by Thomas Kies
He glanced behind him again. Ted was clearly spooked. “I’m sure of it.”
“You have to talk to the cops.” I couldn’t say anything to Mike because I protect my sources. But if Ted volunteered the information, I’d have this story locked up tight. Any other reporters out there chasing this down could kiss my ass.
He shook his head. “No, if I go to the cops, Brenner will know it was me. He’ll come after me and my wife.”
Abruptly, he grabbed his jacket off the back of his barstool and started for the door.
I couldn’t let him leave without finding out his last name. I didn’t have any way to get back in touch with him.
“Wait,” I shouted.
He kept going, pushing open the door of the restaurant and rushing out into the rainy night.
I grabbed my bag and my windbreaker and started after him.
“Wait a minute, who’s paying for the drinks?”
I looked behind me and saw the boy behind the bar, with angry, wide eyes and his arms outstretched.
Hands trembling, I fished around in my bag until I found two twenties and threw them on the bar. I hung my bag on my shoulder and ran out after Ted.
Once outside, I looked up and down the wet sidewalk. I didn’t see him.
Damn it, where is he?
Brake lights flashed halfway up the block in front a parked cargo van. A red Ford Explorer pulled into traffic.
Damn it. I’m not close enough to read his license plate
Keeping to the wet sidewalk, I ran after him, hoping I could catch him before he got to the corner.
Ted accelerated.
I ran harder, cold pellets of rain stinging my face.
The stoplight at the corner was red.
He’ll have to stop before he turns. I’ll catch a break. Thank God, I’m wearing flats.
But before Ted even slowed down, the light turned green.
Shit.
I sprinted, bag digging into my shoulder, jacket clutched in my fist.
Ted turned the corner.
My lungs were on fire, I was sweating, my hair was wet and hanging in my face and my shoes were soaked.
And I was pissed. I’d missed him.
I didn’t get the license.
What do I do now?
Chapter Eleven
Still smarting from losing my source, I hopped in my Sebring and drove by Brenner’s Body Shop. It was tucked away in the dark corner of an industrial park not far from the harbor. The white cinderblock building was windowless except for tiny glass panes in a door to the office and in the three large roll-up doors to the repair bays. Wild clumps of grass and weeds stubbornly sprouted out of the cracks in the pavement in front of the garage. A small parking lot adjacent to the building was fenced in and topped with razor wire, protecting a dozen cars in varying degrees of repair, disrepair, or demolition.
I’m not sure what I expected to see. It was after ten and the place was dark and silent as a tomb.
The only way I knew for sure that I was at the right address was a faded red hand-painted sign over the office doorway proclaiming that this was indeed “Brenner’s Body Shop.”
I glanced down at my notebook. Officer Phil Gilmartin had given me Jim Brenner’s home address.
Yes, it’s the same Phil Gilmartin I’d struck in the eye during my squabble with Frank’s wife at the Z Bar. He was also the one who had quietly urged the judge to show me leniency during my sentencing.
He has a crush on me. He’s had it since high school, even though now he’s married to a very nice woman who stays busy raising his two teenage boys. Maybe Phil has a secret attraction to “bad” girls.
Jim Brenner lived over on Wolfpit Avenue, coincidently about four blocks from Kevin’s house. It was similar to the other homes in the neighborhood, a cookie-cutter Cape Cod with a small but well-kept yard and a thirteen-foot fishing boat on a trailer sitting in the driveway alongside an SUV.
The only illumination inside the house was the flickering light of a TV, flashing silver ghosts behind dark, heavy curtains. Was this the home of the man who stabbed and cut apart six people in a murderous alcoholic rage? Was the killer sitting back in his recliner, relaxing, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, and watching Walking Dead?
I briefly considered pulling into the driveway, knocking on the door, and asking Lynette Chadwick’s ex-husband a few questions.
But I thought better of it. I might have more balls than brains, but I’m not entirely stupid.
Instead, I headed toward Kevin’s place.
While negotiating my way to Random Road, I pulled the cell phone out of my bag and dialed Mike Dillon’s number at the police station. I waited for an answer, glancing at my watch. It was about ten-thirty.
I got his voicemail, no surprise.
I didn’t leave a message. I immediately dialed Kevin’s number. My adrenaline was amped up pretty high from my meeting with Ted and I was looking for a little company. A couple of tumblers of vodka neat would go down real easy.
“Hello?” Kevin answered.
“Hey. It’s me. I told you I’d call. Still up for that drink?”
The phone was quiet for a millisecond, then he answered, “Can I take a rain check?
I replied in a tone that I hoped didn’t betray my disappointment. “Of course, baby. Everything okay?”
“I was working on the kitchen cabinets and I think I pulled a muscle or something.”
“Oh no, you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing a couple of Advil, another glass of scotch, and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
I smiled to myself. “You sure it wasn’t the sex? Was I too rough? I could give you a nice backrub and make it all better.”
I don’t usually tell guys this, but once during sex, I cracked one of my first husband’s ribs. Guys are so stupid that if you tell them that, they’re disappointed if you don’t do the same thing to them. They think they’re missing out on something really spectacular.
“You’re sweet, but I’ve got to take a rain check.”
“Hey, did Aunt Ruth say anything about me after I left?”
I could hear Kevin trying to formulate a diplomatic answer. “She thinks you’re…really interesting.”
“Yeah? You’re full of crap. She’s not there is she?” I was suddenly paranoid, picturing her in a black leather bustier, waiting with a whip for Kevin to come to bed.
“Who, Ruth? She left right after dinner. Can I buy you breakfast tomorrow? There’s a place in Westport that serves the world’s best pancakes.”
“Are you going to feel better by then?
“Oh yeah,” he said.
I smiled. “Then it’s a date.”
“I’ll pick you up at your place.”
“In your truck?”
“Yeah, my restricted license says that I can drive as long as it’s daylight.”
“What time?” I hoped it wouldn’t be too early. Tomorrow was Sunday.
I could hear him thinking. “Ten too late?”
Personally, it was way too early.
“Perfect,” I lied.
We said our good-byes and I drove home. I took Tucker for a quick walk along the waterfront, checked my e-mail, opened a couple of bills that had come snail mail and listened to my voice messages. There wasn’t anything of interest and I was still really wired.
So I walked down to the Z Bar. I was still in the mood for a vodka rocks.
It was Saturday night and the place was throbbing with chest-hammering techno-industrial dance music, the floor was packed with sweaty couples writhing and grinding their bodies together, and the air was heavy with anticipatory sexual promise. The bar was a beehive of movement and noise as patrons vied for the attention of the attractive young bartenders.
I wedged my way up to the bar, leaned across t
he polished oak counter and literally grabbed one of the bartenders by the elbow. “Grey Goose and ice,” I shouted, hoping the young Adonis could hear me above the music. He nodded and disappeared to get my drink.
I turned to look out over the dance floor and found myself staring right into Frank Mancini’s smile. “Hi.” I couldn’t hear him but I could read his lips.
“Hi.”
“How ya’ doing?” he shouted, barely audible over the music.
I heard someone from behind me shout, “Hey!” I turned to see the bartender reaching out with my glass. I took it gratefully.
Then I turned back to Frank. He was standing there in a light gray suit, cobalt blue shirt, and dark charcoal tie, his teeth perfect, his hair perfect, and his dark brown eyes peering directly into my own.
He looked fabulous.
Leaning down, Frank put his lips close enough to my ear that I could feel his breath as he spoke. “You look great.” He buried his face in my hair.
I reached up and touched his cheek.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk.” His words tickled the inside of my ear.
I took him by the hand and led him around the bar and down a set of stairs to the owner’s office and the bathrooms. Most of the time, it was deserted and just far enough away from the music that you could actually have a conversation.
Once we found a place in the shadows, he pulled me close and kissed me hard.
I’m ashamed to say it, but I kissed him hard right back.
When our tongues finally unwrapped, he leaned back and smiled. “I missed you.”
“We saw each other yesterday at lunch.” I was still slightly out of breath. Frank’s kisses can do that to me.
“I wanted to be with you last night.”
“Too bad your wife was around.”
“I would have rather been at that reception with you.” Frank’s hand massaged my wrist.
I smiled and squinted, “You know, the last time you and I were here at the Z Bar together, Evelyn showed up and I got arrested.”
He nodded. “Evelyn’s out of town tonight. She and one of her friends drove down to spend a few days in the Hamptons.”
“So while the cat’s away, Frankie can play?”
“Something like that. Want to go to your place?”
I didn’t answer as quickly as I should have; the booze was probably slowing me down. But eventually I answered, “No.”
“Do you want to go to my place?”
I shook my head.
“A nice hotel?”
I thought of Kevin. The way we’d snuggled last night, the way he smelled, the way he felt. And I remembered our shower together this morning.
Frank continued his attempt at my seduction, “I really want to be with you tonight.”
I tried to change the subject. “Why are you out so late?”
“Why are you out so late?”
“I asked first.”
He sighed. “I took a client out to dinner.”
“And then you brought him here?”
He cleared his throat. “Her.”
Unbelievable, he was with another woman and he was coming on to me.
“So why are you hitting on me? I don’t do threesomes.”
He put his forehead on mine. “I want to be with you, not her, not Evelyn. I want to be with you.
Chapter Twelve
Kevin rang my doorbell at five minutes after ten the next morning.
No, Frank Mancini wasn’t lying naked in my bed, he wasn’t hiding in my closet, and he wasn’t drinking coffee while sitting at my kitchen table.
No, he wasn’t there at all.
He’d left my apartment sometime around two a.m.
I’m not proud of the fact that I slept with Frank. Especially since I’d made love with Kevin in the same bed less then twenty-four hours earlier.
I don’t know why I did it. I’d like to say that maybe it was to get even with Evelyn. Revenge for getting me arrested a few months ago, revenge for calling me a whore at the fundraiser on Friday night.
I’d like to say that maybe I had sex with Frank because I love him and he loves me. And in a quirky sort of way, I guess we do. I’d like to say that maybe it was because he’s really good in the sack, which he is. Not better than Kevin, but good nonetheless.
No, the real reason that I slept with Frank was because I was stupid-ass drunk.
Let’s count ’em. A white wine at Kevin’s house along with two glasses of vodka. Another tumbler at Bricks while talking with Ted, the source. One more at my house after I walked Tucker. Then, well, then I lost count while I was at the Z Bar with Frank.
It’s not a good excuse, but it’s the only one I’ve got. It’s one I’ve been using most of my adult life.
I greeted Kevin at my doorway with a barking dog, a pained smile, a nest of hangover rattlesnakes buzzing in my head, and a genuine sense of shame. Even though Kevin and I weren’t in any kind of relationship, we were friends.
Passionate friends.
When I opened my front door and he pulled me close and kissed me, I felt like I’d betrayed him.
We were friends who’d become lovers. Frank Mancini and I were lovers, but we’d never ever really been friends, and probably never would be.
I mulled all of that around in the unrelenting sunshine and the godawful heat while we stood on line in Westport waiting to get into Kevin’s pancake restaurant. Flap Jack’s was so popular that we waited in the parking lot with about thirty other people, outside the front door, for nearly a half an hour before we got in and ordered.
Kevin seemed pretty chipper through it all, but I found it difficult to hold up my end of the conversation. “Beautiful day, huh?” He pointed his face into the direction of the sun while we stood on line.
“So how are you feeling?” I grunted, thinking that if he hadn’t pulled a muscle, I wouldn’t have slept with Frank last night. In a convoluted way, I could blame the whole thing on Kevin.
Without looking at me he said, “Just getting old, I guess.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t ever let me hear you talk like that, okay? You and I are the same age. If you’re getting old, I’m getting old. And that ain’t happening.”
He gave me his familiar smile and nodded toward the line behind us. “Look at all the people who brought newspapers with them.”
He was right. Of the twenty or so people behind us, nearly half of them were reading a Sunday newspaper. Some of them were the New York Times of course, but most of them were holding The Sheffield Post. “Yeah, you wouldn’t know that the industry’s dying.”
“Don’t you get a kick out of knowing they’re reading what you wrote?”
From where we stood, not far from the doorway of the restaurant, I could easily see that many people were reading about yesterday’s arrest in the Stop-n-Shop parking lot, and they were talking about it.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever know what that’s like,” Kevin said.
“What?”
“What it’s like to have an impact on so many people.”
I touched his arm again and then held onto his hand. “And I’ll never know what it’s like to raise a daughter. When everything’s all said and done, this time tomorrow? No one will remember a single word I wrote. But for the rest of Caroline’s life, and the lives of her children, what you’ve taught your daughter will shape other lives for generations to come. So who makes the bigger impact?”
What I said made him smile and blush at the same time. My words were off the top of my head, meant to be a simple gratuity for his compliment. But it was true and it made him feel like a million bucks.
For the first time that morning, I didn’t feel like a complete shit.
***
Kevin was right. Flap Jack’s is an amazing place. The smells are inc
redible, hazelnut coffee, bacon, ham, biscuits, hash browns, frying eggs. But the best are the pancakes. Griddled with anything you can think of: fruit, chocolate, caramel, pecans, almonds and served up in stacks, steaming hot on plates soaked in maple or blueberry syrup.
I could literally feel buttery chunks of cholesterol clogging my arteries like a fleet of sixteen-wheelers jack-knifing on I-95. But the more I ate, the more my hangover dissolved.
I actually became chatty. “So tell me about Ruth. Caroline tells me that she’s over at your house a lot.”
“I told you about Ruth.” He was perplexed, his eyebrows knitting together. “What else do you want to know?”
I finished chewing a mouthful of sausage and then pointed at him with my fork. “Well, have you and she, um, ever…?”
“What?”
“You know.” I cleared my throat. “Knocked boots?”
Kevin’s eyebrows shot up. Then he blinked and stared down at his plate.
I reached over and put my hand on his. “It’s okay if you did.”
He smiled and slowly shook his head, “No, we’ve never slept together.”
Damn it. On the one hand, if he’d slept with Ruth, I wouldn’t feel quite so guilty about my evening with Frank, but then again, I was relieved that he wasn’t doing his sister-in-law. I was rummaging around in a mixed sack of wretched emotions like some morally bankrupt bag lady.
I sighed. “That’s good. What’s Caroline think about her?
He took a moment to formulate his answer. “It’s been good to have a woman around the house, you know, after Joanna passed away. But now I’m thinking that Ruth might be crowding her a little. Ruth can be a little in-your-face.”
I shrugged. “Caroline’s thirteen. She needs space.”
“Yeah, now more than ever, though, I think she could use her mom.”
“Losing a parent is pretty traumatic.” I sipped my coffee.
Kevin’s eyes focused on something in the distance, remembering. “All the while her mom was sick, Caroline was crying a lot. Maybe she was crying all the time. It was all so intense and I was so wrapped up in how I was dealing with it, I can’t say for sure how bad it was for her. It must have been hell to see her mother in so much pain, dying an inch at a time. And then when it was over, Caroline went into a state of shock. She stopped crying. I don’t think I’ve seen her cry since. At the funeral, people came up to me saying how well Caroline was taking it all. She was numb.”
