by Chassie West
My headache intensified. This woman needed locking up. Jail or psychiatric ward, I didn’t care. I forwarded the message to Duck at work, and to both Thackery and Willard.
The second message was more controlled but no less menacing. At least the capitals were back.
You won’t see me but I’ll see you. And before it’s over you’ll see nothing at all. Hope you slept well.
The third made me smile a little.
You can’t stay in that apartment forever. When you come out, I’ll be waiting.
So, if she’d been in the vicinity this morning, the disguise had worked; she hadn’t recognized me. But Mrs. Luby’s conk on the head made me think. Granted, the coat was the deciding factor for her, but if she’d mistaken me for the loony, then the wig, makeup and padding had had an unintended result. It had never occurred to me that I might now resemble Bitch Bar None. So there was a possibility that the jogger who’d mistaken me for someone named Shelly might have dropped her first name in our laps. And if she’d ever done a show at Arena, the jogger, at least, would recognize her picture immediately.
I checked the answering machine to make sure there was plenty of room for a message, in case Sunny called with good news. I was just turning away when the phone rang. I snatched it up and said, “Hello? Sunny?” before the caller ID registered in my brain. Things were still processing a bit slowly up there.
“I got the e-mail you sent and who’s Sonny?” Duck asked, his interpretation of the name as being masculine obvious by his tone.
“S-U-N-N-Y,” I spelled it out for him. “Someone I met at Arena this morning. And there’s a possibility—a small one, but still a possibility—that our girl’s first name is Shelly.”
“What makes you think that?” He didn’t sound as miffed as he had last night. By the time I’d finished telling him about the mistake by the jogger and the assault-by-Luby, all evidence of his temper were gone.
“Are you all right? Seriously, babe, you may have a concussion. I mean, a barbell? She could have killed you!”
“Well, obviously, she didn’t and my head’s feeling better. I swear. The barbell probably wasn’t all that heavy, just effective. By the way, I stopped to see Plato and he asked a question I hadn’t considered before. I met this Shelly—sorry if that turns out not to be her name; it’ll do for now. I met her back in the spring, gave her my name, etcetera when she threatened to lodge a complaint. So why’d she wait until the fall to start this war? What lit the fuse?”
He snorted. “As nuts as she is, it might have been anything or nothing. Maybe she’s been stewing about it ever since and finally decided to get it out of her system.”
Or perhaps the imminent arrival of the Shakespeare repertory company had pushed her toward the edge. She’d obviously kept up with the reviews as they opened around the country. The symbol of a major missed opportunity right here on home territory might have been enough to do it, since she obviously wasn’t stable.
“The reason I called,” Duck said, interrupting my thoughts, “Jensen brought in the video of the wedding and reception and is showing it in one of the conference rooms. Thought you might like to see it and go out to eat afterward or something.”
Ah. I’d finally gleaned the real purpose of the call, a fishing expedition, a way to find out if I was ready to forgive him. His “or something” gave it away. Duck rarely said that unless he was uncertain about the outcome.
This presented a quandary. I had no interest in seeing Jensen’s video; I’d been there, the reception had gone on forever, and I had a to-do list to pare down. And a headache. Still . . .
“Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way. Oh, and I’m driving Janeece’s Cadillac.”
“You’re WHAT?”
“See you in a half hour or so,” I said, and hung up, grinning. Payback. How sweet it was.
The skies had been sulky this morning but had improved immeasurably since then. Climate in the Washington area was always fickle, rarely sticking to the party line when it came to seasons. Except for three or four days, few and far between at that, there had been no truly cold weather this month or last, despite the anomaly earlier this week when it had snowed for all of seventeen seconds. Granted, the winter solstice was a couple of weeks away, but given the District’s history, it would probably be warm enough for shorts that day, just to show who was in charge. I turned on the radio, found an all-news station, which before long announced that the whole area was wallowing in lower-sixties balminess. Fine by me. I hated cold weather.
As I zipped up the Anacostia Freeway toward Minnesota Avenue, I wondered what the temperature was on the Chesapeake. I’d find out tomorrow; the aunts weren’t expecting me, but I knew their after-church routine well enough to know when I’d be able to catch them and let them know I’d need their services as a seamstress after all. I would have to be firm with them. No virginal white frou-frou. It promised to be a battle, but one I was determined to win.
I swept down onto Minnesota and headed toward East Capitol, grumbling at how smoothly traffic flowed today. I’d hoped to get to the Sixth District station late enough to avoid having to sit through too much of the videotape so that Duck and I could go on to dinner. Saturday traffic, however, was never as frenetic as during the week, and I arrived at my destination sooner than I’d hoped. And burst into laughter to see my beloved outside, waiting for me. Correction: waiting to see the Cadillac. About that I had no illusions. My spirits lifted. Perhaps we’d be skipping the videotape after all.
He recognized the car but did a double-take when he got a good look at me. I’d have loved to forgo the wig but hadn’t dared. The expression on Duck’s face left no doubt what he thought of it as he pointed, gesturing toward an available parking spot. I managed to get into it without embarrassing myself, and rolled down the window.
“Want to drive?” I asked, fluttering my fake lashes at him.
“You weren’t lying. This really is Janeece’s. How’s your head? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“As all right as I can be in this getup. The aspirin and ice bag helped. I’m fine or I wouldn’t have driven.”
He squatted outside my door, taking in the interior, and whistled in admiration. “So where’d you bury Janeece? She’s gotta be dead. There’s no way you’d be behind the wheel of this beauty otherwise.”
I relented and confessed to my astonishment when she’d suggested the arrangement. “She’s in hog heaven test-driving a rented Mercedes, says she’s always wanted one. Chet brought mine back, but we figured that since Ms. Shelly Malicious knows it intimately, so to speak, we’d pull a fast one on her. Looks like it worked. Duck, do you mind if we skip watching the video? I’m starving, enough to let you play chauffeur.”
“Deal. Unlock the door.” His eyes glittered with anticipation. The man was practically drooling.
I got out and he was in before I’d barely cleared the seat.
“Some chauffeur you are,” I said, watching him move it backward. “Protocol says you’re to escort me around to the passenger side and do the honors for me, door-wise.”
“Uh-huh.” Fiddling with the controls for the mirror, he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Which is why he didn’t notice when one of a pair of uniforms striding past stopped and palmed my shoulder. His partner hesitated, then kept going.
“Hey, Mick! How come you didn’t call me?” His voice was a low, sultry growl in my ear.
I turned, looked up. Six-two, Latino or Hispanic, and lip-smacking gorgeous. “Excuse me?”
“You were supposed to call me in exchange for the wine in my lap.”
“Wine? In your lap?”
A frown wormed its way between glossy black brows. His gaze shifted from me to Duck and back. “Oh. Hey, Duck. Sorry, miss. My mistake. I thought you were someone else.”
“Who?” I asked. If this was a repeat of this morning’s encounter at Arena Stage, I was taking no chances.
“Yeah, who, Lopez?” Duck echoed me, scowling, the mirrors forgo
tten.
The officer backed up a step, distinctly uncomfortable now. “Micky something, I don’t remember her last name. She accidentally spilled a glass of wine on me at Jensen’s wedding reception and—”
“Lopez!” his companion shouted, snatching open the door of a squad car some distance away. “Come on! We’ve got a ten-fifty PI, East Capitol and Southern!”
“Uh, sorry, gotta go,” Lopez said, backpedaling before turning to sprint away. He hopped into the cruiser and it burned rubber moving into traffic, lights flashing, siren climbing the scale.
Ordinarily the news of a traffic accident with personal injury would have evoked a Pavlovian response from me, pulse jumping, a small jolt of adrenaline. My heart rate had certainly revved up several beats per minute but not because of the ten-fifty PI.
I stared at Duck. “No wonder Eddie and Billings and what’s-his-name swore they’d seen her somewhere before! She was at the wedding, too!”
“Be damned. Move, babe.” I backed up so he could open the door. “We’ve got to go watch a video.”
The lights in the conference room were lowered, the chairs around the big table occupied by a half dozen cops, most in civvies. A few in uniform ringed the wall, their focus the big monitor at the end of the room. This was foreign territory to me. I’d expected it to be a bit more posh. It wasn’t and I was a little disappointed.
Jensen, nearest the VCR, a silly smile on his face, watched his image as he clomped his way awkwardly through a waltz with his wife’s sister, the maid of honor. Marty’s partner was her father, a real smoothie, circling the dance floor with panache.
Duck pulled out a chair for me and I sat down with a nod in response to the assorted greetings. The few who knew me stared for a moment, undoubtedly puzzled by the wig and makeup. Duck moved to Jensen’s side and squatted, whispering in his ear. Jensen stiffened, looked at him wide-eyed, whispered something in return, then got up and left the room.
The plainclothes in the next chair moved down one and Duck slipped in beside me. “He’s calling Marty,” he said softly. “She’s got a whole database on diskette, invitees with addresses and what wedding gifts they sent so she could mention them in her thank-you notes. Jensen’s having her shoot it to him via e-mail. He’ll print it out for us.”
Good old Marty. She and Jensen had been engaged for fifteen years before tying the knot. It’s a good thing she’d never met Plato, I reflected, or she’d have been married years ago. She was older than he was by a decade or more but when it came to computers, they’d have had enough of a shared passion to delete any obstacles.
We sat through more dancing and lame jokes by the DJ between songs, then the four-course meal, which played havoc with my empty stomach. The camera made several circuits of the room, moving in for close-ups of the guests, the videographer obviously determined to catch all the attendees at least once. The conference room erupted in guffaws and good-natured insults as they recognized their images on screen. The headcount ebbed and flowed as some left to answer their pagers and others arrived, still in uniform, their shifts just ending.
Duck and I were silent, intent on the faces on the screen as the camera panned back and forth. I squirmed with dismay whenever I spotted myself. Even allowing for the fifteen pounds contributed by the camera, I looked as if I should have skipped the meal. As hungry as I was now, I reconsidered dinner with Duck. This was sheer torture.
The tape ended. I hadn’t seen anyone who resembled the photos from the bridal shop. I’d paid particular attention to Lopez when I finally spotted him, but of the women at his table, only two were African American. Perhaps she’d occupied the vacant chair to his right.
Duck got up and pushed the button to rewind the tape. Most of the company left but a few remained, settling down at the table, saying they’d missed the beginning. We had too, and as much as I dreaded it, we couldn’t afford to leave until we’d seen it all.
Marty and Jensen had just been pronounced man and wife when he returned, a sheaf of pages in his hand. Not wanting to disturb the others, Duck and I got up and moved to the rear of the room, our backs against the wall so we could still see the screen.
“Dead end,” Jensen said, handing over the pages. “At least as far as who received invitations. Marty says she’s sure she didn’t invite anyone named Micky—which is probably Michelle—or Shelly, but she might have come with one of the guys. That’s why we didn’t use place cards. Some of the RSVPs included who they were bringing, some didn’t. As long as they indicated how many, we didn’t care.”
“We didn’t spot her in the video,” I said, my eyes glued to the monitor where Jensen and Marty were climbing into the rear of a limousine. “At least not yet.” I searched the crowd outside the church, but there were so many. Half the force had turned out for this long-awaited wedding.
“Keep your fingers crossed that she does,” Duck said, his expression grim. “Otherwise, we contact every male on the list and ask him the name of his guest.”
“Sorry, guys.” Jensen jammed his hands into his pockets. “Let me know if you think of anything else I can do.”
The wedding proceedings had switched to the reception hall, capturing attendees as they entered through the double doors. Duck draped an arm around my shoulder and we watched with increasing frustration through the introduction of the wedding party at the head table, mini speeches, toasts, and the beginning strains of the wedding waltz, which is where Duck and I had come in. No sign of Shelly. He squeezed my shoulder, a signal that we might as well leave. We waved a good-bye to Jensen and threaded our way out into the hall.
“Well, that was a waste of an hour and a half,” Duck said, ushering me through the squad room.
“Yes, but think how much tape wound up on the cutting room floor, so to speak. The wedding was at four. We left at eight-something and people were still dancing. Suppose Michelle got edited out.”
He slowed, nodded. “You may be right. Let me go back and get the name of the video guy from Jensen. I’ll meet you at the car.” He hurried away.
I stood for a moment, consumed with nostalgia by the scents, sounds, and controlled chaos of the squad room. Half of the desks were vacant, phones ringing unanswered. Nearest me a woman who was probably a bag lady sat in a visitor’s chair waiting for the return of a detective. A group of plainclothes huddled in a far corner, their conversation low and intense. I hadn’t realized how much I missed all this, the camaraderie, the sense of doing something of value despite the mental and emotional fatigue, the stress. Heading up the Shores’ police force would be a far cry from my days as a part of this organization.
For a third of a second, I wondered if I’d made a mistake severing my ties with the District police department. There were plenty of jobs I could have done, but the bum knee would have confined me to a desk most of the day. I loved the street, moving from one location to another, responding to calls for help. Yet I’d never be able to join a foot pursuit and that pursuit might be instrumental in catching a perp or, God forbid, coming to the aid of a fellow officer. On the District’s streets, one was as likely to occur as the other. I couldn’t chance failing, not when someone’s life might be at risk. No. No mistake. I’d done the right thing.
I left the building and was heading for the Cadillac when a two-fingered whistle from behind me made me look back. Lopez, a streak of dirt across his cheek and a rip in the knee of his pants, trotted toward me.
“Sorry about whistling,” he said, closing in on me, “but I couldn’t remember your name. I wanted to apologize again. I shouldn’t have—”
“It wasn’t a problem. What happened to you?” I asked, my curiosity getting the best of me. “I thought it was a traffic accident.”
“It was, a hit-and-run, but the driver bailed out a block away. A couple of witnesses caught him and were holding him for us.” He chuckled. “It took a bit of convincing to get him to come along quietly. Uh . . .” His face sobered. “I just wanted to check with you about Duck, make sure I
didn’t piss him off.”
“He understood, and I’m glad to see you again. This Micky you thought was me. Duck and I just sat through the videotape. We didn’t see her. You’re sure she was at Jensen’s wedding?”
“Hell, yes. I’ve got a cleaning bill to prove it. Something startled her as she was pouring the wine and I wound up wearing it.”
“She wasn’t at your table. Where was she sitting? Who’d she come with?”
“Oh, she wasn’t a guest. She was serving.”
I felt something implode behind my eyes. No wonder we hadn’t seen her.
I grabbed him and planted an eardrum-shattering kiss on his grimy cheek. “You, Lopez, are my hero.” I left him there, dark eyes wide with confusion, as I hurried back into the station house.
I ran headlong into Duck just inside the door. “She wasn’t a guest,” I said, pulling him out of the way of traffic. “I just ran into Lopez outside. She was with the caterers, a waitress!”
His jaw sagged for a second before he grabbed my hand. “Come on.”
We headed back to the conference room double-time, me struggling to keep up with him. Opening the door, he beckoned to Jensen.
Puzzled, Jensen left the rear wall, tripping over the foot of a baby face in uniform as he made his way out. “What’s up?”
“The woman we’re looking for, Micky, Michelle, whatever, was one of the waitresses. What’s the name of the caterers you used?”
“Uh . . . Celebrations. The owner’s some friend of—”
“Celebrations?” Duck cut him off. “Off Eastern Avenue? Not the place that burned last night where they found two bodies?”
Jensen ogled him. “You’re kidding. I hadn’t heard.”
Duck looked down at me. He didn’t have to say it, I knew what he was thinking. But he said it anyway.
“Aw, shit.”
18
I DIDN’T REMEMBER UNTIL WE GOT THERE because it had been years since I’d worked in this district, but Celebrations had been a big, white clapboard house, two-storied, probably a result of the building boom after World War II. Emphasis on “had been.” It would never be habitable again. Sunset was approaching but we could see clearly that the only thing remaining was a shell and not a lot of that.
