A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1)

by Iden, Matthew

  A tremor ran from his groin to the crown of his head, tightening the skin at the back of his skull. It's what he wanted, to have her know he was back there, coming for her.

  That's when it all finally made sense to him. The flowers. The long, watchful nights outside the apartment. Trailing her through the streets. It was so obvious. It was the hunt as much as the result, the journey as much as the destination. He couldn't shortcut the approach any more than he could simply do away with the ending. Both were integral. He almost wept with the relief the realization brought to him.

  The girl was almost running by the time she passed through the glass doors of her dorm, waving her electronic key fob at the security panel in panic. He saw her again out of the corner of his eye. She'd stopped in the lobby, fearful, gasping, waiting to see if the danger she'd sensed had been real or imagined, ready to be embarrassed at a moment of excessive and unnecessary caution.

  But he had already forgotten her. He knew what he needed to do now. No more wooing or elaborate gestures; the drama was crying out for its end. He forgave himself his lapses and concentrated instead on the new feeling of purpose that ran through his soul. His pace was steady as he walked by the girl, his gaze straight ahead as he smiled beatifically to himself, as though he'd found the answer to the most difficult question in the world.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I put the dumbbells on the floor with a groan and collapsed on a workout bench that was in worse shape than I was. Foam padding erupted out of splits in the cover and there was more rust than steel in the frame. The dumbbells were filthy as well as rusted and my hands were covered in stains from the couple of sets I'd done. I'd made it home from chemo in one piece, but I was scared and frustrated with how weak I was. If this is how I was going to feel all the time, all I'd be able to do to Wheeler would be wave a fist at him.

  "Work out," Nurse Leah had said, when I'd complained.

  "Huh?"

  "Go to the gym. Walk around the block. Anything."

  "I would've thought you'd want me to rest."

  "Look, we're blasting your red blood cells with drugs," she said. "That's why you feel tired. It's not the chemo that makes you feel like crap, it's the fact that we're destroying your source of energy. If you exercise, you'll replace some of the good cells that we're killing. Not to mention it's a great way to take your mind off things."

  So, after I got home, I scratched Pierre on the head and clomped down to the basement to dig out my old weights. I managed to move some boxes out of the way before I had to take a break. Then I got the dumbbells lined up in order of their poundage, which required another sit-down. All told, I was able to knock out one set each of curls, presses, and squats before black spots swam in front of my eyes and I decided to call it a day. It wasn't really a workout, but--hell--it was something. I crawled back upstairs and stood in front of my sink, gulping water straight from the tap. I didn't stop until I could hear the water swilling around in my belly, at which point I tottered out to the living room, still sweaty, and crashed on the couch once again.

  I lay there, making the furniture unsavory, until guilt and restlessness overcame fatigue. With a sigh, I got to my feet, clambered upstairs, and returned with Wheeler's folder. Every cop knows and hates the adage, when you don't know what else to do, you start over. I flopped onto the couch, opened the case file, and read the first page. Again.

  Five hours later, the file wasn't done, but I was. Any sense of well-being and health I might've gotten from my abbreviated workout had drained away and now I felt dull and light-headed. And no closer to solving anything. I could've been reading the phone book for all the sense it was making. I got up and stretched, popping the vertebrae in my back, and let out a huge yawn. My chest was sore, and I realized I'd been fiddling with the skin around my mediport while I'd been reading. I was going to have to cover it with duct tape or I'd be scratching the thing right out of my body.

  I went to the kitchen to pour a cup, then headed back out to the living room, when I heard a car door slam somewhere out front. I pulled back a curtain to peek out. A powder blue Toyota truck with tinted windows was parked out on the curb. As I watched, the truck's cab see-sawed as someone got out of the driver's side and came around the front. I tensed, ready to grab my gun, until I saw it was Kransky. He gave the street the once over then glanced at my front door. I opened it to show him I was there. He raised his chin once, then opened the passenger door and hustled Amanda inside. I shut the door behind them, but watched the street through the window while I talked.

  "Any problems?"

  "No," Amanda said. Her voice was short, clipping the ends of the words off like she was trimming them with a knife. I glanced away from the window and looked at her, then Kransky.

  "Any problems?" I asked again.

  Kransky shook his head. Amanda said, "I've got to get some work done. Marty, can I use your office?"

  "Sure. Move the files--" I said to her back as she sprinted up the stairs"--out of your way."

  Kransky watched her go. I turned to him and said, "What's going on?"

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She doesn't want this thing to impact her life. She wants to teach class and grade papers and walk around campus like Wheeler is a guy who won't stop asking her out instead of a killer."

  "And?"

  "If I'm going to do this, I'm going to be careful. So I went up to her classroom when the schedule said she was supposed to be done and told some kids to clear off."

  "She didn't like that?'

  "I wasn't real diplomatic about it. She was mad the whole way home and I took an hour to drive back here. No sense in giving her an armed escort at GW, then leading Wheeler right back to your house."

  I glanced up the steps. "I'll have a talk with her. She hasn't totally grasped the implications of keeping herself safe from him."

  "That might help."

  "What happened to the Corolla?" I asked, gesturing towards the street.

  "I stopped by the Impound again, got the truck instead."

  "They let you do that?"

  "I can keep it up for a few days," he said. "It might mess Wheeler up if he's watching."

  "Good move," I said. I lifted my cup. "You got time for some coffee?"

  He shook his head. "No time. There's something else, though."

  "What?"

  "My friend over in Records called," he said.

  "And?"

  "Wheeler's file was expunged."

  "Expunged? As in missing?"

  "No, as in gone. Deleted. The whole thing. At least, that's what he assumed, since there's isn't even enough of a trail to tell that there was a record."

  I stared at him. "This isn't good."

  "No shit. There're cops that did some terrible things and you can still find their files. They might be eyes-only, but at least you know they're there. This one was rubbed out."

  "No mistake?"

  "None."

  "How would that happen? Who's got the authority to do that?"

  "Aside from accidents," he said, "which I don't believe in, maybe a dozen people could do it. No way peons like you or me could've ordered something like that. I don't know, maybe captains on up."

  "Any idea on who had it done?"

  "No, that's the thing," he said. "The file is totally gone, so there's not even a record of the record, if you know what I mean. He's going to keep looking, and maybe he'll unearth something, but in a year or two it'll be like Wheeler never existed."

  "If only," I said. "Anyway, why would somebody do that?"

  "To hide something."

  "Hide what? What are we talking about here?"

  "Maybe the why and the what aren't as important as the who. Someone that's in the, say, top ten movers and shakers in the force cared enough to have Wheeler's record disappear for good."

  . . .

  Kransky took off after that, promising to be back the next morning to chauffeur Amanda. I watched him go, then flopped on the couch and watched some
travel show on TV about a place in South America I'd never go to. Unable to summon the energy to change the channel, I watched as it was followed by an inane half hour program promising to reveal the Secrets of Las Vegas that were probably already common knowledge to millions of people and would soon be revealed to millions more after the commercial break. That gem was chased off the air by a two-hour special on Mardi Gras. The run-up to the show touted scenes of blurred, topless women and people dancing in the street but the cop in me just saw a city full of assholes violating ordinances left and right and creating a week's worth of headaches for anyone in uniform.

  Halfway through the show, Amanda came downstairs and dropped into a chair. We watched the on-screen chaos for a while, then I looked over at her." Frozen pizza sound good to you?"

  She nodded, mesmerized by the scenes of floats and jazz musicians. I got up and went to the kitchen, where I fished out a pizza box using tongs from the drawer. The nurses at the clinic had told me that the chemo would make me cold sensitive and I'd learned the hard way they weren't lying. The day before I'd reached in for something and yelped when I felt like I'd grabbed a hold of the wrong end of a hot plate.

  I was watching the thing burn in the oven through the glass window when Amanda came to the entrance to the kitchen and leaned against the doorway. "How are you feeling, Marty?"

  "Better than yesterday," I said. I didn't want to tell her that the tangy cheese smell coming off the pizza was making my stomach do a handstand. Maybe oatmeal would've been a better choice. I cleared my throat. "Kransky said he got under your skin today."

  "He told two of my students to fuck off," she said.

  "Ah," I said.

  "What?"

  "That's what he meant by undiplomatic."

  She folded her arms over her chest. "What's his problem?"

  "Trying to do his job. Maybe too serious about it. Then again, this is serious stuff. We don't get any do-overs on this. Kransky knows that."

  "It doesn't mean he has to be a jerk about it," she said. "I appreciate what he's doing, but would it hurt to act a little more human? When he wasn't scaring the shit out of my students, he acted like a robot. He said two words on the way in and nothing on the way back to your place."

  "I'll talk to him," I said. "He's good folk. I wouldn't want anyone else besides myself looking out for you."

  The timer dinged on the stove and I turned the oven off and opened the door. A wave of smells hit me and I had to do some serious mind-over-matter stuff when I pulled the pizza out. I put it on the stove-top and backed off, feeling queasy.

  "Marty? Are you okay?" Amanda asked.

  "I'm good," I said, my voice tight. "Help yourself. I'm going to give it a sec."

  I walked back out to the living room, but the smell had expanded to fill the entire first floor, so I went out on the front porch and stood there, hands in my pockets, breathing deeply until I decided I was more likely to freeze to death than throw up. I ventured back inside, where Amanda was picking at a piece of the pizza on a paper plate in front of the TV.

  I headed for the kitchen, waved Amanda back to her chair when she moved as if to get up to help. She'd thoughtfully wrapped all the slices in foil to cut down the smell, which helped. I ignored the pizza and reached on top of the fridge for a loaf of bread. I pulled out three pieces and choked them down. It was the single most bland and unsatisfying meal I've ever had, but it stayed down, which was the point, and it ensured I wasn't going to die of starvation.

  I went back out to the living room, and eased back into contours of the couch, watching TV and trying to act like this was another normal domestic evening for Marty Singer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Standing in my living room at eight the next morning, with his head bent to take a sip of coffee, Kransky gave me a look that could've pinned a dart to the wall. "You want me to fuck around with her life on the line."

  "No," I said. "Think about it from her point of view. No parents. Foster homes and social workers half her life. A stalker that, for all intents and purposes, has been after her for twelve years. She's got baggage a daytime talk show host can only dream about. Her future is something she's making up as she goes along and right now it revolves around teaching. Being independent. Living within her own rules."

  "Living being the key word here."

  "Understood. But there are ways and there are ways. Think about her for a second the next time you've got to insert yourself into her life. Ask her a couple questions on the way in. You've got a job to do, but you don't have to be an asshole while you do it."

  He turned his head, a sour look on his face, which for Kransky was like throwing his cup across the room and kicking the TV over.

  "We okay on that?" I asked.

  He nodded, obviously unhappy, but I could tell he was thinking about it. I heard some banging from upstairs and Amanda came down the steps, toting her backpack. Pierre slunk down with her, but stopped to watch everyone from halfway down the steps.

  I gave her a thumbs-up. "All set?"

  She smiled. "Good to go."

  "Same routine as yesterday. This will be my last day of chemo for the first round, so I'll be able to take you in after this. We'll give Jim a break so he can get back to his job."

  "Sounds good," she said, then smiled. "By the way, don't call a cab for your appointment."

  "What? Why not?"

  The smile grew wider. "I made alternative arrangements."

  I frowned. "Like what?"

  "You'll see," she said, reached up and patted me on the cheek, then tossed her hair--along with my concerns--over a shoulder. "Don't worry, Marty. It'll save you a couple bucks. Just keep a lookout by the curb."

  She turned to Kransky and said, her voice as cheerful and bright as a new penny, "Ready to go, Detective?"

  He handed me his empty cup and they walked out. As he reached back to shut the door, I heard him say, "You know, I've got a daughter your age."

  They left. I sat and glared at the wall. I hate surprises and people who knew me better than Amanda would hesitate to spring one on me. For a chemo appointment, no less. I slumped in the E-Z chair and went through the possible ideas a twenty-something would think would be neat-o. A limo? A clown car?

  I got up every few minutes to peek out the curtain to see what she'd arranged and on the third trip to the window I saw a familiar brown Chevy Malibu pull up. Julie Atwater got out wearing a lime green poncho with the hood up and green Wellies. She came around the front of the car and walked up to the porch. I went out to meet her.

  "Counselor," I said as she approached. "I hope you didn't make a trip over here for nothing. I have to take off in a minute for my chemo appointment."

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. "I know. That's why I'm here."

  "What?"

  "I'm your ride, Singer. Amanda called me last night."

  "You're kidding," I said.

  "No, I'm not and"--she peered at her watch--"if we want to make it, we better get going. You know everybody in DC loses their mind when it rains."

  . . .

  I was at a loss for small talk so, aside from me mumbling the address to the oncologist's and both of us making the small noises and hyper-conscious hand movements of people trying to think of something to say, we rode the first few minutes in silence. Lucky for us, the light mist that had been falling all morning turned into a thrashing rain that sounded like a million rubber mallets hitting the car. We peered into the middle distance, trying to make out stoplights and bumpers. The windows steamed up and trapped the smell of her perfume in the car. Julie played with the climate control, trying to un-fog the windows.

  We were stopped at a light on Wilson Boulevard, when she said--casually, almost out of the side of her mouth--"So, what's it like?"

  "What's what like?"

  She cleared her throat. "Cancer."

  I blinked. Nobody had actually asked me about my cancer. Not a single person. Everyone, including me, had just assumed it was the w
orst fucking thing that could happen to you and left it at that. No one had asked me to define it until now. I thought for a long minute, trying to fit words to the single most-life changing event in my world.

  "Never mind," she said, taking my silence for anger. "It's a stupid question."

  "No, it's not. I just don't have a quick answer," I said. "It's lousy. I thought I'd have another ten, fifteen years before I'd even have to think about retirement. Then I'd find a hobby, take a few trips, read the books I hadn't gotten to yet. I was so busy being in the middle of things I hadn't thought about the possibility of it all ending. Can you believe I've never been to the White House? Lived here thirty-five years."

  She smiled. It was a small, barely noticeable upward tug of the lips. "Me neither. Or the Lincoln Memorial."

  I glanced over. "The Lincoln Memorial? How could you have never visited that? You practically have to drive through it to get out of DC."

  "I don't know," she said. "You skip things. Like you said, you always think there's a later."

  "And then maybe there isn't," I said, then shut up as I realized how self-pitying that sounded. She didn't answer and the silence became awkward again. We stared straight ahead. Cars were jammed in the intersection for no apparent reason and when the light turned green, we inched forward only to see it cycle to red again before we'd made it a single car length. Like she'd said, when it rains in the greater DC area, everyone takes their brain out and locks it in their glove compartment.

  I cleared my throat. "Have you dug up anything about Wheeler in your files?"

  She shook her head. Her earrings swung with the movement. "No, unfortunately not. I'm starting in on the transcripts of my interviews with him, though. If I've got anything at all in the records, that's where it'll be."

  "Why's that?"

  "That's when they let the personal stuff slip. They get caught up telling me their life story and ramble on about things that have nothing to do with their trial. It's an ego trip. I have to sit through it all in case they say something that might be important later."