Ms. Simon Says

by Mary McBride

  Maybe it was wrong of her, sending Shelby like a sacrificial lamb to the altar of Harry’s dented pride. But maybe their daughter’s well-meaning interference would help him make the decision to finally come over to her side, to accept the fact that his wife was not going to give up this business she found so rewarding in so many ways.

  Surely he would see that.

  Or not.

  My God. It was impossible to believe that they couldn’t work this out. Somehow.

  Mick had never really had a father figure in his life. His own father had walked out on him not too long after he was born, and Mick had never seen the man again. None of his mother’s boyfriends took much of an interest in Carrie Callahan’s skinny kid. Even Julie’s dad, in whose house Mick had lived while attending high school, hadn’t paid much attention to him other than to watch him like a hawk so he didn’t get his teenage daughter in trouble.

  So even as he was enjoying Harry Simon’s companionship this afternoon, this fish-cleaning business was making him pretty queasy. It surprised him, considering he’d seen his fair share of blood on the streets of Chicago.

  Shelby’s father was demonstrating his technique on about the ninety-eighth bluegill, slipping his sharp blade beneath a red-tinged gill before he sliced upward, removing the poor fucker’s head, blank bluish eyes and all, and Mick was trying to keep from tossing his cookies.

  “Think you’re getting the hang of it now?” Harry asked, flicking blood off his fingers and lobbing another fish head into a half-filled bucket.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  When the man offered him the knife, Mick demurred. “You’re the pro,” he said. “You go ahead. I’ll just watch.”

  “Fine with me.” He made short work of another fish, but this time he dispensed with the lessons in favor of another topic. “You and my daughter are moving along pretty fast, aren’t you?”

  Mick’s queasiness took a whole new turn. “I guess you could say that, sir.”

  Harry flashed him a grin then, much to Mick’s relief, and said, “I’m not giving you the third degree here, Lieutenant. Shelby’s thirty-four. She’s got a mind of her own, and it’s a pretty sensible one as far as I can tell. You have my approval, unless, of course, there are some skeletons in your closet or bodies buried under your doorstep that I don’t know about.”

  “Nothing like that.” He shrugged. “I’ve got a couple reprimands in my personnel folder, but that’s pretty standard for anybody who’s been on the job as long as I have.”

  “So, you always wanted to be a cop?”

  Mick shook his head. “No. I got married pretty young. My wife and I went to college together, then I joined the Chicago PD to support us while she went on to med school. I just stayed on in the job. Seventeen years now, give or take a couple months. That wasn’t the original plan, but it turned out okay, I guess.”

  “What was the original plan?” he asked, slapping another fish on his worktable and positioning the blade.

  Mick had to laugh. “Believe it or not, after she finished her residency and started bringing in some money, I was going to go to law school.”

  “Interesting,” Harry said. “Well, if you’re ever inclined to do it, I could be of some help. Just let me know.”

  “Actually, sir . . .” He didn’t know how to tell Harry Harry Quite Contrary that most of the lawyers he’d encountered over the years were slimeballs, sleazebags, and ambulance chasers. Granted, his was the view from the gutter, but it had disabused him of any notion of pursuing a law degree. “Well, actually, I really like being a cop.”

  “I can understand that,” Shelby’s father said. “And you’re lucky. I have enormous respect for people who enjoy their work. There’s something...”

  Mick guessed he’d have to wait to find out what that something was because Shelby came around the corner of the carriage house just then, looking beautiful and oddly determined. Maybe she was coming to his rescue. He could only hope.

  “How’s the fish gutting going?” she asked.

  “Almost done,” her father said. “We’ll be having these babies for dinner in another couple hours.”

  “Great,” Mick said, wishing he’d picked up some Pepto-Bismol while he was at the drugstore.

  “Great,” Shelby echoed. “I’ll help you fry them, Dad. That way Mom can just relax.”

  “Sounds good, kiddo,” he said.

  Mick was calculating the time left between the fish gutting and the fish frying, wondering if there were a few moments in between those events for the afternoon nap that had sounded so beguiling earlier. He was looking at his watch when his cell phone beeped in the pocket of his jacket.

  One look at the district’s number on the caller ID and he was pretty sure it would be important. They weren’t calling just to ask how his vacation was going. He excused himself and walked a short distance away to take the call.

  While she stood there and watched her father make short work of his final bluegill, Shelby remembered when he’d initiated her into his little private angler’s society one summer when she was nine or ten, as soon as he felt she could be trusted to pay strict attention to a sharp blade. Beth, as she recalled, had preceded her by at least a year because of her advanced dexterity, quiet concentration, and keen attention to detail. In other words, Shelby talked too much and tended to think her ideas were better than anyone else’s. Even then.

  “This will be some feast, little girl,” he said, winking at her the way he used to do so many years ago.

  “I can’t wait.”

  For one bleak moment, Shelby was at a loss for words, wondering how she could have the audacity, the unmitigated gall to suggest anything to this man. He wasn’t an idiot, after all. He was smart and ambitious, and he’d accomplished everything he’d set out to do in his life. Maybe now he was finally reaping the reward of all that hard work and at last enjoying the simple pleasures. Maybe he deserved this.

  Maybe—oh, God—convincing Harry Simon to go back to work would be doing him a terrible injustice.

  And then, for just about the first time in her life, Shelby suddenly didn’t trust her ability to give the right advice, so she was hugely relieved when Mick strolled back toward them, thus precluding any further father-daughter talk.

  It took her a second to comprehend that the look on her lieutenant’s face was not the one he’d worn moments ago when his phone had rung. Now he looked as he had when she’d first met him—his handsome face deeply lined with worry, his hazel eyes no longer twinkling, but filled with concern.

  “Who was on the phone?” she asked.

  “That was my office. It was about your friend at the paper. Derek McKay.”

  Shelby groaned. Journalists who competed with the law often ran afoul of the law. Derek more than most. “Oh, jeez. What’s he done now? Does he need to be bailed out or something?”

  Mick shook his head, and then reached for her hand. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Shelby. Your friend, Derek, is dead.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chicago was the last place on earth where Ms. Shelby Simon—human target—ought to be, but nobody could keep her away once she found out that there would be a memorial service for Derek McKay on Tuesday morning. Nothing her mother or father said could dissuade her. Nothing Mick said could prevent her from leaving “with you or without you.” God, she was stubborn.

  And she blamed herself for McKay’s death, which, according to Mick’s sources in the department, was being treated as an accident or suicide. The reporter, a legendary drunk, fell from the platform at the Howard Station right in front of the oncoming Red Line train.

  “Somebody pushed him,” Shelby insisted.

  “There weren’t any witnesses,” Mick said.

  “I don’t care.”

  So, since he couldn’t very well handcuff her to the front porch of the big house at Heart Lake, they were on the highway headed south at seven o’clock the next morning, and with every mile Mick could feel himself winding ti
ghter and tighter. By the time he parked the Mustang in front of the Canfield Towers, he felt like a damn jack-in-the-box. One more little turn of the crank and he was going to go right through the roof.

  “Hey, buddy, you can’t . . .” The doorman took one look at Mick’s face and fell silent. “Welcome home, Ms. Simon. Hey, I read about your coworker in the paper this morning. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you, Dave.”

  “Anything I can do for you?” the doorman asked, rushing ahead of them to open the big glass door.

  “No, thank you. That’s really sweet of you, but I’m...”

  “She’s not staying,” Mick said, his hand locked on Shelby’s elbow as he hustled her across the lobby and into the elevator.

  “Ouch.” She yanked her arm out of his grasp.

  “Sorry.”

  Once inside her apartment, Mick allowed himself to relax a notch or two.

  “Shelby, listen . . .” He gathered her into his arms and pressed her head against his chest. “This is a really stupid and dangerous thing you’re doing. You know that, right?”

  She nodded. “I still have to do it. I don’t believe for one second that Derek killed himself. You told them about his investigation, right?”

  “Yep. They’re checking out his office and his apartment, but so far they haven’t found squat.”

  “And they probably won’t. That was the thing about Derek. He hardly ever took notes. He kept all that stuff in his head.”

  Her voice got soggy again, and Mick just held her. He didn’t believe McKay’s death was an accident or suicide, either, but that wasn’t his job at the moment. He needed to keep this woman alive. It was probably the most crucial job he’d ever have in his life.

  While Shelby collected the things she’d need for the next few days, Mick sat in the living room on the beige couch next to the beige chair on the beige rug. He thought again about what Linda Simon had said about her daughter’s inability or unwillingness to make a commitment, and hoped with all his heart that it wasn’t really true. She was making a commitment right now, wasn’t she, to a deceased friend and colleague? Putting her own life at risk in the bargain, too. That counted for far more than a plaid sofa or a brightly colored Persian carpet.

  Jesus. He dreaded taking her back to his colorfully mismatched hovel, but it was safer than a hotel where there were too many strangers and too many opportunities for Shelby to get past him, whether it was a visit to the gift shop or a quick bite in the coffee shop. Mick was determined to keep her no farther than a foot away if it meant putting her on a damn leash.

  Hoo, boy. When Shelby stepped over the threshold of Mick’s apartment, the odor of faux pine nearly knocked her over.

  “Sorry,” he muttered from close behind her. “I’ll open some windows.”

  The sight of his sunflowered couch, seat-sprung recliner, and the general disorder of the place made her smile. It seemed like a hundred years since her last visit here. She’d only known him a few hours then. And now...

  Well, there was still a lot she didn’t know about Michael Rainbow Callahan, but what she knew, she loved. She’d come to that conclusion on the drive from the lake. Somewhere around Holland, Michigan, Shelby had gazed at his hands on the steering wheel, remembered how those hands had felt on her body Saturday night, and wanted him enough just then that she almost suggested they pull off the road and into a motel.

  They hadn’t made love the previous night the way they’d planned. After the news of Derek’s death, Shelby had been too upset. Mick had held her the whole night, stroking her hair, her cheek, her arm, and never once gave her any indication that he was interested in anything but comforting her and keeping her safe.

  She had felt loved. Well, maybe that wasn’t the proper word. Treasured and cared for. Safe. She had felt so completely safe in Mick’s arms.

  “Thank you for bringing me back to town for Derek’s service, Mick,” she said now. “Thank you... Oh, I don’t know... Thanks for realizing how important it is to me.”

  He turned from the window he had just opened wide, leaned a hip against the sill, and said, “Well, I’ve always thought loyalty and bravery were fine qualities in a woman.” Then he grinned as he opened his arms to her. “We won’t even discuss your pigheadedness.”

  Shelby moved into his arms, against his warmth. “I prefer the word ‘determined.’”

  “I’ll bet you do,” he said while he kissed her neck. Suddenly all Shelby wanted to do was burrow deeply into this man’s protectiveness, to get so close to him there would be nothing between them but skin.

  “I haven’t seen your bedroom yet, Callahan,” she whispered at the same time she reached for his belt buckle.

  “You’re about to.”

  He started to sweep one arm beneath her knees in order to pick her up the way he had the other night, but Shelby stopped him by taking a small step backward. He looked confused for a second.

  “What?” he asked.

  “This.”

  Shelby stepped back toward him, and with a mighty hop, clamped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, thanking her lucky stars that his reflexes were quick enough to catch her and hold her there before she crashed to the floor.

  “Now about that bed,” she said, just before her mouth centered on his.

  The bedroom was an even worse disaster zone than the living room, and the bed itself was just a mattress on the floor, but to Shelby it was heaven.

  She didn’t know the reason—perhaps because Mick had been married for so long—but he was the most wonderful and considerate lover she’d ever had. And leisurely. Oh, God. Maybe that was from being married, too, and from having plenty of time—years—to make love. Whatever the reason, Shelby thanked her lucky stars.

  This time, before he had completely undressed her, Mick leaned back on an elbow, studied her face a long moment, and said, “We don’t have to do this right now, you know. I mean, I know you’re upset about your friend at the paper. If it would be better for you after the memorial service tomorrow...”

  Shelby shook her head. “I don’t want to think about death right now. Just life. Let’s celebrate life, Mick.”

  And celebrate they did in every possible combination two bodies could explore. They rolled off the bed at least twice, so it turned out to be a blessing that it was just a mattress on the floor.

  For someone who’d been offering advice about sex and relationships for a dozen years, Shelby discovered there was still a lot she didn’t know about sex. Who knew that a hot word in her ear or a strong thumb pressed deeply into the arch of her foot could send her tumbling over the edge of the universe? Or that her being on top, taking control, could send her partner into literal paroxysms of pleasure? Or that twice was not nearly enough? Or thrice? She wondered if she’d ever get enough of this man.

  Without their realizing it, the sun managed to set while they were dozing in each other’s arms. When Shelby woke up, for a minute she thought all that explosive love-making had made her blind.

  “That only happens from doing it alone,” Mick told her.

  “Very funny.” She struggled up from the low bed. “I’m starving, Callahan. You probably don’t have anything edible in your refrigerator, do you?”

  “You’re assuming this dump even has a refrigerator.” “Does it?”

  “Amazingly enough, yeah, it does,” he said. “But there’s nothing in it except a couple beers.”

  “We could order a pizza,” she suggested.

  “Yeah, we could,” he said, “if anybody delivered to this neighborhood.”

  “Hm. Well, that complicates things a bit. If you could find me a big shirt to wear and point me to the kitchen, maybe I can find something.”

  Mick didn’t even know he had a box of saltines and a family-size can of chicken noodle soup in the cramped little pantry in the kitchen. He had no recollection of buying either one, but the crackers were still fresh and the date on the soup can indicated that the contents w
ere still okay to consume.

  He had no bowls, though, so they sat on his sunflowered couch spooning the soup out of coffee mugs.

  “This is purely an observation,” Shelby said. “It’s not a criticism. But you’re leading a really messy life, Callahan.”

  “Yeah. It feels like someone else’s life half the time.” She wound her legs beneath her and leaned back against a cushion—beautiful body language for I’ve got time. Start talking, buster. “Tell me about before,” she said.

  He’d already told her a little about his life with his mother. That left Julie. Since her death, he’d tried very hard not to think about her much less discuss her. But he realized it was time, here, now, with this woman. If he wanted to know everything about her, it was only fair that he reciprocate.

  He drank the last of the lukewarm chicken soup in his cup, put it down on the cluttered coffee table, dragged in a breath, and said, “How about a beer for dessert?” Anything to stall for a little time. Anything to make this easier than extracting his own wisdom teeth.

  They carried their beers to the bedroom where the only illumination was from a lamppost in the alley out back. The halogen beams came through the sagging Venetian blinds, casting slanted strips on the bare bedroom wall.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked, tucking Shelby’s head into the crook of his neck.

  “Everything.”

  He told her almost everything. Things he hadn’t thought about in years...

  . . . beginning with the summer his mother took up with the Guatemalan jockey, Jaime Castillo, from Arlington racetrack, and then decided to follow the guy out to California, where he wanted to try his luck at Santa Anita. For the first time in his young fourteen years, Mick had said no to Carrie Callahan.