“They’ve got that on the menu. It comes with a free angiogram.”
Herb added a ninth packet of artificial sweetener to his coffee and stirred it with his fork.
“How are you doing, Jack?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems.”
I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: “Damn, Jack, you’re a mess.”
I didn’t feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb’s constant staring at it made me edgy.
“Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess.”
“Are you still in love with Alan?”
“I don’t think I ever stopped loving him.”
“Does he want you back?”
“I think so.”
“Do you love Latham?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to have to choose.”
“I know.”
“Who are you going to choose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who do you love more?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to eat your eggs?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least that’s a decision I can help you with.”
Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn’t hurt his appetite.
“What do we do about Fuller?” Yolk clung to his mustache.
I was happy to change the subject.
“I have a plan.”
“Tell.”
“Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away.”
“I read the medical. The doctors don’t think the tumor is any older than a year or two.”
“Right. But Fuller said he’s always had headaches, his whole life.”
Herb nodded. “So maybe he’s killed before.”
“We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime.”
“How do we do that?”
“Did you forget? We’re police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living.”
“What if there’s no crime to solve?”
“Then we have to find one.”
I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department’s file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.
Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.
A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of Death of a Salesman.
In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.
I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers’ money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.
“During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open.”
“How about missing persons?”
I heard fingers on a keyboard.
“One hundred and thirty-eight.”
The high number surprised me.
“It that normal?”
“We’re a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”
I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.
Herb leaned over. “What do you got?”
“He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I’ve also got over a hundred MP files, which I’ll try to sync up with Fuller’s academic schedule. You?”
“Fuller’s NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries — in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I’m surprised he could pass the department physical.”
“No missing cheerleaders?”
“I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn’t contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy.”
“Fooled them just like he fooled us.”
Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.
“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.
“We get started on this list. You want to take A through L?”
“I guess.”
I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.
I hit the computer.
Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub — she’d been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.
Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.
I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.
It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.
I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.
“Says he’s your husband.”
I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?
“Can someone escort him up?”
My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.
I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.
“Hi, Jack.”
I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.
“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”
“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The words hurt. I stayed silent.
“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess . . . I don’t know . . . I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”
“Were you wrong?”
His eyes softened. “Yes.”
What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?
“Have a safe trip back, Alan.”
His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.
“Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?”
Don’t
play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.”
“I know.”
“I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.” He tried to smile. “Have a nice life, Jack.”
“You too, Alan.”
He walked out.
The first time he left me, I didn’t try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?
Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?
“Alan . . . wait.”
He turned, eyes hopeful.
“Yeah?”
Looking at him, I knew.
“You’re wearing my jacket.”
Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.
I went to him.
Our hands met.
“Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.”
“So do I.”
“Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we discuss it over dinner?”
“That might be best.”
I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.
“Can I call you? After work?”
“No. The work can wait.”
“Excuse me?”
“The work can wait, Alan. Let’s go.”
We didn’t go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.
Twice.
CHAPTER 32
I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven’t worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other’s buttons.
I’d called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn’t be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
“I’ll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.”
“His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won’t. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.”
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn’t have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I’d had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn’t a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
“Jack? That you?”
“I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast.”
“You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“No. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. It’s probably just a panic attack. I don’t have my damn sleeping pills and I’m bouncing off the walls.”
“Why don’t you have your pills?”
Moment of truth time.
“I’m in Alan’s hotel room.”
I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.
“You still love him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?
“You need some time apart, to figure things out?”
“Yes.” I was crying now.
“A week? A month?”
“I don’t know, Latham.”
“I understand.”
Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?
“I might never come back, Latham.”
“You have to choose what’s right for you, Jack.”
“Aren’t you mad at me?”
“I love you. I want you to be happy.”
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.
“There’s no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!”
“Call me when you’ve made a decision, Jack.”
He hung up.
I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.
I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.
Alan knocked on the door.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
He let himself in, sat down next to me.
“Dammit,” I cursed, rubbing my eyes. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not this weak.”
Alan laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
He put his arms around me.
“You’re not weak, Jack. You’re human.”
“And that’s funny to you?”
“I always suspected it. I just never thought I’d see it.”
He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.
If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.
Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn’t be allowed out.
After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.
One thing at a time.
CHAPTER 33
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.
I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.
Nothing happened.
I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.
Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.
The gun was gone.
Something in the darkness moved.
“Mom? Alan?”
No answer.
I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.
A faint chuckle came from nearby.
My digital clock went out.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.
The closet.
“I’ve got a gun!” I yelled to the darkness.
Another chuckle. Low and soft.
Fuller.
Another movement. Closer this time.
My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?
How do I make it out of here alive?
My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don’t look back.
I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.
I screamed, and woke myself up.
Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I’d just completed the last leg of a triathlon.
“Jack?”
Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the
gun.
“What’s happening?”
“Just a bad dream.”
“You’re going to shoot a bad dream?”
I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn’t let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.
I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.
I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.
“Morning, Mom.”
Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.
“Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty.”
“Court.” I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. “You okay?”
“This cold weather is affecting my hip.”
“It’s got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on ‘broil.’”
“My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it’s freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets.”
I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.
“Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?”
“Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I’d hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know.”
“Why not invite him here?”
“He’s retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn’t ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates.”
“He can stay with us.”
Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.
“Really?”
“Sure. If he doesn’t mind sharing the sofa bed.” I winked at her.
“Well, I think I’ll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing.”
I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan’s health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Cancer.”
“Thanksgiving is next week.” I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. “Invite him over for that.”
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