by Gregg Bell
Chapter Ten
When the cop finally let him go after the traffic stop, Denny drove to Summer’s. He could go to the firehouse from there in the morning. Summer kept a toothbrush for him for just such occasions. Being a Realtor she had flexible hours. But he wasn’t telling her about the cop pulling him over. He needed peace.
She welcomed him with open arms again. So loving. Even so, he was waiting for the next bomb to drop in his life. Funny, he settled on the sofa in the living room and she got him a coke. He remembered their last conversation. He claiming the possibility of there being a God. He thought of the traffic stop. No. He laughed. Summer was right—there was no God.
Yeah, she was treating him like a king. She made him a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich—so much better than the lousy bologna sandwiches he made for himself—and sat attentively by his side as he ate. It was such a difference from the way she used to treat him and although he wasn’t complaining he wondered what made for the change. “I’ve got to be at the station tomorrow morning at seven for a fitness evaluation. The whole crew does.”
“So spend the night here. That would be great.” She ran her hand along his shoulder and kissed his cheek.
She seemed so calm, so happy. The opposite of how he felt.
“Want another sandwich?”
“No, I’m good.” He dabbed a napkin to his lips. “Summer?”
“What, babe?”
“You seem so happy.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m wondering why?”
“I’m happy because you’re here.” She pushed her shoulder into his. “Because you’re my guy.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s cool. But there’s so much going on. I mean, with Rashida getting murdered.”
“Oh.” She looked off. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Well.” He knew she hated when he talked about Rashida but even so. “Yeah, I get that. But you seem to have gotten over her death really quickly.” He remembered her woeful crying when she’d first heard the news.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” She whisked his plate off the cocktail table and huffed out of the room.
* * *
Denny had too much on his mind to worry about why Summer had been so huffy. And the fact of the matter was she’d cuddled next to him when he’d come to bed and gotten up and made him an omelette before he left for the firehouse in the morning.
The firehouse. Keeping in good standing at the firehouse. It was the one thing—the one absolutely necessary thing—Denny had to do to keep his life at least somewhat going. When he got there the two fire truck bay doors were open, like they always were, the ambulance bay door shut, also as usual. The shades were drawn in the windows above the bays, except for the kitchen window, which didn’t have a shade. It was 6:43. Lieutenant Kierny would be in his office and you could bet he’d be watching the clock for when everybody showed for the fitness test.
Nobody was happy to be there that early only for the test, but they had no one to blame but themselves as their union rep had set it up that way. Most fire department brass were pretty loose about fitness tests. But not Lieutenant Kierny, who was a shining example of a rah-rah public servant. A few of the regular firemen were like him, Orson coming to mind. For the rest of us though, Denny thought, the job was the all-important meal ticket—and it helped getting chicks to boot. The cliché was being a Chicago fireman was good for those who had a second job and for drunks. Denny didn’t have a second job.
The shifts were changing and the crews switching duty were going over Swap, the mandatory examination of the fire trucks and their gear to make sure everything was in proper working order. Denny knew all the guys but was glad not to have to talk to anybody. He was sure they’d all heard about Rashida’s murder by now and he didn’t feel like getting snide looks or answering questions.
And he wasn’t particularly looking forward to talking with Brig, Orson or Powell either and wasn’t really sure he needed to anymore. They didn’t seem to have what he needed, namely to know what the hell he’d done the night Rashida was murdered, which was probably already fading from their awareness anyway. But no, the more he thought about it, the more he knew he still had a lot of questions for them. It was just with everything that had been happening lately, especially the cop pulling him over, he was feeling a little gun-shy.
He knew he’d eventually run into them in the locker room as they changed for the fitness test, but he was alone there for now. He wondered how seeing them would play out. If anyone would make a scene. If anyone would even mention Rashida. He’d of course be wondering what they were thinking, but what was he going to say, ‘Hey, let’s all sit down and discuss what we know about Rashida’s murder, and if you happened to kill her, please do tell’?
The ambulance got called out for a run while he opened his locker, the explosive whine of the siren so second-nature he hardly noticed it. He took off his coat and hung it on a hook. Most of the ambulance or fire runs were pretty ordinary in the morning, heart attacks or what have you. Seemed nothing exciting happened till night-time when people started drinking and drugging and lighting fires and shooting and stabbing each other. Denny slipped off his shirt and Brig walked in. Denny knew the showers, behind the locker room, were empty, and there was nobody behind Brig, a rare private moment in the firehouse.
Denny threw on a t-shirt. “Hey.”
Brig nodded. “Den.”
Yeah, Denny had questions for him but Brig was his one real friend and at this point Denny just wanted to talk normal stuff, just wanted to relax in his friend’s presence. “So you gotta hear the latest—I got pulled over last night for an expired license plate sticker and the cop ends up searching my car.”
Brig scowled and sat on the long bench that ran between the lockers. “Oh man, are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Bad luck, huh?”
Brig looked around as if he were thinking. “I wonder if it was that Detective Washington’s doing?”
“It wasn’t Washington who stopped me.”
Brig put his hands behind his head. “Doesn’t matter. Washington couldn’t do it because he’s a detective. He just had some beat cop do it for him.”
“Really? You think Washington was behind it?”
“I don’t know but from what I’ve heard about the guy I wouldn’t put it past him. Sounds like he was hoping to turn something up on you that way. Something that would give him leverage. What sort of bogus excuse did the cop give you for searching?”
“Marijuana smell.”
Brig laughed. “That’s classic.”
Orson walked in. “Oh.”
Brig did what he always did when Orson was around—he ignored him.
“Hey, Orson,” Denny said and he could see in Orson’s eyes that Orson thought Denny had been consorting with the enemy. Whatever. Orson had his crazy ideas. That was his problem. All kinds of conflicts happened in the firehouse and despite them, you had to get along with the other firemen. It was part of the job.
“What’s up, Brig?” Orson said, leaning on a locker.
Brig just barely made eye contact with him and it wasn’t a pleasant look.
Denny felt bad about Brig’s cutting him and said, “So when’s your recert for the scuba diving?”
“It’s not a recert, Denny. It’s just the initial certification and it’s in three days.”
Powell walked in, staring at his phone.
Suddenly Denny didn’t have a good feeling about the situation. “Hey, Powell.”
Indeed, it was as if Powell’s walking in triggered something and Orson said: “So, Brig, how’s it going with your buddy Rufus Tucker?”
Brig glared at him. “What are you mumbling about?”
Orson shot him three quick nods. “You and Tucker purifying the country of Muslims? Take any more out?”
Whoa! Denny looked all around.
Brig stood, his face cringing, and he stepped to Orson. “You on drugs
, college boy, or what?”
“You’re out of line, Orson,” Denny said.
Brig grabbed Orson by his coat.
“You killed her,” Orson sneered. “You killed Rashida.”
Brig lifted Orson in the air like he was a rag doll, slammed him into the lockers and held him there. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
“Let him go, Brig.” Powell.
“I’ll let him go,” Brig said. “After I’ve knocked the piss out of him.”
Powell grabbed Brig from behind.
“Powell!” Denny yelled. “Everybody, settle down!”
But Brig went ballistic, releasing Orson and turning and punching Powell in the face. Powell came back at him, but Brig bent low and charged and knocked him back over the bench, Orson jumping on Brig’s back, and they all went down in a heap. Denny had no choice but to dive on top of the pile and just as he did, Lieutenant Kierny walked in.
* * *
Unbelievable, Denny was thinking as he drove off after the melee at the firehouse. Lieutenant Kierny sent him home without doing the fitness test and placed him under threat of suspension. Denny wondered how this would affect Detective Washington and the investigation of Rashida’s murder. And he wondered how the hell he was going to live if he got suspended or worse yet, fired. Yes, he could find work. One of the firemen could get him on as a carpet layer or carpenter doing side jobs. But what would losing the job do to his life? No, he couldn’t face losing the job. He could hardly even think about it. Oh, he needed a drink. It was only eight in the morning but he didn’t care. He knew drunks would already be at countless bars around the city. Chicago—city of bars.
“Ah screw it!” He wasn’t giving in to the fear. The powers that be could do what they wanted to him but he wasn’t helping them by getting drunk and becoming a helpless slob. He drove to Aunt Elizabeth’s office.
Pretty Gabriela greeted him with a smile when he walked in. Besides her, the office looked empty though. “Is she here?”
“She’s at a closing.”
“Great,” Denny said, rolling his eyes.
“Is there anything I can help with?”
Denny thought, Yeah, you can straighten out the mess my life has become. “Nah. Thanks.”
“She should be back soon.”
Denny wondered if Gabriela knew about his situation. She’d asked him if there was anything she could help with as if he might need help with a real estate deal. Seems Aunt Elizabeth was keeping his situation confidential, which was cool. Not knowing what to do with himself, he asked, “Is it all right if I wait here for a while?”
“Of course.” Gabriela smiled again and with her eyes directed him to the chairs by the windows.
Such a pretty woman, Denny was thinking. Such pretty eyes. He took off his parka and sat. The wind howled outside, a whirring sound rushing through the door seam. Another snowstorm was probably on the way. Gabriela got back to work, typing away, and Denny thought about Summer. Summer was not going to be pleased at the news of his possible suspension. Which had been unfair really, as he’d been the one trying to break up the fight. Orson, the idiot. The guy was turning into a nut. But no, Summer would not be pleased.
Aunt Elizabeth bustled through the door. “Gabriela, did you fax that attorney approval letter on the Hargrove closing?”
“Yes, and they already responded. They’ll pay for the roof but not the furnace.”
Aunt Elizabeth frowned, then turned to Denny and said, “Come on back.”
He followed her to her office. He didn’t even wait to sit down. “Aunt Elizabeth, I got sent home from the firehouse, and uh, I was threatened with suspension.”
“Oh, Dennis.”
His shoulders slumped. “It wasn’t my fault. But in a roundabout way it had to do with Rashida’s murder. One of the firemen outright accused one of the other firemen of killing her, which caused a fight.” But he wasn’t telling her about Orson’s crazy notion of wanting to take out Brig. That was just too off the wall.
“All right.” She opened a laptop. “Give me names and specifics. Start with who did the accusing.”
Denny filled her in. When he finished, Aunt Elizabeth said, “Now that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“The private investigator I hired for your case found Orson in a fabrication.”
“Okay.”
“She said his statement indicated he remained at The Wild Bull after you left with Brig, but several people at the bar said he left right after you and Brig did.”
With this new revelation Denny couldn’t keep it in any longer. “And, Aunt Elizabeth, Orson seems hellbent on implicating Brig.”
“Dennis, from what I remember from my criminal law class, many years ago, proving a murder case is a function of three things: means, motive and opportunity. That’s it in theory but in an actual murder trial, the murderer often accuses someone else of committing the crime. And what’s more it sometimes works. As it stands your situation is such a jumble. Orson’s fabrication and now his implication of Brig are just two more unknowns in the bigger unknown of you not remembering what you did that night. We need to pay attention to all these things. They’re all dangerous, as the law is often very subjective and fickle.
“Please understand, Dennis. Rashida was a wonderful young woman and I’m outraged she was murdered, but my first priority is defending you. If, after that, I can help find who committed this outrage I certainly will, but yes, only after defending you.”
Denny was starting to feel like a suspect again. “You’re making it sound like I did it.”
“Dennis.” Her face was pained. “I love you. I may know you didn’t do it. But in a court of law my love for you and belief in your innocence means nothing at all to a judge and jury.”
Denny inhaled deeply. “Well, it just feels like you think I did it. That’s all.”
His aunt frowned. “From a lawyer’s perspective, you might’ve.”
“That’s harsh, Aunt Elizabeth.”
“Think for a minute, Dennis. What did I say made for proving a murder case? Means, motive and...”
“Opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“So did you have the means?”
“Could I have killed Rashida?”
“Yes, are you strong enough to have strangled her?”
He nodded.
“Do you have the motive?”
“No.”
“Again, Dennis, in a court of law you do. A prosecutor will say you were jealous she was sleeping with Powell. Motive established. And the third thing?”
“Opportunity.”
“You don’t know where you were, who you were with or what you were doing at the time of the murder. That will easily translate in the hands of a skilled prosecutor that hell yes, you had the opportunity to kill her. Means, motive, opportunity. Guilty as charged.”
Chapter Eleven
Guilty as charged. Denny barely looked at Gabriela as he dragged out of Aunt Elizabeth’s office. What had happened to his life? He shouldn’t be here. He should be at the firehouse for the fitness test with the others—his internal rhythms were off. But it was just as well. The firehouse would be crazy with Orson’s accusing Brig and the melee that occurred there.
Still somebody must know what he did the night Rashida was killed? He was exhausted thinking about it. As it was, he’d been an apocalyptic zombie, wandering around, unseeing to the world and unconscious to himself. But there must be some way to know. Then it hit him—the psychic his mother went to!
Well, why the hell not? Cops used psychics. Why shouldn’t he? Henry Loftis, Denny thought his name was. Hank, his mother called him. She said Hank was a clairvoyant, that he had a real gift for intuiting things. She’d offered to send Denny to him when he was struggling with his marriage but Denny had scoffed that Loftis was nothing more than a gypsy charlatan out to steal her money. Loftis’ office was a little out of the way in Berwyn, but yeah, what the hell, he was worth a shot. An
ything was worth a shot at this point.
Denny got Loftis’ number from the Internet and called. He explained to Loftis’ secretary, or whoever it was that answered the phone, who he was and his desperate situation. The woman put him on hold for a while but when she came back on, she said Loftis sensed the vibrations of how serious his situation was and would squeeze him in after his last client left, which would be around four p.m. Denny thanked her and now had all kinds of time to kill until the appointment.
A few beers would definitely make the time go by fast. He frowned. Yeah, they’d make it go by so fast he’d miss the damn appointment. So what could he do? He couldn’t go to the firehouse. Summer would be working. The sanest, and safest, thing would be to go to the Serenity Club.
People hung at the Serenity Club in between meetings all the time. Not a lot of people but old-timers and then people like Denny, people afraid that being anywhere else in the world they’d get drunk. That was the advantage of an AA club. It was a refuge and not just the one hour pick-me-up typical AA meetings were.
He climbed the club stairs dutifully. He’d grab a cup of coffee and kill time till his appointment with Loftis. As he opened the door to the club he wondered what Loftis would think of AA. Strange idea, he thought and he walked in.
He was right. The place was nearly empty. A few old-timers were scattered about and some desperate-looking twenty-somethings, probably right out of treatment. That was the rub—life was easy in treatment (Denny had been twice) in that wonderful supportive cocoon but getting back into the real world was a shock and one hell of a test. So the twenty-somethings sat, hanging on the old-timers’ words, drinking endless cups of coffee and going out into the cold to smoke cigarettes.
Denny drank not a few cups of coffee himself, smoked a bunch of cigarettes and read AA literature. He talked with the old-timers and even chatted up a couple of the twenty-somethings. It was all good and the time went by fast. He checked his watch. 2:45 p.m. He was almost there. He figured he’d need a half hour to get to Loftis’ so he only had forty-five minutes to kill. He took another pamphlet to read. Oh, it was hokey but he couldn’t deny that its advice worked. The pamphlet had bright red letters splashed across the cover:
