Extracurricular Activities

by Maggie Barbieri

  The trooper finally left, defeated that he hadn’t even remotely intimidated Jimmy.

  Jimmy turned to me. “Asshole.” He held his hand out.

  “Thanks.” I held out my hand and shook his. I rubbed my wrist, a little red from the cuff. “Nice to meet you. Although not under these circumstances.”

  He sat at the table and pulled a legal pad from his bag. “What happened here?”

  I started with the bizarre 911 call, the cop at the house, and my seeing someone in the shadows. I ended with the traffic stop in front of Stew Leonard’s (shopping for farm-fresh eggs would never seem the same) and my being taken in and handcuffed to the chair.

  He looked across at me, narrowing his eyes. “They say you resisted arrest.”

  I sighed. “I tried to get back in the car to get my cell phone. I wanted to call Crawford…um…Bobby.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t very smart. Trooper thought you were going for a gun. Although I don’t know why.” He wrote a couple of unintelligible notes on his pad. “You tell them about my brother?”

  “About our relationship?” I asked, clueless.

  He was still in serious lawyer mode, but he couldn’t help cracking a smile. “Uh, no. Did you tell them that my brother is a cop?”

  I nodded. Lot of good it did me to drop that nugget of information.

  “They also said they got a call from the driver of the red car saying that you were following him or her. They couldn’t tell which. Lousy Westchester cell phone reception.”

  I nodded. “I was following them.”

  He dropped his pen on the paper. “You’re not making this easy.”

  “Did Crawford fill you in on what’s been happening?” I asked.

  “Sort of,” he said, leaning back and running his fingers through thick, unruly black hair. “You were following the red car because you thought it was either the husband or wife of the couple who used to live next door.”

  “Correct.”

  “Aforementioned wife was having an affair with your late ex-husband.”

  “Right.”

  He looked at me. “And what were you going to do once you caught up to said husband or wife?”

  It suddenly dawned on me what the situation looked like. No wonder I had been handcuffed to the chair. I tried to come up with an excuse. “Ask them if they wanted their dog back?” I offered lamely.

  He rolled his eyes. “That ain’t gonna work, sister.”

  I leaned forward. “All I wanted to do was find out who it was, and if it was Jackson or Terri, why they left, where they were going, and yes, if they wanted Trixie back.” I relayed the story of the 911 call coming from inside their vacated house, too, but Jimmy still wasn’t buying it. It didn’t even sound true to me, and based on the look on Jimmy’s face, not to him, either.

  “The dog.”

  “The dog,” I said, giving him a solemn nod. Sounded reasonable to me.

  He drew a couple of lines on the paper and seemed to get lost in thought. After a few minutes of silence, he jumped up. “Wait here.”

  He left the room and me alone with my thoughts. Now, instead of just dragging Crawford into my increasingly sordid business, I was dragging members of his family into it as well. I had a lawyer now, and he was a chubbette named Jimmy who I hoped was much smarter than his appearance suggested. He clearly was tough in a street kind of way but I wasn’t sure if that translated into book smarts. I had a city cop and a lawyer at my disposal but I couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. I licked my lips, chapped and dry after hours in this institutional environment, and waited for him to return.

  He came back fifteen minutes later. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his satchel from the table.

  “What?” I was a little confused by the sudden turn of events.

  “Let’s go,” he repeated. He leaned in close to me and dropped his voice. “You’ve still got the speed, but I got the reckless driving, harassment, and resisting arrest dropped. You’ve got four points on your license and need to take a defensive driving course.” He took my arm and steered me out into the hallway. “A little community service probably wouldn’t hurt, either. Got any orphans around you could feed or make clothes for? Any nuns at the college need sponge baths?”

  I kept my eyes to the ground as we passed the front desk of the barracks, careful not to do anything that would make them change their minds. My slippers made a shuffling noise on the hard linoleum. Once outside, Jimmy handed me a small plastic bag with my keys and cell phone. He had browbeat the trooper into having my car towed to the barracks and it was sitting in a spot right next to his minivan. I thanked him profusely for coming out on a Saturday, for not mentioning my pajamas, and for getting most of my charges dropped. “It was nice to meet you,” I said.

  He smiled. “You, too.” He started for his car and turned when he reached the driver’s side door. “Stay out of trouble,” he said, chuckling.

  The rain began to fall, a light mist that clung to my uncombed hair and eyelashes. “I will. Thanks again.”

  He stood next to his car, swinging his briefcase back and forth. “So, you’re dating Captain America, huh?” he asked, amused.

  “I prefer to think of him as Detective Hot Pants,” I said.

  He started to say something else, thought better of it, and looked at me one last time before he got into the car, a silver minivan with a car seat in the back. He gave me a wave as he drove off, merging onto the Saw Mill Parkway at the base of the barracks’ driveway.

  I watched him drive off, marveling at my luck at meeting a man who would not only bail me out of jail but who would enlist members of his family to do the same. I was just glad that it was his brother, and not his mother, or sister, who was the crack attorney. Women are far less forgiving of failings in their male relatives’ lovers.

  Even I knew that it was never good to meet your boyfriend’s mother while handcuffed to a chair.

  Jimmy called Crawford right before he and Carmen left for lunch.

  “Your girlfriend’s out on bail,” he said, laughing loudly. “They had her on reckless driving, harassment, and resisting arrest. That’s the trifecta of arrests.”

  Crawford didn’t think that was very funny but that was what separated him from his brother—Jimmy’s sense of humor. “Thanks, Jimmy. How much do I owe you?”

  “I’m just kidding. There’s no bail. I got most of the charges dropped but she’s got to take one of those moronic defensive driving courses at the local high school. Her and every teenage DUI in Dobbs Ferry.”

  Crawford felt the tension drain from his body, relief replacing it. “Thanks, Jimmy,” he repeated.

  “I gotta tell you, man, she’s cute. Even in wet pajamas and without her hair combed. I can see what you see in her.” His cell phone cut out momentarily. “…gotta stay out of trouble. The Staties won’t cut her any slack next time.”

  “Jimmy, I owe you. I’ll call you later.” Crawford hung up and ran his hands over his face. Owing Jimmy was the last thing he needed; Jimmy had a lead foot and his other car was an eight-cylinder BMW. If he didn’t have a brother with connections, Jimmy would have a suspended license from all of his speeding tickets, a fact that didn’t stop him from doing eighty on the local highways. He turned to Carmen, still sitting at her desk doing paperwork. “She’s out, Carmen.”

  Carmen took her hands, but not her eyes, off the keyboard of the typewriter and began clapping. “Can we eat now?”

  “One second,” Crawford said, picking up his ringing phone. “Crawford. Fiftieth.”

  The breathing was labored and heavy, the voice husky. “Crawford.”

  Crawford sat down. “Alex?”

  “I got something for you, Bobby. On the hands and feet.”

  Crawford felt his pulse quicken. “Shoot,” he said, picking up a pencil.

  “Not on the phone.” Alex sneezed loudly.

  Crawford expected the stalling; Alex had been an informant for the last five years and was kno
wn for that as well as his inability to follow a logical thought from point A to point B; years of abusing his body had taken its toll on his mind. Crawford pushed the point of the pencil through the legal pad, agitated. “Alex, I don’t have that kind of time. Help me out here. Give me something.”

  Alex sneezed again. “I’m real sick, man. I’ve been hiding. I’ve been outside for a while.”

  “When I see you, I’ll buy you lunch. But give me something to make me come out, Alex.” Crawford heard the squeal of train brakes and suspected that he was in front of Maloney’s on Broadway, his favorite spot to pan-handle. “Why have you been hiding?”

  “I’m scared, man. I saw the hands and feet.”

  “Where? What did you see?”

  Alex coughed and mumbled something Crawford couldn’t understand.

  “What do you have for me, Alex?”

  “Well, the guy who got killed was a college professor at St. Thomas.”

  Crawford rolled his eyes. “I know, Alex. I read the papers. I’m working the case. I saw the body.”

  Alex dropped his voice to a whisper. “I saw the guy who threw them away. He was with a blond lady. She was little.”

  Crawford sat up straighter. “What did the blond lady look like?”

  Alex paused. “She may have been blond. She might have been a brunette. It was hard to tell. It was dark.”

  Crawford slumped in his chair.

  “Actually, it might not have been a lady at all.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Alex. What did you see?”

  “I’m not sure.” He coughed loudly. “I’m real sick, Bobby. I think I have a fever.”

  Crawford stood. “Where are you?”

  “In front of Maloney’s.”

  Bingo. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. We can go to the drugstore and get whatever you need. Wait for me, Alex.” He hung up and stood. “Let’s go, Carmen. We’re going to have a guest for lunch.”

  Carmen frowned. “Oh, Bobby. How we gonna make out if someone else is there?”

  They headed over to Broadway and 242nd Street. There was a fifty-fifty chance that Alex would be there and Crawford preferred to take the “glass is half full” approach. Carmen was dubious. When they pulled up in front of Maloney’s, there was no sign of their sick, drugged-out informant.

  Carmen held out her hand. “That’ll be five dollars, Mr. Man.”

  Crawford got out of the car and looked around. He never worried about Alex; although his word wasn’t rock solid, Crawford could tell that he was counting on him for a few bucks and a meal. Alex didn’t pass up the opportunity for money or food, and would even make up information just to get both. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at the pavement.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Chapter 23

  I went home and took a shower, hoping to wash the day’s unpleasantness off along with the mud that had pooled in my slippers and on my feet. I threw the slippers into the bathroom garbage can and took my clothes off, marveling at just how horrendous I looked after my little adventure.

  Thank God for Jimmy Crawford. I didn’t think going back to school and having to confess to Kevin and Sister Mary that I almost had gotten a criminal record was such a good idea. Reckless driving I could handle, but harassment? Resisting arrest? Those two charges were for real criminals, not for nerdy, rule-following college professors.

  I didn’t know where this newfound bravado came from or what had possessed me to follow the red car. The car was not one of Jackson’s or Terri’s; she had a minivan—in preparation for their future spawn, I suppose—and he had an old Nissan Sentra, what we around these parts called a “station car.” Everyone who commuted via the railroad had an old junker that they drove the few miles to the station. The red car wasn’t theirs. But whose was it?

  After my shower, I called Crawford’s cell. He picked up after a few rings. “I hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”

  “I’m in a Dumpster behind Maloney’s. It’s not a great time.”

  Curious. “What are you…” Never mind, I thought. “First, thanks for sending your brother. He got me out.”

  “He told me. You’re welcome.”

  “Second, I thought we should run the plate on the red car. I got the license plate number.”

  “I’m up to my knees in garbage right now, so maybe we should have this conversation later?” He sounded winded and more than a little perturbed.

  I sat down on my bed, drying my hair with a towel. “Do you want to call me when you get back to the precinct?”

  “What I want to do is get out of this Dumpster, have lunch, go home, and forget this day ever happened.”

  Well, alrighty then. “Give me a call later,” I said, hanging up. Instead of focusing on Crawford’s crabby demeanor, I thought about all of the mysteries I was now involved in: who killed Ray? Who shot me? Where did Terri and Jackson go? And did they have anything to do with each other?

  I decided that I wouldn’t be able to think clearly until I ate something.

  I ended up at the diner in town, one of my favorite hangouts. I figured that if I was going to become an amateur sleuth, I needed a greasy spoon to hang out in where everyone knew my name. Although it had been a hundred years since I had read a Nancy Drew book, I was sure she had a hangout. I remembered that she had a sporty coupe and I vowed to buy myself one of those. Maybe having a sporty coupe would mitigate the fact that no matter how many times I went to the diner, nobody ever remembered me, so I always sat at the counter, slightly dejected that I was that unmemorable.

  “Help you?” a young waitress asked, approaching me in my usual spot. Her pencil was poised above her pad, awaiting my order.

  “Cheeseburger deluxe and a chocolate milk shake,” I said. If the ten thousand calories I was about to consume didn’t wipe away the memories of my arrest, I didn’t know what would.

  “Is that all?” she asked, more out of habit than curiosity.

  “I should hope so,” I said, cracking myself up. When I didn’t get a reaction, I replied, “Yes, thank you.”

  I stared at the refrigerated case in front of me, elaborately frosted cakes stacked on the shelves. I looked at each one, thinking that I would finish the meal off with a big, gooey piece of chocolate mousse cake. After all, I had been shot at and arrested. I needed something to take the edge off, and I had flushed all of my remaining Vicodin down the toilet. I thought chocolate would be the next best thing. A shape appeared behind my reflection in the glass, and judging by its silhouette—that of a bowling ball—I knew immediately who it was.

  I didn’t turn around. “Hello, Peter.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “Expecting anyone or dining alone?” I didn’t answer, so he took the seat to my left. “This is a coincidence, huh?” he said.

  I refused to make eye contact with him. “It certainly is.” I pulled a napkin out of the holder in front of me and wiped my upper lip. “Do you often come to Dobbs Ferry for diner food?”

  “Nothing like a good Greek diner.” The waitress approached him and he ordered a cup of coffee.

  I told the waitress to cancel my order and threw a ten down on the counter for her trouble. I had lost my appetite but, for some reason unknown to me, I wasn’t afraid. Annoyed, yes. But afraid? Not anymore. I knew that Peter wasn’t going to hurt me. I was convinced that he had killed Ray and that that had been his ultimate goal all along. I didn’t know why he had come; perhaps he wanted congratulations on the murder? Were we finally even? I stood.

  Peter grabbed my arm. “Sit, Alison.”

  “Leave me alone, Peter,” I said through my teeth.

  He pulled on my arm. “Sit,” he said, this time more forcefully.

  I looked around the restaurant, not knowing what I was hoping to see. A police officer on a break? Someone I knew? Now would be a good time for Detectives Hardin or Madden, or both, to grab a cup of coffee, I thought. But that didn’t seem to be a possibility and I finally relented
, sitting back down on the stool. I leaned in close to Peter, with courage born of a near-death experience, jail time, and a peripheral involvement with too many murders. “Peter, I’m only going to say this once. Leave me alone.”

  I wasn’t entirely surprised when he burst out laughing. “You are not a tough broad, Alison. No matter what you think.” His coffee arrived, some of it slopping over onto the saucer. He took the cup and dumped the residue on the saucer into it. He set about adding three sugars and a hefty dollop of cream from the metal pitcher on the counter. After a couple of sips, he turned back to me. “I just wanted to tell you that I have come to the conclusion that Dr. Stark was probably not the father of Kathy’s baby.”

  “Then you must feel really bad about murdering him,” I spat out.

  He looked surprised. “I didn’t murder him, Alison.” I started to get up, but he pulled me back onto the stool. He put his hand on my knee, his attempt to keep me seated.

  “God, Peter. You must think I’m a moron.”

  He shook his head. “Someone got to him before—”

  “Before what? Before you could?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “God knows, Alison, I had a few reasons to kill him. Of course, for Kathy, and then for the way he treated you. But I didn’t have anything to do with it. So, I’m here to pay my respects. For your loss.”

  “For the way he treated me? Why would you care about that?” I snapped. “And what about the way you’ve treated me? You’ve kidnapped me, threatened to kill my best friend and my ex-husband, had him killed for all I know, and broke into my house not once,” I said, my voice getting loud, “not twice, but three times!” I jabbed his chest with my index finger. I took a deep breath and brought my voice back to its normal timbre. “I’d take a philanderer any day of the week over your brand of chivalry, Peter.”

  Peter moved back a little bit on his stool and regarded me, only slightly amused. “Well.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I like you, Alison. I always have. Maybe too much. At least that’s what my wife says.” He looked down, almost ashamed at the admission. “But I’m afraid that this must be good-bye.”