by Tim McBain
Saturday dawned with a red-tinged sky the same color as the turning leaves on the sugar maple outside Darger’s window.
After putting together another field report for submission on the following Monday, per Cal’s request, Darger had little to do.
That wasn’t so true, she realized, when her eyes roved over her nearly empty suitcase. Almost everything she’d packed had been worn already, most of it at least twice.
Violet hated housework and any other menial task that had to be repeated over and over, ad nauseam, for the rest of her life. But that was the price you had to pay for clean underwear. She found the address for a laundromat in town, packed up her dirty clothes, and struck out on a quest for a fresh wardrobe.
While her clothes were agitated, rinsed, spun, and dried, she thumbed through the various outdated magazines on a rack near the row of wire chairs in the seating area. But the chairs were uncomfortable, and she was restless and antsy aside from that.
It had been a week since her argument with Luck at the Sheriff’s office. They hadn’t spoken of it or talked much at all during the meetings for Operation Angler Fish. And extracurricular discussion was nil.
Then there was the fact that she’d neglected to bring his hypothesis to Loshak. It hadn’t been on purpose, but she felt bad about it anyway.
Watching her clothes tumble in the vortex of the dryer, she dialed Casey’s number. It rang twice, then went to voicemail. Was he screening her calls? Avoiding talking to her? She thought not. For all he knew, she was calling about the case. He wouldn’t ignore that.
When she’d finished with her laundry, and everything was smelling Mountain Fresh again, she tried his phone a second time. Same deal: two rings, then the pre-recorded voicemail message.
Screw it. His house was only a few minutes from here. She might as well drop by and see if he was home. She opened her trunk, tossed in the plastic bag full of freshly laundered clothes, and slammed it shut.
Her plan, however, seemed less and less wise the closer she got to Luck’s house. What if he wasn’t home? But she could see that wasn’t the case from two blocks away. The Luckmobile was parked in the driveway.
As she brought the car to a halt across the street from his place, her mind came up with ten more excuses to abandon the idea. What if he was busy, and she was intruding? What if he had guests?
What if he had a lady guest?
She glanced at her reflection in the rear view mirror and rolled her eyes at her paranoia. You are such a wuss. All this because you don’t want to apologize that bad?
Her footsteps skimmed over the asphalt on the way up the front walk to his door. She had one final bout of neurosis before she lifted her finger to ring the bell.
What if he opens the door, sees it’s you, and slams it in your face?
Ding dong!
She heard the bell’s sing-song chime reverberate through the house. She fidgeted on the step while she waited, pacing back and forth across the tiny concrete platform.
After a good half a minute of standing on the stoop, she turned back and headed for her car. He had to be home right? The van was parked outside. Maybe he really didn’t want to see her. She was crossing the yellow line painted down the center of the street when she heard a yip from the backyard. Morty.
Violet crept to the side of the house, and over the gate of the wooden privacy fence, she saw him. Casey Luck was bent over, one hand reaching for something in the grass. In his other hand, he clutched a bottle of beer. Blue Moon, she knew without even needing to see the label. Cops were creatures of habit.
He wore a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved gray henley tee. It was the first time she’d seen him without a scrap of police garb on. No suit. No gun. No belt.
When he stood straight, she saw that it was a tennis ball he’d been plucking from the ground. He lobbed it across the yard for Morty, who took off instantly to retrieve it. Right. So he was outside with the dog and maybe hadn’t heard the doorbell.
Or maybe he had heard it, maybe even peeked through the sliding glass door at the back, had seen it was Violet, and decided not to answer. Violet was struggling with whether she should call out to him or scuttle back to her car like a coward when he pivoted and caught sight of her. His brow furrowed, though he didn’t necessarily look angry or disappointed to see her. If anything, she thought he looked confused.
“Hey,” he said. Morty immediately noted that his master’s attention had shifted to something outside the perimeter of the yard and took off to investigate.
Her cover blown, Darger realized she’d have to go ahead with it now. She let herself through the gate, just in time to meet Morty, who wagged and sniffed and spun around in excitement at the prospect of a visitor.
Luck had followed the dog to the edge of the yard, and now he stood, one hand on his hip, the other occupied by the beer.
“Sorry to show up unannounced like this,” she said. “I called but…”
“Ah, crap,” Casey said, reaching into his pocket. “I probably forgot to turn my phone back on.”
Glancing at the screen and then pressing a button, he muttered, “Stupid thing.”
Alarm passed over his face suddenly.
“Did something happen with the case? Is something wrong?”
“No,” Darger said. “I mean, not with the case anyway.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sucked in her cheeks. Why was she stalling? What was so hard about apologizing?
She squatted down to pet Morty, who accepted her attention gratefully.
“I’ve been thinking that I… well, I think I maybe reacted in not-the-best way after the whole tabloid thing. Blaming you for not backing me up or whatever.”
Morty licked her hand, which she took as encouragement to go on.
“And I wanted to explain things.”
Luck was silent for a while, and she wondered if this had all been a mistake.
“What things?”
She stood up with a sigh.
“I know it probably seemed like I was way out of line,” she said, and his eyebrows reached for the heavens. “OK, I was definitely out of line. But there was a reason.”
He took a sip of beer, appearing doubtful.
“I’m messing this up,” she said with a groan of frustration. “I’m trying to apologize!”
“Then go for it.” He tipped his beer to one side, the brown bottle appearing to shrug on Casey’s behalf.
She looked him in the eye and swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
His chest rose as he inhaled, watching her.
“Apology accepted, Agent,” he said, but she sensed that all was not right between them still. She felt a strange pain in her chest.
Casey scooped the ball from where it lay a few feet away and threw it again for the dog. Darger thought of what Loshak had said. About the weight of denial, and about her fear that she wouldn’t be able to bear the burden of her true feelings.
“There’s something else,” she said, and Casey must have heard something in her voice, because he paused mid-throw and twisted to face her.
“I lied to you before. When you asked how I came to be an agent. That stuff about my dad being a cop? It’s not true. That’s just something I tell people so I don’t have to tell them the real reason.”
He tossed the ball away with an absent flick of the wrist, listening intently. A good trait for a detective, she thought. To know when to speak and when not to.
“I never really even knew my dad,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “But that’s not the point. The point is… before I was an agent, I was in Victim Assistance. Kind of a therapist-slash-social-worker. I counseled victims of sex crimes and human trafficking mostly. We had this girl, Zara…”
By the time Darger finished telling Zara’s story, the sun was setting, and a few stray crickets had begun to sing.
“We found out later that he had paid this guy $1500 to kill Zara. $1500 dollars. That’s all her life
was worth.
“But they were able to get the guy, the hitman, to testify. They got their conviction after all. US Attorney’s happy. Bureau’s happy. The agent who wouldn’t approve protection for Zara got a promotion. He’s now Special Agent in Charge in Maryland. The guy who actually pulled the trigger got a deal for his testimony, of course. He’ll be eligible for parole in four years.”
She filled her lungs with the cool autumn air.
“And they all lived happily ever after. The end.”
Violet stared at the black outline of the trees against the darkening sky so she wouldn’t have to look at Luck.
“Everyone but the girl. Zara,” he said finally. “And you.”
“Yeah, well… I’d say I got off a little easier than she did.”
Casey studied her for a while, then turned back to the house. A welcoming glow radiated out from the windows.
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s starting to get cold out here.”
She followed him in the house, and he handed her a beer without asking. She accepted gladly, twisting off the cap and taking a drink. They sat side by side on stools in front of the kitchen island for some time without speaking.
When he finally broke the silence, he said, “I guess I should take this opportunity to admit that I maybe lied a little, too.”
“Really?”
She raised an eyebrow.
He flicked her bottle cap over the counter top, the metal skittering over the smooth surface.
“It wasn’t my dad who was the cop. It was an uncle. My dad died when I was eight. Hit and run. And then my mom got ovarian cancer and died when I was twelve.”
“Wow. I’m sorry.”
He scratched at the back of his neck.
“We — my sister and I — came here to live with my aunt and uncle then. He was the highway patrolman.”
“I see,” Darger said, running her thumb over a rough edge on the label pasted to her beer bottle. “And are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to fess up to? Something else you might have left out?”
He turned toward her, a look of utter bewilderment written on his face.
“Tell the truth now, you totally dressed up in his uniform when you were a kid.”
His cheeks slowly pulled up into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Maybe. Once.”
“I knew it.”
They seemed to pick right up where they’d left off after that. Or at least, one thing led to another, and Violet found herself perched on Casey’s kitchen counter, half-undressed, with her legs folded around his waist.
His teeth grazed her earlobe, her neck, her collarbone, and she ran her fingers through his hair.
“I missed you,” he said, his hands tracing their way up her waist, over her ribcage, and then cupping her breasts.
“You missed this,” she said, wrapping her thighs tighter around him so his bare chest pressed against hers.
“That, too.”
He scooped under her hips, lifting her from where she rested, and carried her to the bedroom.
Chapter 59
They lay in bed for a while afterward, still tangled in each other’s limbs. Eventually Casey leaned across the pillow and kissed Violet on the forehead.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he said. “You can join me if you like.”
He walked two fingers over her belly as if they were miniature legs.
“I would,” Violet said, grinning, “but I’m starving.”
She sat up and felt around for her clothes in the darkened room.
“There’s food in the fridge. Fruit. Yogurt. Cold pizza in the box on the counter. Help yourself to whatever,” he said, flipping on a lamp next to the bed.
Violet found her underwear and slid those on first.
“No jokes about caviar and truffles? You’re losing your edge, Detective.”
She stood up to button her pants and suddenly felt Casey’s lips at the nape of her neck.
“Well, we are all out of foie gras, Special Agent. My apologies.”
He kissed her once more before retreating into the bathroom.
When she’d finished dressing, Violet padded out to the kitchen. She ignored the refrigerator and headed straight for the cardboard box next to the stove. She ate two slices, licked her fingers clean, and then fell into one of the black leather couches in the living room.
For the first time, she noticed all the crayon drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets. He had mentioned a sister. Perhaps he had nieces and nephews.
Casey’s phone went off then, rattling over the glass surface of the coffee table in front of her. She had an itch to look, to see who it was, but refrained. She hated being nosy.
The ringing cut off, and she pulled out her own phone and checked her email. Nothing but a new notification that her current bank statement was ready and a coupon for 10% off at Kohl’s. She didn’t remember signing up for the Kohl’s mailing list.
Casey’s phone rang again. This time Darger peeked, not out of intrusiveness, but because she feared the worst: that another body had been found. Or something else, maybe. In either case, when she peered over the table at the screen, it said simply, “Grandma.”
“Oh,” she muttered and went back to her own screen.
The phone rang a third time, and she gave it little thought, other than that Casey had better call his grandmother.
A few minutes later, Violet heard the front door open. She was sitting on the couch, her back to the entrance. She craned her neck around to see a little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, slipping inside.
“Morrrrrrty! Puppy!”
The child screeched and disappeared down the hallway that led toward the bedrooms. Morty jumped down from where he’d been nestled against Violet’s thigh and followed the girl to the back of the house.
“There you are!” she heard the girl say with a giggle.
Violet set her phone down on the couch. What the devil was this, now? Her first thought was that the girl must be a neighbor, someone Casey let come over and play with the dog.
She wondered if it was routine for the girl to just let herself in. Did Casey know about that?
When she’d been in high school, not long after her mother married Gary and they’d moved into his house in a swanky gated community in West Bloomfield, she’d been home alone, as usual, after school. She heard the screen door creak open, and then footsteps on the stairs, and she knew instantly it wasn’t her mother or her stepfather by the strange cadence of the footsteps. It almost sounded like an animal trotting up the steps. A four-legged creature. Violet, still not totally at ease in the new house (actually, she was never totally at ease in that house, even now), picked up a poker from next to the fireplace and crept quietly down the hall. From the kitchen, she heard the clink of glass jars and other containers rattling together. Tiptoeing over the tiled floor, Violet sidled around the large marble-topped island with the fire poker held out in front of her. The fridge door was still open and blocked her view of the intruder.
“Who’s there?”
A small head popped into view. The gleaming black hair of the neighbor boy from across the street was what she saw first, and then his terrified green eyes. He screamed. Violet screamed. The little boy ran from the room, a dill pickle still clutched in his fist. She heard the rat-tat-tat of his feet on the stairs and the door opening and slamming shut. He’d been about the same age as the little girl, she thought. Four or five. What she remembered most was the pickle, of course, and the fact that he hadn’t been wearing any pants.
She didn’t even remember his name now — Billy? Bobby? Roddy? Something like that. She smiled to herself. She’d never spoken of it to anyone. Not to her mother or her stepfather, not even to little Bobby Whatshisname. And it never happened again, at least not while she was at home, but she’d always wondered if it had happened before. For all she knew this pantsless kid was marauding all over the neighborhood on a regular basis.
D
arger stood, planning to make her presence known to the little girl (sans fire poker). Before she got a word out, an older woman bustled through the door. She was tall and statuesque with a coif of chestnut hair on top of her head.
“Jillybean, you didn’t even kiss Grandma goodbye,” the woman said, pausing to make sure the door was shut. When she turned back from the knob, her eyes immediately fell on Violet.
“Oh!” she said, looking startled.
Violet realized then that this must be Casey’s grandmother. The one who’d been calling just before. She was younger than Violet would have expected.
She started to introduce herself, but at that moment, Casey materialized from the bathroom. His hair was still wet, and he clutched at a towel around his waist.
“Claudia,” he said, wearing a look of confusion, and then a trace of worry passed over his face. “Is everything OK?”
“Casey! There you are,” the woman said, clasping her hands in the air in front of her. “I am so sorry to show up unannounced like this! I tried to call but—”
“Yeah, sorry. I must have been in the shower,” Casey said, his eyes darting over to Violet, who was still standing motionless next to the sofa like she’d been zapped by some supervillain’s Freeze-ray.
“One of my clients just went into hospice, and I really need to be there, and I just—” now the woman was the one glancing at Violet, and she was starting to get a very uneasy feeling. Something about the dynamic was wrong.
“No, Claudia. It’s fine,” he said.
Claudia. That was what was bothering her. Who called their grandmother by her first name?
“It’s just obvious that you’re busy,” the woman said.
Casey started to say something, but the little girl finally resurfaced from the other end of the house then. She was awkwardly carrying Morty in her arms. She could manage about the top half of the dog, and the rest hung limp like a ragdoll. Morty wore a blue knit winter hat with a large pompom on top. To the dog’s credit, he didn’t seem to mind being manhandled by the child one bit. His tail wagged furiously, and his tongue lolled out for a taste of the girl’s cheek.
