by Kim Fielding
A few spa customers were still parked in his building’s garage, but he didn’t see anyone as he climbed the stairs to his apartment.
His front door was unlocked.
For a ridiculous, preternatural moment, he thought he might step inside to discover Donny alive and well, smiling winningly, ready to joke about how he’d fooled the entire police bureau. What Jeremy found instead was his home in shambles.
The furniture was slashed and overturned. The TV lay facedown on the floor, shattered glass scattered widely. His laptop was next to it in a twisted snarl, and the speakers were nothing but crushed-in hulks. In the kitchen he found every glass and dish broken, food containers opened and overturned, his Keurig reduced to meaningless bits of plastic and wire. All of his clothes were tossed from the closet and drawers. The toilet had been cracked and was leaking water onto the floor. And Donny…. Oh, fuck. The metal urn lay on its side, the ashes scattered everywhere.
Jeremy was trained to handle emergencies calmly. He took several deep breaths before pulling out his phone and dialing Frankl’s number.
Frankl answered on the first ring. “What’s up, Cox?”
“Someone broke into my apartment and tossed the place. I have a feeling this has something to do with Donny.”
“Shit. You all right?”
“I wasn’t home.”
“Be right there.”
Jeremy sat in the stairway and waited for the sirens.
SOMETIME AFTER the cops arrived, Jeremy called Rhoda. She showed up about fifteen minutes later, a giant coffee in one hand and a bag containing a SuperSteak burrito in the other. “Eat,” she ordered, stopping his nervous pacing by shoving the bag against his chest.
“Not hungry.”
“Bullshit.”
She glared until he sat at the top of the stairway; then she set the coffee next to him and pulled the burrito from the bag. He had to admit the food smelled damn good.
Rhoda waited for him to eat several bites. “How long will they be in there?” She waved at the open doorway, through which they could see a nest of evidence techs, patrol officers, and detectives.
“A while.”
“Will you be able to sleep there tonight?”
He shook his head. “Whole place is trashed. I’m going to have to…. Fuck. I’ll have to hire a cleanup crew, a dumpster, contractors. I need to buy new everything.” Thinking about it made his head ache. Not because of the expenses; he was insured. And not because of the damaged items, per se. With the exception of poor Donny’s remains, nothing in the apartment held sentimental value. He could replace it all. But God, the hassles he was facing.
Rhoda sat beside him. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”
“That’s really nice of you to offer, but I’m going to get a hotel room.”
“Why? I have a spare room. I promise I’ll give you your space and not get all up in your business. Heck, I’m barely home anyway.” She gently nudged his arm with her shoulder. “Or we can have pajama parties and paint our nails. Your call.”
Despite his misery, he managed a small chuckle. He sobered immediately, though. “Somebody murdered my ex. And it’s pretty likely that the same somebody ransacked my apartment in search of God knows what. What if that someone decides I’m carrying the God-knows-what and they come after me? I’m not bringing trouble into your home, Rhoda.”
She frowned at him. “Are you in danger, Jeremy Cox?”
“I was a cop for over a decade. I can handle it.”
“Donny was a cop for over a decade too.”
Instead of answering, he took another bite of burrito. It was good. Rhoda waited patiently as he chewed and swallowed. Yet another uniformed cop came huffing and puffing up the stairs, his cell phone in one hand. He grunted a greeting, and Rhoda scooted closer to Jeremy so the guy could pass.
As soon as the cop entered the apartment, she nudged Jeremy. “He’s cute. Does he lean your way?”
“Don’t even.”
“That’s right. You have your heart set on Qay. I don’t blame you. He’s—”
“He’s a fraud.”
He might have said that louder than he intended. Rhoda blinked several times, then sighed heavily. “Oh, honey. I liked him. What happened?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” He was aware he sounded like a surly teenager. But dammit, within the space of a week and a half, he’d had a gory surprise visit from his ex, that same ex had turned up as a floater, his apartment had been trashed, and his battered heart had suffered another bruising. He was entitled to surly.
“Fine. Keep it bottled up, big guy. But are you positive he’s as bad as you’re making him out to be? I have a good eye for fuckwads—it’s my superpower—and he doesn’t strike me as one at all.”
Instead of answering, Jeremy finished the burrito. He wiped his greasy hands on a couple of paper napkins, shoved the napkins into the bag, and tossed the lot in the general direction of his door. What was a little more garbage added to the general devastation?
He stood, his coffee clutched in one hand. “I promise, I’ll fill you in on every humiliating detail later. But right now I just can’t wrangle enough brain cells. I’m going to see if the goons in there will let me grab a few things, and then I’m heading for a quiet, impersonal hotel.”
“All right, tough guy.” She stood and cuffed him lightly on the arm. “Get some sleep. And call me if you want to talk.”
Thankful to the tips of his toes for a good friend like Rhoda, he bent to kiss the top of her head. “You’re a saint.”
“That’s me. Our Lady of Perpetual Caffeine.”
He lifted his coffee cup in salute.
Rhoda left, and another hour passed before he was allowed into his apartment. The place didn’t look any better after being taken over by a herd of policemen who’d apparently dusted every square inch for fingerprints. At least someone had turned off the bathroom water so the toilet wouldn’t flood the whole building.
Frankl sat on one of Jeremy’s kitchen stools, looking as exhausted as Jeremy felt. “You don’t really need me around, do you?” Jeremy asked.
“Nah. I have your statement. If I need anything else, I know how to get hold of you. You got someplace to go?”
“Marriott.”
“Okay.” He pointed at the open front door with its busted lock. “We’re not going to be able to secure your apartment when we leave.”
That made Jeremy laugh humorlessly. “’S okay. There’s nothing left to steal and it’s already trashed.”
Frankl nodded unhappily, and Jeremy left to gather his clothing and whatever toiletries remained unscathed. His only suitcase had been destroyed, so he ended up shoving his things into a big plastic garbage bag. Classy.
“Good luck with it,” he called to Frankl while crossing to the front door, the bag cradled in his arms.
“Yeah, thanks. Hey, Cox?”
“What?”
Frankl looked uncomfortable. “You were a good cop. You’re a good man. I’m sorry this shit is happening to you.”
“Thanks, Captain. Donny didn’t deserve it either, you know?”
“Yeah.”
Jeremy trudged out the door, hoping the hotel would provide a bit of rest.
DESPITE A comfortable mattress and enough pillows to bed down every park ranger in the city, Jeremy didn’t sleep well. He spent a long time tossing and twisting on the mattress before standing at the window in his boxer shorts, staring blankly at the river. The same river, of course, where Donny’s corpse had been discovered.
But then his thoughts turned to another river, half a continent away. Sometimes the Smoky Hill River ran low and sluggish. But after a summer storm, the water could be swift and muddy, hiding rocks, tree branches, and whatever debris was washing downstream. Kids went swimming in the river, but not when the water was high, and they sure as hell never jumped in from the Memorial Bridge. Not if they wanted to live, anyway.
God, what had led Keith Moore to leap into the river
that summer day so long ago? And how the hell had the waters of time swept him back into Jeremy’s life?
Jeremy thought about that lean, quiet boy in the back of the classroom. He’d seemed very tall back then, and he’d snarled at everyone… except Jeremy. Sometimes he even gave Jeremy the hint of a smile, as if they shared a secret. Which they apparently had, although Jeremy hadn’t realized it at the time.
People called Keith a hoodlum—and worse. Some kids even claimed he was a Satan worshipper who stole neighborhood cats and sacrificed them to demons. Young as he was, Jeremy had known that was bullshit. Something in Keith’s speckled eyes had echoed Jeremy’s own loneliness, and Jeremy had seen sadness and maybe a little fear, not wickedness.
Well, now he knew one thing for sure. Keith Moore—or rather, Qay Hill—was a goddamn liar.
After returning to bed, Jeremy had a few hours of fitful sleep, interrupted by unsettling dreams that slipped away every time he awoke. Falling. He kept dreaming about falling. When dawn broke, he seriously considered calling in sick to work. But then he realized he’d spend the entire day dealing with the break-in and stewing over the shitstorm his life had become. Better to keep occupied. He showered and dressed in one of his uniforms, then headed to the elevator in search of breakfast.
The workday ended up blessedly busy. He led a fall nature walk at Kelly Butte, where a revegetation project had just been completed. He told some squatters in Forest Park that they couldn’t camp there, and he warned them that he’d issue them a park exclusion if he caught them again. He gave them a list of homeless shelters but doubted they’d use it. Then he headed to Patty’s Place to talk to Evelyn, the director, about a summer work program they’d been planning. The idea was to give some of her kids jobs that would get them outdoors and, if everyone was lucky, teach them skills in communicating positively with the public.
“How’s Toad?” he asked over his fourth coffee of the day. They were sitting in her bright, cramped office, where stacks of papers and pamphlets always teetered on the brink of avalanche.
She dimpled at him and bounced slightly in her chair. She was pushing sixty but had all the youthful energy of a twenty-year-old. “He’s doing great! We’ve already got him attending school and showing up for counseling. He’s pushed a few of the rules, but I figure a little pushing is a good sign. Means he’s comfortable here. I’m gonna have to watch him ’cause he’s crushing pretty hard on Juan, but I think this child’s gonna be just fine.”
One of the thousand points of tension in Jeremy’s body loosened. “Juan. I’ll be damned.” Juan was an absurdly nerdy boy who’d magically maintained an air of innocence even after months on the streets. Nearly a year ago, Jeremy had discovered him sleeping in the little park near the central library. He’d taken Juan out for dinner, and during the entire meal, Juan had talked nonstop about Minecraft and Doctor Who. Although Jeremy was furious at parents who would reject a sweet kid like that, he had been gratified when Juan settled in immediately at Patty’s Place.
Evelyn shook her head fondly. “I’m not sure Juan realizes how Toad feels about him. Juan probably just thinks Toad’s extra enthusiastic about video games and sci-fi. They’re real cute together, but Toad’s fragile for now. He needs to get his head together before he goes looking for love.”
Jeremy reflected that the same could be said for him. Except if he didn’t have his head together now, with forty-four staring him right in the face, his prospects weren’t good.
After leaving Patty’s Place, Jeremy drove to Kenilworth Park to talk to a couple of his rangers about some stolen bicycles. His next stop was a community garden not far away. The plots were dormant for the winter, but he’d been meaning to take a quick look to make sure everything was in order and to eyeball a possible expansion for spring. Finally he stopped at an outdoor equipment store to finagle a donation of some hats, gloves, and sleeping bags. Once a month his agency took part in an event for the homeless under the Burnside Bridge. Over the course of the evening, participants received a hot meal, haircuts, and basic medical checks. Whenever possible, the rangers gave out clothing, blankets, and other supplies.
Off and on during the day, Jeremy made a series of phone calls to his insurance company and tracked down a cleaning service. He might need some major renovation work on his walls, floors, kitchen, and bathroom, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the mess was cleared. He texted Rhoda several times just to let her know he was fully functioning.
When his workday came to an end, he met a locksmith at the apartment. The guy shook his head ruefully at the damage, and Jeremy tried not to look closely at what remained.
He planned to head back to the hotel and collapse, but he figured he owed Rhoda at least a quick hello first. She worried about him. He left his SUV in the garage and walked over to P-Town.
Rhoda spied him as soon as he walked in the door. “I love a man in uniform,” she said, batting her eyelashes dramatically.
He looked down at himself. “What, this old thing?”
“What can I get you, honey? Big old joe?”
“Rhoda, I’m pretty sure the stuff flowing through my veins is at least eighty percent arabica at this point. I just wanted to let you know I got my lock replaced, the cleaning crew will be there in the morning, and I’m heading back to the Marriott.”
“And I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day,” she said as her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“I did too!” He’d had a bagel-and-sausage thing for breakfast.
“Liar.” She took his hand and tugged him to the nearest vacant table, then pushed at his chest until he sat. “Don’t move.” She disappeared into the back of the café.
Fuck. He didn’t have the strength to fight her.
Rhoda returned ten minutes later and set a paper bag and a large plastic cup in front of him. He expected the bag to contain another burrito—SuperSteak was just down the street from P-Town—and was surprised to find a container of pad thai instead. She was perfectly aware that pad thai was one of his comfort foods; he’d eaten a metric ton of the stuff right after breaking up with Donny. “What’s in the cup?” he asked suspiciously.
“Smoothie.”
“What kind?” The liquid was green and opaque.
“Kale, spinach, banana, apricot, and berries.”
He must have made a face, because she patted his shoulder. “Vitamins, iron, and potassium, Chief. You’ll only feel worse if you don’t eat well.”
So he ate, and he obediently drank the smoothie, which tasted only half as awful as he’d expected. Meanwhile Rhoda circulated among the tables and helped Ptolemy behind the counter, but like a moth hovering around a porch lamp, she always returned to Jeremy’s side. It was irritating but also kind of nice.
When he’d demolished the noodles and downed every green drop of his drink, Jeremy stood. “How much do I owe you? And for last night too.”
“Don’t be an ass, Jeremy. Go get some rest before you drop right here in the middle of my café and I have to hire a backhoe to get you out.” She cocked her head. “Does your hotel have pay-per-view porn?”
He managed a small smile. “Why? Were you planning to come over?”
“If I’m going to watch pretty boys screwing each other, I’ll do it at home on my high-def big-screen. Now go.”
WHEN HE walked past the hotel registration desk, the night clerks did a double take at his uniform but greeted him cheerily, and he waved back. Then he was in his comfortable but soulless room with the river flowing beneath the window.
He would need to get moving early in the morning to meet the cleanup crew. Then he had a full day at work—more meetings and a training session for two new rangers—and probably more insurance crap to deal with. He needed to buy a new laptop, because checking e-mail on his phone was a pain in the ass due to the small print. He’d been in denial about reading glasses for some time.
As he stood at the window, a tidal wave of anger washed over him, red-tinged and bitter-tasting. He was
angry at whoever had murdered Donny and destroyed his apartment. He was angry at Donny for getting himself killed, for repeatedly spurning Jeremy’s offers of help, for breaking Jeremy’s heart. He was angry at Laura for not caring enough about her brother to make fucking funeral arrangements. He was angry at the Portland Police Bureau for not identifying Donny’s issues earlier and getting him treatment and counseling that might have saved his career. He was angry at Toad’s parents and Juan’s and his own—and every mother and father who didn’t love their children enough. He was angry at Rhoda for fussing over him when he didn’t deserve it. He was angry at himself for failing Donny and getting old and being weak and wallowing in his misery. And he was angry at Qay Hill for not being the man Jeremy thought he was.
With a roar, Jeremy pulled his arm back and rammed a fist into the wall beside the window. Something cracked loudly.
Oh, fuck. He didn’t know at first whether the sound had come from the wall or his hand. Through a haze of pain, he peered at the wall. It was fine, and he was lucky—he wouldn’t be paying damages to Marriott. Or maybe he wasn’t so lucky, because his knuckles were bleeding and his hand felt as if he’d hit it with a sledgehammer.
He spent an eternity staring dumbly at his hand, watching the droplets of blood form and travel across his skin to fall onto the carpet. He would have to buy some stain remover the next day, or else he’d be paying damages after all. He hadn’t thought to pack a first-aid kit in his garbage bag, but Donny had pretty much decimated his supplies anyway. Besides, doctoring his own right hand would be a bitch.
In the end, he roused himself enough to shamble to the bathroom. The water hurt like hell as he washed his hand. “Serves you right, moron,” he muttered. Then he remembered he had a small emergency kit in the glove box of the SUV. The hotel garage felt as if it were a million miles away, and the walk back seemed even longer. But he spread some disinfectant over the wounds—more stinging—and awkwardly stuck a couple of large Band-Aids on the worst of it. By then his hand was swollen and throbbing. He took another journey out of his room, this time only to the ice dispenser down the hall, and finally sat in the room’s comfy armchair with his hand in the ice bucket.
