Dead In Red
Page 24
“Hey, baby,” I said, using my best Bogie slur. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She slid smoothly onto a bar stool. “I think I could be coaxed into it.”
“Cosmopolitan?” I offered.
“How about a glass of cabernet?”
“Coming right up.” I poured the wine and put out a fresh bowl of pretzels. “What brings you here?” As if I didn’t know.
“A little bird called and said you might need a friendly face to talk to.”
“This little bird wouldn’t happen to be six-two and sporting a mustache, would he?”
“He might.” Her expression softened. “Richard told me about your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I snapped, instantly regretting it. “Sorry, babe, but he was there for my conception—and not much else.”
“I know about how he left your mom and you.”
“Yeah, so the hell with him.”
She raised her glass in salute. “The hell with him.”
“Right. Why would I want to meet him, let alone get to know him?”
“He’s not worth your time.”
I frowned at her too-casual attitude.
“I’m just agreeing with you,” she said, and took another sip of wine. “Yeah, why would you want to know the man who gave you life? You don’t need to find out what went wrong with his marriage to your mother. But what if he’d wanted to be more to you? What if leaving was a mistake he always regretted?”
“And what if it wasn’t? What if he is just some piece of shit who isn’t worth my time?”
“And what if he isn’t and you never prove it to yourself before he dies? Will you be able to live with that?”
I glared at her, yet some part of me was thinking exactly the same thing.
“Jeff?” Tom caught my eye, thumbed toward the hockey fans.
I poured another round and rang up the sale. I took my time washing the glasses, thinking over what Maggie had said.
A couple of guys came in and ordered mixed drinks. “I’d better go,” she told me and collected her purse, then leaned across the bar to give me a kiss. “You don’t have to make a decision tonight. Just think about the pros and cons of meeting him.”
I rested my fingers on top of her hand. Because of this psychic crap I’m cursed with, she was one of the few people I felt comfortable touching. “Okay.”
“I’ll be home if you want to talk later,” she said, and headed out the door.
Despite my efforts to keep busy, the rest of the evening dragged, leaving me plenty of time to consider all she’d said.
I kept catching sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. Did I look like the old man? How much of my character reflected his? That sobering thought haunted me in the form of relentless self-examination, reigniting thirty-two years of submerged anger.
“Don’t wait too long,” Richard had said.
I’d already waited thirty-two years.
Far too long.
I didn’t sleep well that night, obsessed with vague, unpleasant dreams. Images of a dead, faceless, white-haired man, and an overpowering feeling of dread haunted my sleep. I didn’t need a shrink to help me figure out the significance of that subconscious message.
I chose the phone book as reading material to go with my morning coffee. Only two Resnicks were listed—I was one of them. The other was C. Resnick. I didn’t call. That might indicate I gave a shit about a man I barely remembered.
I wasn’t scheduled to work that evening and spent the day staring out the window or pacing the confines of my apartment. Finally I hiked down the road to the community golf course and shot a roll of black-and-white film. The temperature had reverted to autumn norms, and the gray sky made the landscape look as bleak as I felt. I returned to my darkroom and developed the negatives, but didn’t bother with more than making a contact sheet. Photography’s a hobby that sometimes lands me money. That day it merely kept me occupied.
Twilight came and I grew tired of my own company. Almost five months before, I’d moved into the apartment above the garage —or the carriage house, as Richard’s grandmother used to call it. The big house, where Richard and his wife, Brenda, lived, was across the driveway. Located in Amherst, at the edge of Buffalo, New York, it was less than an estate—but not by much. The neighborhood screamed old money, although I think Richard was the last remaining descendent of that wealth.
Using my key, I let myself in. Richard’s kitchen was cavernous and gloomy compared to my snug digs. I hit the light switch, grabbed a chair at the table, and thumbed through the local section of that morning’s edition of The Buffalo News to kill time.
The Police Blotter was full of the usual: DUI, assaults, robbery, rape. The State round-up on the side column caught my eye. A shooting somewhere in the Southern Tier. A one paragraph story told where, when, and how, but not who, pending notification of next of kin. Poor bastard. Just another deer season fatality. Right?
Maybe not.
I stared at the paragraph until the words began to blur. Something about the assemblage of facts bothered me, but I didn't have time to think about it as Richard’s Lincoln Town Car pulled up the drive. I tossed the paper aside. The door handle rattled, and a few moments later a tired, depressed-looking Richard came through the butler's pantry and entered the kitchen.
I looked over my shoulder. “Tough day?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Brenda going?” I asked, as the car backed down the driveway again.
“To pick up a pizza. You want to stay?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He dumped his coat on the back of a kitchen chair and headed straight for the scotch bottle in a cabinet above the sink. He plunked ice into an old-fashioned glass and filled it.
“What happened?”
He took a deep swallow. “I had to tell a woman that her three-year-old daughter’s brain tumor was malignant and inoperable. We discussed radiation and chemotherapy, but that sweet little girl is going to die.”
My gut tightened.
“Then not ten minutes later, an older woman came in. Her son’s pit bull attacked her a week ago. She didn’t think her health insurance would cover an emergency room visit, so she made an appointment and waited. Between the infection and nerve damage, she’ll probably lose the use of her hand.” He took a shuddering breath, and then another long pull of the scotch.
I listened to Richard vent for another ten minutes. He was always too hard on himself when he couldn’t help his patients. We rarely talked about his own situation. Five months before, he’d tended to a shooting victim. He hadn’t been wearing latex gloves. Five tests for HIV had been negative. He had one more to go before we could all breathe easier. After hearing about his day, I couldn’t ask if he’d remembered to dig up information on my father. Especially since I supposedly didn’t care.
Brenda came in at last, carrying a pizza box. “Oh, good, I was hoping you’d be here. There’s no way the two of us can eat all this.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek, deposited the pizza on the counter and went off to hang up her coat.
Richard and Brenda are a study in contrasts. He’s tall, she’s petite; he’s into computers, she’s into antiques; he’s white, she’s black. She would’ve made one helluva Boy Scout: loyal, trustworthy and sometimes she’s got the gift of second sight. Not like me, but she’s a kindred spirit. Most important, she’s family.
When she came back, she took plates out of the cupboard while I gathered a knife, spatula and napkins, and Richard poured a caffeine-free Coke for her and got me a beer. We sat at the table, each taking a slice of pizza.
“Did you tell him?” Brenda asked, and took a big bite.
“I completely forgot,” Richard said. “I saw your father today.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. “And?”
“When I told him who I was, he cried. Apparently he has a lot of regrets.”
Was I one of them?
“He didn’t know you were back in
Buffalo,” Richard continued.
“How’d he know I ever left?”
Richard shrugged. “He knew you were in the Army, and that you’d lived in New York. He even knew your wife was murdered. He seemed to know more about your past than I do.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to that—anger came close. “Then why didn’t he ever contact me? Why—?”
“I don’t know. But he wants you to call him.” Richard reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper.
Spidery handwriting noted my father’s name, address and phone number.
“He said he goes to bed around nine-thirty, so if it isn’t convenient tonight you can call him after eight tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to call him, let alone when.
I stuffed the paper in my pocket and turned my attention to the pizza on my plate. Too many things crowded my brain. Too many conflicting emotions threatened to choke me.
Richard and Brenda ate in awkward silence for a minute or two. I sipped my beer and tried not to think. Finally, Richard broke the quiet. “Peterson is out for the next six weeks. They asked me to cover for him.”
Brenda looked up. “Oh, hell.”
“Who’s Peterson?” I asked.
“One of the clinic doctors. He broke his leg rollerblading with his son over the weekend.” He looked at Brenda. “I’m going to need some serious time off by Christmas. How about a trip?”
“The Quebec Winter Carnival is in January,” she said.
He nodded. “Maybe.”
Despite talk of vacation plans, the tension seemed to grow. I pretended not to notice.
“Jeffy,” Brenda said casually. “Can you drive me to the clinic tomorrow?”
I swallowed. “Sure. Is the car acting up?”
She shook her head. “I’d just feel better if I didn’t park it in the lot for a while. There’s been some trouble.”
Richard looked up. “Oh?”
“The protesters,” she said offhandedly, and got up to refill her glass, but even across the room I could feel her anxiety rise.
“I thought things were better,” Richard said. He turned his attention to me. “Eat.”
“I thought so, too,” she said, “but they’re hanging in there. Today they started chanting like monks. It’s unnerving,” she said, not facing him.
The two of them had started out volunteering together at the hospital’s clinic, but since mid-summer Brenda had worked several days a week at a women’s health center where the occasional abortion was performed. That didn’t set well with some of the area’s religious zealots. For Brenda to even mention it meant she was concerned.
Though there hadn’t been a major incident in Buffalo in the years since Dr. Barnett Slepian was murdered, Amherst still seemed to be the focus of the pro-life movement in this part of the state.
“We’ve talked about this before. It’s time you quit,” Richard said.
“What I do is important.”
He let out a long breath, and I wished I wasn’t sitting in the middle of a discussion I’d heard too many times.
“Yes, it is,” Richard agreed. “But you don’t need the money, or the aggravation—especially now.”
She looked away. “It’s only until they find someone to replace me.”
“Do you promise?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They both looked at me expectantly. “Sure, I’ll take you to work. You’ll be safe with me.”
“Thanks,” Brenda said, sat down again, and took another slice of pizza. I wasn’t even half way through my first piece. “Eat up,” she said, “it’s getting cold.” The food could never get as cold as the frost generated by that conversation.
I thought about the slip of paper in my pocket and felt colder still.
* * *
About the Author
A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest.
In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett also writes the New York Times Bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mystery series under the name of Lorna Barrett. Bookplate Special, the third book in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for best novel of 2009.
Bartlett’s first Victoria Square Mystery, A Crafty Killing, will debut in February of 2011.
Visit her website at: http://www.LLBartlett.com
(You can also find her on Facebook, Goodreads, Myspace, and Twitter.)
The Jeff Resnick Mysteries
Murder on the Mind
Dead In Red
Cheated By Death
Bound By Suggestion (2011)
Short Stories
Bah! Humbug
Cold Case
Abused: A Daughter’s Story
Writing as Lorraine Bartlett
LorraineBartlett.com
The Victoria Square Mysteries
A Crafty Killing (2/2011)
The Walled Flower (Fall, 2011)
Short Stories:
An Unconditional Love
Prisoner of Love
We’re So Sorry Uncle Albert
Writing as Lorna Barrett
LornaBarrett.com
The Booktown Mysteries
Murder Is Binding (2008)
Bookmarked For Death (2009)
Bookplate Special (2009)
Chapter & Hearse (2010)
Sentenced To Death (2011)
Murder On The Half Shelf (2012)
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 1