Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  The anguish in his voice cut through her stupor, and suddenly Eleanor felt more clear-headed than she had for days. "Who's your attorney?"

  "Attorney? I don't have an attorney. I've never needed one."

  "Surely you know somebody, someone who can come get you out of there?"

  "I know a lot of corporate guys, but no criminal lawyers."

  "All right. I'll be there in a few minutes, Ted."

  She got her bag and a sweater and stepped into the muggy evening air. What a terrible time for Ted to be arrested. How could she bail him out after-hours on the weekend? To make matters worse, her credit card was cancelled, and she hadn't yet received a new one. If she could track down her PIN number, she could get two hundred dollars from a cash machine, and she had at least a hundred dollars in her purse. But surely that wouldn't be enough? If Ted was charged with a felony crime, it was more likely that several thousand dollars would be needed.

  What else could she do but show up and try to help? Perhaps she'd have to see a bail bondsman.

  Just after ten p.m., she arrived at the station, but it was nearly eleven before an officer came out to the lobby to talk to her.

  She rose. "I'd like to see my nephew immediately. What do you require—identification?" She opened her wallet and tried to give the sergeant her driver's license.

  He stepped back, palms up and facing her. "Oh, no, ma'am. That's not necessary. You see, I can't let you in with or without ID. Visiting hours are long past, and Mr. Trimble is being processed now anyway."

  She stood speechless, her mind blank, with no idea what to do next. The officer took pity and patted her on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. You probably can't get access until tomorrow or Monday."

  "What about Detectives Flanagan and DeWitt—where are they? I've been trying to reach them all day."

  "They're out on a case. I can leave a message for them, but I have no clue when they'll be back."

  Behind the officer, she saw two men come into the lobby, one in street clothes, the other in a uniform. They shook hands, and the civilian waved and marched off toward the front door. The cop turned, and Eleanor recognized him. She surprised the officer in front of her by stepping around him and calling out, "Officer Caldwell. Jasper Caldwell."

  He stopped and squinted, then strode toward her. "Mrs. Sinclair. How you doing?"

  "Not so good. My nephew has been arrested."

  "Oh, I didn't know. I'm sorry."

  "Can you help me? Please?" She tried to force down the panicked edge on her voice, but she saw the alarm in his eyes.

  He glanced at the other cop, and something passed between them. "Let me handle this, O'Donnell, why don't you?"

  "No problem, Jazz. She's all yours."

  He faded back, and Eleanor focused on Jasper Caldwell. "Is there anything you can do to help me get my nephew out on bail?"

  "Let's go find a cubbyhole where we can sit and talk."

  He led her through a maze of passages, stopping along the way to duck into a break room and pick up two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups. The cubicle they ended up in contained a scarred table with four chairs crammed around it.

  He set the coffee down and invited her to sit. "I know what happened the evening of Callie Trimble's death, Mrs. Sinclair, but tell me what's happened since then."

  She quickly outlined the facts and wound it up by saying, "The funeral is Thursday, and Ted's a pallbearer. I have to get him out before then. In fact, he needs to be released now."

  "Let me go check something, will you? I'll be back as quick as possible."

  When he left the cubicle, it seemed he'd taken all the air with him. Eleanor closed her eyes. Elbows on the table, she put her head in her hands. Maybe she should have called Howard. He probably would know a lawyer. Maybe she ought to search the yellow pages and find an attorney now, any attorney. Surely there must be all-night services available for these kind of cases. She opened her eyes and took a sip of the bitter black coffee. Though she didn't much care for it, the liquid was hot and somehow soothing. She'd drunk half the cup before Jasper stepped in and sat, his big frame filling up the space.

  He patted her hand awkwardly. "A buddy of mine is checking on him."

  "Thank you, Jasper. You don't know how much I appreciate this. Am I keeping you from your work?"

  "No. I've been off-duty for half an hour. Just haven't been able to get out of here."

  "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to keep you from your family. Do you have a wife at home worrying?"

  "Nah, she doesn't worry until after midnight. I'm never home right away. If I'm not finishing up paperwork, I'm working out in the gym or having a beer with the guys. She's used to it."

  "I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't happened by. This is all a nightmare. Unbelievably so."

  "I'm sure it is."

  An officer stopped in the doorway to the cubicle. "Jazz, boss says she can see him before we take him to lockdown, but only for a couple minutes. I'll give you a holler."

  "Thanks," Jasper said. " 'Preciate it."

  Tears filled Eleanor's eyes, and she fought to keep them from brimming over. "Ted is from a good family. I've known him his whole life. In fact, I held him the day he was born. He grew up to be a good man and never committed a crime in his life." Jasper's expression shifted. "Oh, Jasper, I know what you're thinking—that he probably never got caught—but I'd stake my entire fortune on his innocence."

  "You may have to, Mrs. Sinclair. He's being charged with two counts of murder."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED muggy and hot. Leo sat slumped at the breakfast table in the solarium off the kitchen. Through the sliding glass door, she had a good view of the sun coming up over the top of the hedge that bordered their backyard, but she was avoiding the bright light.

  She'd slept poorly and been up for a couple of hours reading the pamphlets and books Dr. Winslow had provided. After the first read-through, she'd gone back over a lot of the material again, most of which was difficult to digest. With every section she read and understood, her spirits sank lower.

  I can't believe I have cancer, she kept thinking. Cancer. The word gave her the shivers and made her want to spit up the cinnamon tea she was drinking. Cancer. The horrible disease that had ripped her mother from her life, leaving her forever wondering what her world would be like if she had parents. Her father, dead before her birth, had missed her entire life, and her mom had missed so much: Leo blossoming from a child to a young woman, her track-and-field awards, graduation from high school, completing the police academy with high honors, promotion to sergeant, and her commitment ceremony with Daria four years earlier.

  How strange it was to realize her mother hadn't lived long enough to ever know Leo was a lesbian.

  But it wasn't just the rites of passage where Leo missed her mother. She missed the steady, approving presence, the unconditional love she'd always felt in her childhood. Until she was well into her teen years, Leo had fallen asleep at the Wallaces' home imagining her mother coming to her in the night, sitting by the bed, stroking her hair, and saying that it had all been a mistake. When she awakened, the world would be a different place. She and her mother would still live in the house across the street, and the Wallaces would be their friends, not Leo's foster parents.

  Each morning her hopes were dashed. She must have been a sophomore in high school before she let go of the fantasy.

  What would Elizabeth Reese think of Leo today? Would she be happy with the path Leo had chosen? With the life she'd built with Daria? And what would her advice be about this diagnosis? Would she say to take the chance that it was benign and would grow slowly? Tell her to undergo the frightening treatments? Or might she advise Leo to get it cut out as quickly as she could?

  Leo didn't know. So much time had passed since her mother's death that sometimes she couldn't quite conjure up how she looked. Over the last several years, when Leo found herself unable to remember the shape and color and life
in her mother's face, she hastened to the bookcase, pulled out the photo album, and studied as many pictures as she could until once more she could imagine her mother in three-dimensional, fully rounded, living, breathing detail.

  Her tea had cooled, but she drank a sip anyway. She wished she'd told Thom to pick her up in time for the early service at St. Vladimir's. Chances of her going back to sleep now were slim, and she had a lot of time to kill before he arrived.

  She thought about Daria, who was still moping around the house as though she'd already lost the Dunleavey case. Leo had tried to encourage her the day before, suggesting she complete one last comprehensive review of the facts, then do something pleasant, something restful for the remainder of the weekend, so that Monday morning she'd feel sharp and energetic, able to jump all over the witnesses. Daria had nodded and stalked off to her office, emerging every couple of hours for snacks and beer and never saying another word.

  Leo felt helpless to do anything to lighten Daria's load. She'd tried to interest her in lunch and had suggested going out to dinner, to no avail. Daria stayed holed up in her office and didn't come to bed until after three a.m. Once awakened, Leo never slipped off again, so here she was, under-rested and over-worried.

  At least she didn't have a hangover today.

  By the time she showered and dressed for the church service, the temperature outdoors had risen to an unseasonable eighty degrees. She wore a pair of light cotton slacks, a short-sleeved blouse, and white sandals. After transferring her badge and wallet from her valise to a white leather bag, she unplugged her phone from the charger and squeezed it in, too. No room for a gun, but churches tended to frown on visitors showing up armed.

  When Thom's van skidded to a stop in front of her house, she stepped out from the air conditioning into thick, humid air so soaked with water that the small leather bag felt sticky. By the time she got into the van, she was sweating, and her legs felt unpleasantly clammy.

  "It's a muggy one," Thom said, by way of a greeting.

  "I can only hope St. Vladimir's has AC."

  "No kidding." Thom wore loafers, tan pants, and a royal blue polo shirt. His black hair, combed back off his face, still looked damp from the shower. "Shall we play good cop/bad cop?"

  "With a minister?"

  "Come on, plenty of men of the cloth are well-known to be troublemakers and criminals. Consider the pedophile fiasco in the Catholic church or the Ted Haggard scandal. Some of those guys on TV are raking in the dough to finance their own lifestyles, not provide for real ministries."

  "I remember Jim and Tammy Faye Baker vividly. They practically ruined TV during my childhood years. I take it you're not a huge fan of churches?"

  "I wouldn't say that. I was an altar boy at St. Aggie's until I was seventeen. I'm pleased to say nobody ever touched me inappropriately. I'm still on Father Michael's Christmas card list, and my parents haven't missed many Sundays in about forty years. But in this line of work, you tend to get a little suspicious about people's intentions, don't you? You're a cop. Don't you see the worst from a lot of the people you encounter?"

  She admitted that was true and drooped in the seat, feeling fatigued. Out the window, the city streets flashed by, and it was all she could do to keep from dissolving into tears.

  "Hey," Thom said, "what's the matter?"

  She hesitated. She hardly knew the guy, so why pour out her tale of woe? "I didn't sleep well at all. I'm not feeling as sharp as I'd like to."

  "I can sympathize. I had a few beers last night so I didn't want to drive. I camped out on my buddy's couch and woke up with a kink in the side of my neck."

  She glanced at him. If she wasn't watching him manipulate the brake and accelerator by hand, she wouldn't be able to tell he was crippled and couldn't jump out of the vehicle and walk. "I hate it when my neck does that. Of course, lucky me, I didn't sleep long enough to manage to get kinked up."

  "You are lucky, then." He gave her a big grin. "So we'll go into this thing as The Crip and the Wasted Woman, and we can both be the bad cop."

  Leo felt her face flush with heat. She'd just referred to Thom in her own thoughts as a cripple, but for him to say it out loud embarrassed her.

  "What?" he said. "You're offended by the characterization? Okay, then let's make it The Crip and the Lethargic Lady."

  "No. Not about me, the way you're speaking of yourself."

  "Me? But I am a crip, aren't I? I've even got the crip sticker to prove it." He said it with a hint of glee in his voice and pointed at the blue and white disability tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

  She wasn't sure what to say. "But—but it's not very respectful."

  He turned off Lexington Avenue onto a side street and gave a jerk of his thumb toward the backseat. "The chair is not me, but it defines me in a lot of people's eyes. It's the first thing people see when they look at me."

  She met his gaze, still embarrassed and at a loss for words. She wanted to tell him that the first thing other people saw when they met him might be the chair, but his dark eyes and pleasant demeanor were what they'd remember. She felt that was too personal, too forthright, so she kept silent.

  What was the first thing people noticed when they looked at her? And if she lost her right eye, would that define her in the same way Thom's chair seemed to define him?

  "Aha, here's the church." He pulled into the parking lot.

  She was relieved about not having to respond to Thom's comments or further contemplate her own questions. All the handicap slots were full, so he found a spot in the farthest corner. Last time she'd ridden with him to Rivers' Edge, she hadn't paid attention to how he got from the driver's seat to the wheelchair. This time she stayed put and watched. His wheelchair was folded up and tucked into a slot directly behind his seat. He pressed a button overhead and the passenger's side door next to the chair slid open. He popped open the driver's door and swung his legs out. With one hand outside and one inside the vehicle, he neatly slid the chair out and leaned down to set it on the ground where it opened up with a clank. Grabbing the overhead handle and the doorframe, he lowered himself. For a moment he seemed to be standing, and then he twisted and landed gracefully in the chair.

  She got out and went around the van to find him attaching a pack to the handles of the wheelchair. "I'm pretty sure I'd never be able to do what you just did."

  "What? Flop out of the van? It's easy."

  "You've got to have incredible strength to do that."

  "I lift weights, and I stay active. I don't want to be like some of the guys I know who can hardly get around because they don't stay in shape. But I have to admit it helps that I lost so much muscle mass in my legs. In my football days, I weighed as much as two hundred pounds. I'm maybe one-sixty now." He pressed a button inside the rear door, and the slider shut.

  She slammed the driver's door. "What's the plan, man?"

  "I think we should play it by ear. Why don't you take the lead, and I'll jump in whenever it feels appropriate."

  With a nod, she headed across the parking lot. High above her, the church's pitched roof was under repair. Tar paper was tacked down, and the roofers had installed a gangway and a cat ladder on the steep surface. Bundles of shingles lay spaced out below the peak, in another row near the middle of the roof, and here and there along the gutters.

  Thom said, "That's some roof project. It's amazing how expensive a roof is for such a good-sized church."

  They entered the church through the center door of three entrances. From the foyer, a huge, arched door in the middle and two sets of open double doors on either side led into a giant sanctuary. Voices sang a hymn—something about hailing the power of Jesus' name—but the sound was muffled in the enormity of the sanctuary.

  Thom rolled to the right, and they went in and saw clusters of people throughout the church. Leo estimated they could cram over 400 people in, but only about a hundred were present today.

  He gestured for Leo to slide into the last row, and he maneuver
ed his wheelchair next to her in the aisle. A man seated several feet away handed her a program, and she whispered her thanks.

  The church was a strange mix of new and old. The building was obviously modern, and its lines were crisp, accented with lightly stained wood. Three windows on the side walls contained stained glass panels, and they were dark enough not to let in much light. Most of the illumination in the church came from overhead hanging lamps or through banks of lancet windows high up, near the ceiling. Light from those windows reflected inside from a parchment-colored ceiling.

  The pew Leo sat on was smooth wood with no cushioning. The seat back was more upright than she found comfortable, and she could already tell that it wouldn't take long before she'd feel stiff.

  The floor was covered in a short-napped carpet speckled with brown, red, and tan. A thicker carpet in a rich red ran up the middle aisle all the way to the steps that led up to the altar. The chancel area was surrounded by an elaborate railing made of heavy dark wood that matched the wood of the altar. Behind the altar, Reverend Trent stood with his hands raised. Once the hymn ended, he intoned a prayer. His dark beard was bushy, peppered with gray. Over his white robes he wore a beautiful green brocade vestment with a golden cross.

  Above the minister's head, Jesus hung from a rough wood cross in a particularly grisly-looking, life-size crucifixion pose. The thorns in his crown seemed so sharp that it was no wonder drops of blood dripped down His agonized face. Blood oozed from the sword wound in His side, and His hands and feet glistened with blood. The artist who had painted the figure had outdone him or herself for gore. Leo shuddered. This Jesus was so real she didn't think there was enough money in the world to get her to stand below that cross. Any minute now she expected drops of blood to cascade down and spatter the Bible on its stand.

  Leo glanced through the list of readings and took note of the order of the service. St. Vladimir's was a member of the Wisconsin Synod, which she recalled was the most conservative of all Lutheran churches. She passed the program over to Thom.

  As an adult, Leo hadn't been a churchgoer. As a child, she'd only attended on big holidays with her mom until she'd gone to live with the Wallaces, staunch Catholics who rarely missed mass. Often they attended the Saturday evening service, though, because Dad Wallace's work schedule required him to work most Sundays.