by Tyler Dilts
Ben checked his watch and waited. It took eight more long minutes before he saw a RAV4 park across the street. Jennifer closed the car door behind her and crossed the street. He opened the front door for her before she had the chance to ring the bell or knock.
“Sorry,” he said. “My dad’s asleep. I didn’t want the sound to wake him.”
She stepped across the threshold, put her hand on his arm, and said, “Are you all right?”
Grace says, “This morning your dad asked me for another cup of coffee.”
“Oh,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s not that. I didn’t know if it was okay. For me to get him another one?”
“You wouldn’t mind that?”
“Not at all. I just wasn’t sure if I should.”
“It’s definitely all right, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t. I like helping him.”
You smile at her.
“I don’t know exactly how to do it, though. Is it just Boost and coffee?”
You go into the kitchen and show her. “If it’s his second cup or it hasn’t been more than like an hour and a half or so, I always just do a small one.”
“Okay,” she says.
You reach up and get a cup out of the cabinet, then take a fresh bottle of Boost out of the box on the counter. “For a regular cup, it’s pretty easy. You just pour half the Boost into the cup, then fill it up with coffee and add a tablespoon of sugar.”
“Got it.”
“I know that seems like a lot, but we’re still trying to gain weight.”
Grace nods.
“For a small one, I just eyeball it now, but if you want, you can use this.” You open a drawer near the Mr. Coffee machine and take out a measuring cup. “This one’s a quarter, so just do one of each, then a big teaspoon of sugar, and stir it up.”
She smiles and nods again.
“You want to try one, for practice?”
“No, I’m good.”
And you realize of course she’s good. She probably pours a hundred cups of coffee every shift at work. You feel like a condescending idiot.
“Do you want some more coffee?” Ben asked.
Jennifer shook her head. “Not if I want to sleep tonight.”
“I could make some decaf. There’s herbal tea, too.”
“It’s okay, thanks.”
They were sitting on the couch in the living room, where they had been for more than an hour while Ben told her everything he could think of about Grace and Rob and his confusion about what to do.
“You remember what you used to tell me when I started in Violent Crimes?”
“No,” Ben said. “Not really.”
Jennifer pressed her lips together and looked down at the coffee table, and Ben knew she regretted her choice of words.
“You used to tell me the hardest part of detective work was figuring out how to be patient in the most urgent circumstances.”
He thought about that and he could almost feel the words coming out of his mouth. They felt right. Like something he would have said before. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t do anything?”
“No, I’m saying you should be patient. Let Henry do his job.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“Becerra. Sorry. I know him. He’s a good cop.”
Ben tried to remember reading Becerra’s full name on the card he left. He had read it. He’d studied the damn thing. Typed the name and number into the contacts on his phone. Looked at it a hundred times. Was it Henry? He honestly couldn’t say.
“What about Rob?” he asked.
Jennifer’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure. He was always solid, as far as I knew. But it sounds like something’s going on with him. Wait for him to get back to you. See what he says.”
“Should I tell him about Becerra?”
“Yeah. I’ll check in with Becerra tomorrow, okay? See how it’s going. And I’ll reach out to Rob, too.”
“You’d do that for me?” Ben asked.
She looked sad, but he didn’t know why. “Of course I would.”
Outside, as she was getting into her RAV4, Ben said, “Could you do one more thing for me?”
“Sure. What?”
“Find out who owns the red Camaro?”
She studied his eyes, then tilted her head and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
For about an hour, Ben felt better. Calm. Reassured. Jennifer was one of the few people who could make him feel that way. He’d partnered with her on her first permanent detective assignment in Violent Crimes. Showed her the ropes. They’d worked together for two years, until she transferred to Homicide. On their last day together she’d given him an expensive silk tie—he still cared about ties then—and a card in which she called him the best mentor she could have hoped for. He remembered reading it and trying to recall the last time he’d actually cried.
The tie was in a box on his closet shelf with two or three others he still kept just in case. The card was in the drawer in his nightstand.
When it began to seem like a long time since Jennifer had left, and the thoughts of Grace and Rob and the Camaro started to crowd out the memories, he left the TV on, with that kid who played Spider-Man talking to Stephen Colbert, and went to go look at it.
It was a simple card. Off-white with nothing but Thank You on the front in a raised blue-gold calligraphic font. How many times had he read what she had written inside? Hundreds? Surely. He had a shoebox half-full of old cards and notes, most of them received in the aftermath of the incident. He hadn’t saved many. A few from friends and colleagues, and several more from strangers who felt compelled to send him messages. He hadn’t looked through those in a long time. But there were a few he kept next to the bed. So much of what had happened in his life before had been stolen from his memory that he kept these few things close. The last letter his mother wrote, the last birthday card before Peter’s first surgery, a commendation from the chief, Jennifer’s thank-you.
He looked at her card again, the handwriting so familiar he could almost feel the odd mix of pride and sadness he’d experienced the first time he’d read it.
Ben,
I wouldn’t be going to Homicide if not for you. A lot of people could have taught me to be a better detective, but you taught me to be a better person. You’re the best cop I’ve ever worked with and I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve given me. I’ll miss you.
Jennifer
Sometimes when he read it now, silently mouthing the words as he worked his way slowly through each line, he could almost imagine what it was like to be the man to whom the note was written.
Even after he went back into the dining room and popped a couple of Peter’s Advil PMs, he still couldn’t go to sleep. He thought about the Ambien in his medicine cabinet but decided against it. When he leaned back on the couch and rested his head on the throw pillow, he realized that from that angle he could still see his old badge where he had attempted to hide it behind his mom’s photo.
In the morning, as soon as he’d put the coffee on and started the water in the kettle for Peter’s oatmeal, he sent Rob a text: I need to talk to you. He slipped the phone into his pocket and went to knock on the back-bedroom door. A few light taps, and he turned the knob and opened it. Peter was already up and in the bathroom. “You okay, Dad?” he said through the closed door.
The reply was even softer than usual. “Not much.”
Ben cracked the door open and peeked inside. His father was sitting on the toilet, hunched over with his hand on his stomach and a grimace on his face. He grunted and Ben heard a squirt of diarrhea splash into the toilet bowl. He tried to smile. “I think it’s a bad day,” he said.
After Peter had breakfast and two more small bowel movements, his stomach was hurting, so he asked if he could lie down for a little while. Ben didn’t mind, because he wanted to lie down, too.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping when he woke to the sound of a text message.
When he tried to pick up his phone, it slipped out of his hand and thudded onto the hardwood floor.
“Shit!”
Leaning over the edge of the bed, he couldn’t see the phone anywhere. It must have bounced underneath. He got down on his hands and knees and looked. There it was. About a foot back. In all the dust. He retrieved it and wiped the screen off with his T-shirt.
As he stood, he was startled by the shadow of a figure in the doorway and nearly dropped the phone again.
“I heard you shit,” Peter said.
Ben didn’t know what he meant. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom.
“Are you all right?” Peter asked.
Then he realized what his father had meant. “Yeah. I just dropped my phone. It’s okay. Sorry I yelled.”
“You don’t need to be sorry.” Peter held a pile of dirty laundry in his arms. “Not for anything.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He felt bad. Ben tried not to get angry, because he knew it could upset Peter and knock things off track. Peter’s earlier remark about it being a bad day still echoed in his head. “You need to do some laundry?”
Peter looked confused. He’d forgotten what was in his hands. Ben pointed and he looked down. “Oh. Yes, if it’s okay.”
“Of course it is. You want me to help you get it started?”
Peter nodded.
They stood in front of the washing machine and went through the pockets of Peter’s clothes. For several months after Ben moved back home, his father would always double-check the laundry. It made Ben feel incompetent and infantilized, but he’d developed a habit of washing his notes and other things he’d folded into a pocket and forgotten, so he accepted it. Once, it had been the after-visit summary and instructions from the neurologist. Another time, the key fob for the Volvo. Peter didn’t have anything of value in his pockets, though. They just went through the routine to spare themselves from having to go outside and shake bits of semidissolved tissues and paper towels off the clothes.
When the washer was full and Ben had helped his father add the laundry soap, he asked, “How’s your stomach feeling?”
“Not too bad,” Peter said.
He was relieved. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad a day after all.
Ben didn’t remember the first text until the second came. They were both from Rob.
The first said can you meet me at the mariott by the airport at 9?
The second had come at 10:30. How about 12?
Yes, Ben texted back. Where should I meet you?
lobby, Rob said. we’ll grab lunch
Before Ben left the house, he made lunch for Peter. A small banana-berry smoothie and half a slice of the vanilla loaf cake he liked.
“You look good,” his father said. Ben had put on khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a button-down collar, an outfit that these days qualified as dressed up.
“Thanks, Dad. So do you.”
Peter chuckled.
“I’ll be back in about an hour and a half, okay?” He’d made some fresh dishwater and emptied the drying rack on the counter so Peter would have something to do while he was gone.
“You don’t have to hurry.” Peter took a sip of the smoothie and frowned.
“I’ll fix you some more coffee when I get home.”
Ben kissed his father on the top of his head and locked the door behind himself on the way out. Halfway to the Volvo, he stopped, saw the neighbor’s drone buzzing through the trees, and felt a flare of irritation cut through his nervousness. Then he thought for a moment, and went back inside.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said. “I forgot something.”
He went in the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, found the bottle of lorazepam, dropped two of the tiny tablets into his shirt pocket, and headed back outside.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the Marriott. It was before. That much was certain. It looked like any other slightly-better-than-average airport hotel, except for the wall of windows that curved around the lush palm-lined pool area, making it all feel more tropical than anyplace in Long Beach had a right to.
Ben looked for Rob and didn’t see him anywhere. He was a few minutes early, so he took a seat in a pale-yellow upholstered chair against the wall, which allowed a view of both the elevators and the main entrance. While he sat and waited, he took out his notebook.
1/11 11:52
Meeting Rob at Marriott
Something’s up, but worried/anxious
Why isn’t Rob talking to Becerra?
Should I be doing this—doesn’t feel like I should be doing this
At five past noon, Ben was still waiting in the lobby. His phone rang. He knew it had to be Rob, cancelling or rescheduling. But it wasn’t. Emma’s name was on the screen. The awkward, panicked call he’d made to her yesterday had slipped his mind. He couldn’t deal with it now, though, so he sent her to voicemail and put his phone back in his pocket. In his notebook he scribbled, Call Emma.
Absentmindedly, he rubbed his index finger on his chest, feeling the two small pills in his pocket. He should have brought the pillbox. If he needed the medicine, though, he didn’t want to have to make a big production out of taking it. The way they were now, it would be easy to just pop one in his mouth and swallow. They were small enough he could even manage without anything to drink. He was about to go ahead and take one when Rob came in through the main entrance.
Ben stood up and raised a hand in an awkward, noncommittal semi-wave. It was just enough to cause a ripple of embarrassment to wash over him. Before he had a chance to worry about it, though, Rob strode over and extended his hand for a firm shake. Ben was vaguely aware of having shaken people’s hands like that himself a long time ago. Rob wasn’t wearing a suit, just a sport coat and jeans. No tie. Looked like a TV detective, mustache and all. Ben wondered if he was on the clock and what exactly he was doing in Long Beach.
“Let’s eat,” Rob said. “The restaurant’s not actually too bad.”
The Terrace Grille was tucked in the far corner of the ground floor. It supplemented the glass wall with numerous skylights that flooded the room with bright and beachy sunshine.
When the hostess left them at a table along the back wall with menus in their hands, Ben said, “Have you, have you heard anything from Grace?”
Rob shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why didn’t you want m-me to call the LBPD?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know. But let’s just take a quick look at these menus before the waiter comes over. They’ve got a lunch buffet, but it’s not as good.”
Ben wasn’t hungry. He found a club sandwich and decided he’d get that, folded the menu, and dropped it on the table. Rob was still examining his choices, as if his decision on what to eat was the most important thing he’d do all day. He looked different from the last time Ben had seen him. A little thinner, maybe? Older? Maybe it was just a haircut. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Grace. Something weird was going on. And Rob needed to tell him what it was.
“I think I’ll just get the burger. What are you going to have?”
“A sandwich?”
Rob eyeballed him. There was something in his expression Ben couldn’t quite read. It hung there between them for what felt like a long time. The awkwardness came so quickly now. A few seconds of silence and Ben’s gut started to churn. Had he said something wrong? Misunderstood something? What embarrassing thing had he done? Years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself like this. His greatest strength as a detective had been interviews and interrogations, always on the other end of the awkwardness, throwing a question or statement out into the empty space between himself and suspect or witness and letting it hang there, suspended for as long as it took for the silence to worm its way into the person’s head and take hold. Then, the silence had been on his side, and he knew how to use it, how to manipulate it, how to make it into a tool, or a weapon. Now it seemed that in every conversation with anyone but his father, he was on the other
side, looking right into the muzzle.
“What kind of sandwich?” Rob asked.
“The club looks good.”
Rob nodded and smiled amiably.
Ben said, “Or maybe the Cajun chicken?”
“I had that yesterday. Not bad.”
A server who looked like he should have been in high school instead of working a lunch shift approached the table and said, “Good afternoon. Can I get you gentlemen started on some drinks?”
They told him what they wanted and ordered their food, too. Ben went with the club, even though he felt it was probably a mistake.
“How’s your dad doing?”
“He’s okay.” Ben checked his watch. How long had he been gone? It was close to an hour already and he still didn’t know anything about Grace. Did Rob know that he had to get back home soon? “What’s going on? Why didn’t you want me to call the police?”
Rob glanced over his shoulder. The restaurant was still fairly empty. People were trickling in, but there wasn’t much of a crowd. The nearest diners were three tables away. Still, though, he lowered his voice before he spoke. “I’m sure it’s not a problem, there’s nothing to worry about.”
That made Ben worry. “Why no police?”
“Grace was involved in a case I was working on.”
Shit. Of course the thought had occurred to him, that she had been connected to Rob that way. If she hadn’t been, Rob would have talked more about how he knew her, what their relationship was, but he hadn’t. No She’s my niece or My neighbor’s kid wants to move to Long Beach. There was nothing like that, so of course Ben had wondered. “Involved how?”
“She was a witness. Helped us make a big case, but the thing fell apart before trial.”
Ben thought about it. It was a hell of thing, asking someone to give evidence in a big case. In some circumstances, it could put a person at risk. It wasn’t at all unusual for the witness to want to get away, to put some distance between themselves and whoever they helped put in jail. But that didn’t explain why he shouldn’t have called the cops.
