“I always have a choice.”
“It’s either me, or assisted living.”
I watched my words sink in. My mother’s biggest, and only, fear was going into a nursing home. Before meeting my father, she worked briefly as an activity director in a continuing care facility, and swore that she’d jump in front of a bus before ever checking into one of the “death hotels,” as she called them.
“No way in hell.”
“Mom, I can invoke power of attorney.”
“My mind is sound.”
I made myself keep going, even though I hated this.
“I have friends in the courts, Mom.”
My mom turned away, shaking her head.
“You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Look at me, Mom. How far do you think I would go to protect you?”
Mom continued to stare at the wall. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
“Bullying an old lady. Is that how I raised you, Jacqueline?”
“No, Mom. You raised me to care. Just like you said: You’re the only family I’ve ever had. You took care of me for eighteen years.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”
Mom pulled her hand away.
“I’d like to be alone.”
“Please. Don’t be like this.”
She pressed the button to page the nurse.
“Mom . . . please.”
A white-clothed figure poked her head into the room.
“How are we doing, Mrs. Streng?”
“I’m very tired. I’d like to take a nap.”
The nurse looked at me, sympathetic.
I stood up, briefly fussed with the get-well flower arrangement I’d brought, and then turned to leave.
“Nurse,” Mom’s voice cracked. “Please make sure I don’t have any visitors for the next few days.”
“Perhaps you’ll feel differently tomorrow, Mrs. Streng.”
“No. I’m sure I won’t.”
The tears came again. I took a deep breath and stopped my chest from quivering.
“I love you, Mom.”
For the first time ever, she didn’t respond with “I love you too.”
The nurse put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle push.
I took one more look at my mother, and walked out of her room.
CHAPTER 4
Mom lived in Dade City, a pleasant town that seemed out of place in Florida. Rather than tourist-crammed beaches and mega theme parks, Dade boasted gently rolling hills, actual woods, and so many antique malls you couldn’t spit without hitting one.
The night had arrived, hot and thick like a soggy blanket, but I kept the windows down. The rental had decent air-conditioning, but I didn’t feel I deserved it.
I’d been to her place twice before, and always missed the turn onto her street. Tonight was no exception. I pressed through three lefts and found it on the second pass.
Her condo had a matching numbered space in the parking lot. Overnight bag slung over my shoulder, her keys in my hand, I was just about to enter the lobby when I stopped, mid-step.
Was I doing the right thing?
A quick image of Mom facedown in the bathtub spurred me on.
The Highlands were retirement condos, regardless of what the brochures promised. No one under fifty-five lived here. A full-time staff kept the pool clean, ran errands for the tenants, and tended the prerequisite eighteen-hole golf course. They also had EMT training, a necessity since the elderly often acted, well, elderly. But even though they were available twenty-four hours a day, they didn’t routinely check on their residents.
I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and found a painfully thin old man in a bright Hawaiian shirt crouched before my mother’s open door, fiddling with a screwdriver.
“Hello?”
He peered at me through thick glasses; first the upper half, then tilting his head up so he could squint through the bifocals. The man had a bald head so speckled with age spots it was a dead ringer for a sparrow’s egg.
“Mmm? Oh, hello.”
The man stood, with much creaking of bones. Fully erect, he wasn’t much taller than when he’d been squatting; his back curved like a question mark. He smiled, flashing bright white dentures, and offered his hand.
“You must be Jacqueline. Sal Griffin. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
I forced down my smile. Mom often told me stories of her trysts with Mr. Griffin, and usually described him as “insatiable,” “unrelenting,” and “He’s a machine; his pelvis is spring-loaded.” I’d always pictured him as a distinguished, Sean Connery type. Instead, standing before me was a bald Don Knotts.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Griffin.”
“The police made a bit of a mess.” He motioned to the door. “I’m putting in a new jamb.”
“Don’t they have people here that can fix it?”
“Sure. But I wanted to make sure it was done right. Excuse me, where are my manners? Let me take that for you.”
Mr. Griffin reached for my carry-on. I thought about protesting, fearful he might hurt himself lifting it, but then let him play the gentleman. He led me into the condo, flipping on lights as he walked.
The place was clean, tidy, well-kept. I resisted the immediate urge to check the fridge and the cupboards to make sure Mom was eating right.
“I spoke with your mother a little while ago. She mentioned you might be coming.”
He set my bag down on the dining room table.
“How long ago? I’ve tried to call a few times since leaving the hospital, but she has a Do Not Disturb on the line.”
“Oh, about five minutes. She called me. I’ve never heard her so upset before.”
“We had a . . . disagreement.”
He frowned, nodding.
“Proud woman, your mother. When I had the police break in, earlier today, her first words to me were to get the hell out of her bathroom, because she didn’t want me to see her like that.”
I smirked. “That sounds like Mom.”
“I’m sorry she was there for so long. I just got back into town this morning. If I’d have even considered . . .”
“Thank you for coming to her rescue, Mr. Griffin. I’m the one who should be feeling guilty. She’s fallen before.”
“I know. Eight or nine times. I installed the safety bar in her shower.”
I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Eight or nine? She told me four.”
“I’m not surprised. You’d have just . . .”
His voice trailed off. We both knew what was unsaid. If I’d known she’d been falling a lot, I’d have forced her to move in with me earlier.
“Well, I appreciate all you’ve done for her. Thank you.”
Mr. Griffin shrugged. “Beautiful woman, your mother. Nice to finally meet you. She talks about you incessantly.”
“It must be irritating.”
“Not at all. I’d love to hear your version of how you got that guy who killed all those women, the Gingerbread Man. The way your mom tells it, that private investigator fella, the one who was the hero in the TV movie, he really didn’t do a damn thing.”
“True.”
“And you’re much prettier than that fat actress they got to play you.”
“Thank you, again.”
“Though I will admit, that scene in the sewer, where you grabbed that fella’s leg and begged for him to save you . . .” Mr. Griffin chuckled. “That was pretty funny.”
I frowned. That wasn’t how it happened, but I figured I got off easy. In the original screenplay, the writer had me wet my pants in that scene. I had to threaten legal action to get that taken out.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“It’s fine.”
Mr. Griffin grinned. “It’s hard, having your pride trampled on.”
Then he winked at me. Clever old coot. I was about to explain the difference between having a bruised ego and having a broken hip, when a beeping sound interrupted us.
“My phone. Pardon me.”
He removed a cell from his baggy shorts.
“Hello? . . . Hi, how are you feeling, Mary? . . . Yes, she’s here right now. . . . Hmm. I see. Would you like to talk to her? Perhaps you should tell her that yourself. I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . . Yes. Okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He folded up the phone and put it away, his wrinkled face pained.
“Just tell me.”
“Your mother said that she’d prefer it if you didn’t stay at her place.”
I think I flinched.
“She’s just angry right now, Jacqueline. Angry and hurt. I’ll talk to her.”
“She was stuck on the bathroom floor, in pain, for four days—”
“I know.”
“—lying in her own mess—”
“I know.”
“She could have died, Mr. Griffin. I can’t let that happen to my mother again.”
Mr. Griffin put a hand on my shoulder, patted.
“You have to understand something about getting old, Jacqueline. We can’t hold on to our health. It’s impossible. But we try like mad to hold on to our dignity.”
My eyes teared up, but I refused to cry.
“I just want my mom to be safe. Dignity doesn’t matter.”
“But it does, Jacqueline. Once dignity is gone, the will to live isn’t far behind.”
I walked away, heading for my overnight bag.
“Fine. I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“You can, but your mother was quite clear. She refuses to speak to you until you stop bullying her. I’m sorry.”
I clenched my teeth and my fists, wanting to scream. Instead of picking up my carry-on, I walked past it and headed for the bathroom. Seeing where it happened, seeing the mess, would help steel my resolve.
The bathroom was spotless.
“I cleaned it up earlier.” Mr. Griffin put his hand on my shoulder again. “She’ll come around. Just give her time. Asking for help just isn’t your mother’s way.”
I spun, ready for a fight.
“Neither of you seem to think she needs help.”
Now it was his turn to look sad.
“Oh, she does. Yes, she does.”
“So you agree with me?”
He nodded.
“Why does that make me feel even worse?”
Mr. Griffin, with the spring-loaded pelvis, hugged me, and I hugged him back, and we spent a moment trying to understand the unfairness of it all.
“Should I get a motel room?” I asked. “Try to force her hand?”
“She doesn’t want you here right now, Jacqueline. It’s best if you go home. I’ll talk to her. This will all work out.”
I nodded, but deep down I knew differently.
The three-hour plane ride back to Chicago seemed to take a million years.
CHAPTER 5
I made it home a little after three in the morning. I live in Wrigleyville, in an apartment on Addison and Racine. It’s a loud neighborhood, the streets always full of Cubs fans and barhopping kids, many of whom like to spend their evenings directly under my window, shouting at one another. As a consolation, the rent is too high.
Exhaustion hammered at me like the tide, but sleep and I weren’t close friends. On good nights, I could get two hours of REM before stress woke me up.
Tonight wouldn’t be a good night.
I blame my job, since it’s easier than blaming myself. I’ve been to several general pracs, but haven’t broken down and seen a shrink yet. The latest wonder drug, Ambien, worked for me, but with consequences—the next morning I swam in an unending groggy haze that severely impaired my ability to serve and protect. So I only took it as a last resort. Besides, insomnia gave me an edge; less sleep equaled more productivity. Plus, my boyfriend found baggy eyes sexy.
There was a message from him on the machine. I let it play as I undressed.
“Hi, Jack. The conference is going well. Accountants are actually a fun bunch, once you get a few drinks in them. Naw, I’m kidding—we become even more boring. I just had a two-hour argument with some guy about accruals. I’ll be back in Chicago tomorrow night, so tell your other suitors you’re mine for the evening. I have an important question to run by you. Miss you. Love you. Hope you’re keeping the city safe. Bye-bye.”
I smirked. I met Latham Conger, head accountant at Oldendorff and Associates, ten months ago, through a dating service that Herb had conned me into joining. Latham was pleasant, attractive, attentive, employed, and heterosexual. Which, for a forty-something woman in Chicago, was like winning the lottery. He also loved me, and wasn’t put off that I didn’t return the sentiment yet.
I liked Latham, a lot. And I might love him someday. But my heart muscle atrophied when Alan left me, and I haven’t been able to get it up to speed since.
I pulled on an old T-shirt and climbed into bed. Latham’s cologne clung to the pillows, and I hugged one to my chest, thinking about his phone call.
I have an important question to run by you.
What could that mean?
As if I didn’t have enough on my mind.
Rest, as expected, defied me. I tossed. I turned. I did deep breathing and relaxation exercises that brought me close to sleep, and perhaps actually into sleep for short periods of time, but I always jerked myself awake after a few minutes.
I felt immense relief when my alarm went off and it was time to go to work.
After showering and changing into a yellow blouse, a tan jacket, and matching slacks, I did a quick makeup job with extra attention to eye concealer and headed for work.
Eight in the morning, and already the temp hovered in the nineties. Chicago, a city that didn’t smell good on average days, reeked in heat like this. I had to pass an alley on the way to my car, and the smell from the garbage cans hit me like a punch.
Kitty-corner to the 26th District, a gourmet coffee place had set up shop. I got a Columbian dark roast, black, for myself, and almost ordered a double chocolate hazelnut cappuccino for Herb until I remembered his diet. He also got a dark roast.
Caffeine in hand, I entered my building and was surprised to find it cool. In fact, it was downright chilly.
Violent Crimes Division was on the third floor. Herb sat in his office, hand in a box of fat-free chocolate cookies. He brightened when he saw me.
“Jack? Why aren’t you in Florida? Is your mom okay?”
Rather than get into it, I nodded a yes and handed him his cup.
“Coffee, thank God. I’m freezing.”
“I see they fixed the air-conditioning.”
“They did, but the temperature regulator isn’t working. They can’t shut it off.”
“Feels good.”
“Give it ten minutes, and you’ll start seeing your breath. I tried opening a window, but I can’t handle the Dumpster smell. This is just what I needed.” Herb took a sip, then made a face. “What’s this?”
“It’s coffee. That’s what it tastes like without cream and sugar.”
“It’s supposed to be this bitter?”
“Yeah.”
Herb dug through his desk and pulled out a fistful of little pink packets.
“Well, I’m glad your mother’s okay, and it’s good that you’re back. Index got a match on the prints.”
As Herb added carcinogens to his brew, I leafed through the reports on his desk.
The arms belonged to Davi McCormick of 3800 North Lake Shore Drive. Arrested once for solicitation, but clean for the last five years. Mug shots were known to be unflattering, but hers looked good enough to print. Davi was an attractive woman, much more so than the average prostitute.
I read her case details and it made sense. At the time of her arrest, she’d been working for Madame Pardieu, a high-class escort service that charged up to a grand a night. That would account for the nice neighborhood.
“Does she look familiar?” Herb asked. His jowls were stuffed with fat-free cookies, giv
ing him a chipmunkish appearance.
“Yeah, she does.”
“You’ve probably seen her a few dozen times. When we got her name I cross-reffed with Missing Persons, and found a report from yesterday, called in by her agent. She’s Sure-a-Tex Girl.”
Sure-a-Tex was a brand of tampon marketed to the younger crowd. Sure-a-Tex Girl, wearing a not very subtle red cape, flew to the rescue of women who started their period in extreme situations, such as mountain climbing or white-water rafting. The product came in a variety of designer colors, including neon green and hot pink.
“Did you contact the agent?”
“He’ll be here any minute.” Herb took a sip of coffee and searched his desk for more saccharine.
Phil Blasky’s postmortem report was the shortest I’d ever read, due to the amount of material he had to work with. An elevated histamine level and platelet count indicated the victim had been bleeding prior to her arms being severed. Tests for several dozen drugs came back negative. Lipid levels normal. No evidence of heart disease, STDs, or pregnancy. Everything else about the arms was unspectacular.
Phil noted that the handcuffs were put on after death; axe marks indicated the swings came from the front, with the arms splayed out crucifixion-style.
Officer Dan Rogers knocked on my open door. I invited him in.
“Got the GC results from the burned skin samples.” He handed me a file. “My tongue was correct. The arms were diluted with bleach.”
“No trace of anything else?”
“Nope. Bleach will clean up just about anything. That’s why it’s used by HazMat teams. Hey, Lieut, you got any aspirin? I’ve got a headache that’s making my eyes water.”
I found a bottle in my desk and tossed it to him. He shook out five, and swallowed them dry.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Call me if I can be any more help. I like CSU, but Detective Rogers has a nice ring to it too.”
Rogers left. Herb made a grunting, satisfied sound, and tossed his empty cookie box into the garbage, on top of three other such cookie boxes.
“Herb, not that I want to question your dieting efforts, but how many boxes of those cookies have you eaten today?”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say you could hibernate with all I’ve seen you eat in the last ten minutes.”
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