. Paul, who had assumed a respectful expression without backing off from Ceci by an inch. “I’m glad you’re respecting her wishes,” Gwen said, “We have a family history.”

  “Understood,” said Dr. Paul.

  I didn’t understand. Ceci had never mentioned any Jensens who struggled with addiction.

  Oh. Maybe Gwen meant how her father, also a cop, had been gunned down by drug dealers. When Gwen and Ceci were little kids.

  For all Gwen had told Mark earlier about this Dr. Paul guy following all the rules and doing everything right, maybe she drew the line at her own sister taking opiates, even if they were legal… whether or not Ceci might need them.

  I hoped Ceci really would heal up fast. To me, Gwen’s meddling sounded crazy unfair, but that was Ceci’s call. Plus, my dad hadn’t been shot.

  And just as I thought of my dad, Dr. Paul patted Ceci’s shoulder.

  Ceci flashed him another smile. Like she was all relieved that Gwen hadn’t trampled on his medical sensibilities.

  My first thought was: this creep’s got to be in his mid-forties. She’s twenty-two!

  But my second thought was: he’s actually openly flirting with her. And she likes it.

  Unlike… me.

  Maybe she deserves a guy who knows what he wants, and that he definitely wants her. Long-term.

  Maybe I’m too much like my dad.

  “Pete?” Ceci said.

  I startled. I must have tranced out; she was looking at me now with a searching concern.

  “How was your mom?” Ceci said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Fine. Just something about Thanksgiving.”

  She scrutinized me, a shade too Gwen-like as she reviewed my casual facade.

  But then she looked relieved.

  And that was that.

  Achievement unlocked. Hiding your heart from your best friend for her own good.

  I said, “We should let you get to sleep,” which sounded exactly like my mother. I felt so drained that I could’ve crashed in a spare bed myself.

  Ceci protested, looking confused and trying to catch my eye. I managed a friendly smile, I think, but I couldn’t quite bear to meet her gaze. Then Gwen said something about getting back to the station, and she herded us all out of the room. I avoided looking back, but I couldn’t miss hearing Dr. Paul’s manly rumble, and Ceci’s light appreciative laugh.

  As Gwen drove us home through the night, I shut my eyes and tried to rest in the criminal backseat. I might as well have tried to take a nap in a laundry chute. Actually, no, the chute might have had some soft laundry.

  In the front seat, Mark said, “So that’s Dr. Paul.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. She flicked him a wary glance. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you get a vibe?” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s a hospital. I was shielding.”

  “Then what?”

  Mark took his time, frowning and looking pensive. “How old do you think he is?”

  “How old?” she said, surprised. “Maybe forty? Why?”

  “I’d say forty-five. At least.”

  Gwen’s eyebrows arched. “What exactly are we talking about?”

  “It’s just interesting,” Mark said. “He could be her father.”

  Gwen snapped bolt upright. “Are you trying to say—”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Mark said.

  “You just said—”

  “Well, he could.”

  “Oh, please,” Gwen said. “When she was born, he would only have been, what…”

  “Twenty-three?” Mark said.

  Gwen shot him a glare. “We didn’t have any kids at twenty-three.”

  Mark twinkled.

  “I mean either of us!” she said. “And I don’t see that any of this is any of our damn business! Especially you!”

  “I know,” Mark said. “That’s why I’m not saying anything.”

  Gwen groaned, exasperated. “I’m not thrilled with the man’s painkiller career, but if that assault on Ceci proves anything, it’s that his clinic is not handing the meds out like candy. Otherwise that addict would have gotten his pills the easy way.”

  “That is certainly plausible,” Mark said.

  “Yes! It is!” Gwen said. “And although you are completely jumping the gun here, I say, why not? She might finally be interested in a grown man!”

  And then, because Gwen is the Queen of Subtle, she eyed me in the rearview mirror, and her shoulders hunched tight, like she was already fending off demands to apologize.

  In the back seat, I withered.

  We pulled up to a stoplight, the last light on the country highway before the turn up our mountain road. Only one car idled ahead of us in the night. The brake lights blinked, and blinked, and blinked again.

  Mark took a sharp breath.

  Before he could talk, Gwen said, “This conversation is over. You’re only in this car to help me track down that addict.”

  “I am helping,” Mark said. “You’ve got to pull this guy over. He’s freaking out.”

  “What? Why?”

  Mark sighed. “He’s hauling heroin.”

  Chapter 16

  Gwen stared at Mark. Her eyes were wide and still.

  Even in the dim light of the moon, Mark was looking pale, and sweat was beading on his scalp. “He’s terrified. Trust me.”

  The light turned green.

  The car pulled ahead, accelerating slowly until the exact speed limit. It was an older hybrid, ghost white.

  We followed in silence, curving past the dark trees. Mark’s breathing was getting shallow.

  I thought, what if this guy pulls a gun?

  Gwen said, “I can’t pull someone over without probable cause.”

  “Really?” Mark snapped. “My muffler’s a legal crisis, but you can’t pull a guy who’s carting heroin?”

  “If he’s clean, and he can afford a lawyer—”

  “Then think of something.”

  Gwen scowled. Then she reached down beneath the radio controls and flipped a switch.

  The cop lights were crazy bright, even from inside. The hybrid instantly slowed and pulled over, tap-tap-tapping those brake lights. Gwen flipped another switch, and a searing white searchlight flooded the ghost car.

  You wouldn’t believe how bright that light was. In the moment, I had this irrational terror that the driver could see us right back. I hunched low behind the steel-backed seat (which probably wasn’t even bulletproof).

  Gwen muttered, “You’d better be right,” and got out.

  Mark was trembling. Hard.

  “Mark?” I said. “Mark, you okay?”

  He gagged.

  It was a wet, choking gasp that came out of nowhere.

  “Mark!” I said. My voice was shaky. I flashed back to the night he’d nearly died in our car. We’d been on the phone with a suspect… and she’d suddenly got strangled…

  He doubled over, coughing like he couldn’t breathe.

  “Mark! Talk to me!” I tried to reach him through the stupid divider window, but he was hunched too far forward, hacking and gasping. “Mark!”

  “I’m fine!” he gasped. He sat back and rubbed his face.

  “You sure?” I said. “What was that?”

  He shook his head and glared out the windshield. “We’re too late,” he muttered. “Everything just went to shit.”

  “What? Why?”

  At Gwen’s urging, the driver clambered out of his car. The guy was spare and stooped, and he avoided Gwen’s gaze. He looked Eastern European, maybe in his late twent
ies, but so gaunt that he seemed older. He didn’t at all strike me as a “drug dealer”… more like a guy running a food truck. A guy who couldn’t afford to eat the leftovers, because he saved them for his grandma.

  He waved Gwen an obsequious permission to search the car, and she went to it.

  But Mark growled. “Pointless.”

  He sounded so frustrated that I didn’t ask why again.

  When Gwen came back, she logged into the laptop that was bolted to a stand between the front seats, and she started keying in data from the guy’s identification card. I couldn’t see well from the back, but it didn’t look like an ordinary driver’s license.

  “Alexsandr Golitsyn,” she read off the screen in a monotone. “He’s a Ukranian national, but his visa checks out, he’s still good for several months. No criminal record.”

  “He swallowed it,” Mark said.

  “What?”

  “These new heroin dealers, they put the heroin in balloons and carry it in their cheeks,” Mark said. “If they get pulled over, they just swallow.”

  Gwen sighed. “Did you read that somewhere?”

  “Are you serious?” Mark said. “That guy was freaking out and then he swallowed a bunch of heroin balloons, I felt it. In my throat. I was sitting here gagging! Ask Pete!”

  Gwen closed the laptop. “This guy’s clean,” she said, and she got out.

  Mark simmered.

  When Gwen came back, she drove us up our mountain in silence. Mark didn’t speak until she’d crunched onto our gravel driveway. He clicked open his car door, then paused.

  “You know,” he said, “there was this town in West Virginia where the few people who weren’t doing heroin would sell their clean urine. In these huge mason jars. At the farmers’ market.”

  Gwen said, “Listen. You were wrong. It happens.”

  “Why couldn’t you hold him for questioning?”

  “I can’t start arresting everyone you freak out about.”

  Mark flinched.

  “Look, we’ll keep an eye on him,” Gwen said.

  “No, you won’t,” Mark said. He got out and leaned back in. “The address was fake.”

  “What? How could you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Just freaking out,” he said, and slammed the door.