Invisible

by Lorena McCourtney

  Detective Dixon called that evening, and in thirty seconds I was mentally thrashing myself for being negative, judgmental, ageist, and unfair. And for jumping to conclusions with more agility than my grandniece Sandy doing backflips.

  “I’d have called earlier,” he added, “but it took a long time for the anesthetic to wear off after the surgery this morning. And then they’ve kept me dopey on pain pills all day. I hope you didn’t have problems finding the church. And that it didn’t turn out to be unpleasant or weird?”

  Here he was, lying in a hospital bed, leg smashed by a bullet, and he was apologizing for not meeting me at the church, worried that it might have been unpleasant for me.

  If Detective Dixon was any example of the younger generation, put that handbasket in reverse.

  I discarded an irrelevant point I’d wondered before—What is a handbasket, anyway?—and said, “Tell me again so I’m sure I have this straight. You went to this house about a murder—” A dismaying thought occurred to me. “Did this have something to do with Kendra?”

  “Oh no. This was a stabbing in a bar. But when we got to the house we discovered an illegal meth lab, and the guy running it tried to escape out the back way.”

  “But this wasn’t the guy you were looking for? This was another crook?”

  “Right.”

  My head felt like the spinning light on a police car, going round and round with stabbings and shootings and drugs. To me, Kendra’s murder was a once-in-a-lifetime horror, but Detective Dixon dealt with killings every day.

  “Fortunately he stumbled just before he pulled the trigger,” Detective Dixon added.

  Or he’d have hit what he was no doubt aiming for, Detective Dixon’s head or heart. A cold shudder shot down my back. “Is your leg going to be okay?”

  “They got the bullet out. Now the doctors are having committee meetings about what to do next.” He sounded disgruntled.

  “I’ll pray about it.”

  “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” he muttered.

  “How about if I come visit you?”

  He consulted with someone and then came back to say he could have a visitor the following afternoon. “I’ll tell the guard you’re coming, but you’ll have to bring identification.”

  “You have a guard?”

  “Just a precaution for a day or two, until they nab this guy.”

  I had second thoughts. “Do you want me to come?” I didn’t want to barge in on a room full of family and friends.

  “Well, yeah, I do want you to come, Mrs. M. I really do.”

  Mrs. M. I liked that. I knelt and said a prayer for Detective Dixon and his leg right then and there.

  *

  I didn’t know if they were restricting what Detective Dixon ate, but I figured a homemade oatmeal cookie never hurt anyone, so I baked up a batch and took them along.

  The guard at the hospital checked my ID and patted me down. Me, I got patted down! I felt rather flattered that he thought I could have an AK-47 concealed in my pants leg or a bomb strapped to my Wal-Mart bra. He wouldn’t accept a cookie, but Detective Dixon grabbed one as soon as I held out the paper plate.

  He was in a hospital gown, no gun. No machines were attached to him, which I figured was a good sign. I didn’t know exactly what to talk to him about, so told him about the friendly people at the church, the strong message, and the invitations to return. I asked him about family and learned his parents were divorced and lived on opposite coasts, and his brother, in the navy, was in the Middle East. Which meant he wasn’t going to be overloaded with family visitors.

  I wondered about a girlfriend. Or girlfriends, considering his eligible-male attractiveness. Asking seemed a little nosy, however, so I didn’t. He made an effort at cheerfulness, but his blue eyes looked uncharacteristically bleak.

  I didn’t intend to say anything about the red Corolla at Bottom-Buck Barney’s, figuring police matters were the least of his worries now, but he brought up the subject of Kendra’s car himself.

  “It would be a real lead if we could find that car. We need to know if she was killed in it or elsewhere. I’m also thinking about making a trip down to see the real Kendra’s parents in Arkansas.”

  Did that mean he’d be back on the job shortly? Or was he just talking to keep his hopes up? I told him about the red Corolla I’d seen at Barney’s, prudently leaving out the part about my skidding around under the vehicle. “Though I don’t see how it could possibly be Kendra’s. I mean, if it’s hers, how could it have gotten there?”

  “Good question.”

  “I suppose the killer could have sold or traded it in there, and it’s just a strange coincidence he picked the place where Kendra had worked,” I suggested.

  “Or someone at Bottom-Buck Barney’s could be involved in the murder.”

  “But then it wouldn’t make sense to stick the car right out there under everyone’s noses!”

  “Putting something out in the open is sometimes the best way to hide it.”

  I couldn’t see any reason anyone at Bottom-Buck Barney’s would want to murder Kendra, but I felt a little frisson of excitement that Detective Dixon wasn’t dismissing my suspicions as totally off the wall. “Is there any way to trace a car other than the license plates?”

  He told me about every car having a VIN—vehicle identification number—listed on the title and also located where it could be seen through the windshield. “An easy place for a cop to check. But every car thief knows about that identification, so it’s the first thing they change. But there are also numbers located in various other places on a vehicle, and it’s difficult for a criminal to catch and change every one of them. Most often they just figure on the quick buck and don’t even try. But they do have to come up with the paperwork to make everything look legal on the surface.”

  “You’re saying that even if the car on Barney’s lot has a different VIN than Kendra’s Corolla, it could still be her car?”

  “Not a strong possibility, but a possibility.”

  I remembered Magnolia telling about Kendra’s peculiar story about her spark plugs being in backwards. Had she been looking for numbers? But there’d have been no need for phony numbers on her car then, before the murder. “I could go back to Bottom-Buck Barney’s and look through the windshield to check the VIN on the car—”

  “Mrs. M., I do not want you prowling around Bottom-Buck Barney’s! Or anywhere else. As soon as I get out of here—” He broke off as Detective Harmon strode through the hospital room door, mirrored sunglasses glittering, oversized smile spread across overtanned face.

  The two men shook hands, and Detective Harmon said jovially, “Hey, I wish I could just lay around and take it easy.”

  “The trick is knowing exactly when to step in front of a bullet,” Detective Dixon said.

  All very teasing and friendly, but a certain wariness in Detective Dixon’s attitude made me think they weren’t best buddies. I didn’t offer Detective Harmon a cookie.

  “You remember Mrs. Malone?” Detective Dixon added, motioning toward me. I gave the mirrored sunglasses a fingertip wave.

  Detective Harmon’s head jerked as if he was startled to see a live person standing there. I guess until then I’d blended into the hospital equipment. But his “Of course” was hearty, and he shook my hand too.

  Officer Harmon’s big news was that the stabbing victim had died, but they had the guy who’d shot Detective Dixon in custody. The men went on to chitchat, but we all knew Detective Harmon hadn’t come here just for police department gossip. Finally he got to the good news/bad news.

  The bad news was that the police chief had talked to Detective Dixon’s doctor, and they understood he’d be off work a minimum of several weeks, possibly even several months. The good news was that Detective Dixon needn’t worry about the Kendra Alexander murder; Detective Harmon had been assigned to take over the case.

  Detective Dixon’s face looked like someone had dropped a hammer on his leg, but, good cop
that he was, he passed along the information about the red Corolla I’d spotted on Bottom-Buck Barney’s lot.

  Detective Harmon was not impressed. “The plate numbers on the victim’s Corolla are spread all over the country,” he scoffed. “No killer would be dumb enough to sell or trade it in right here in town.”

  “The license plates are missing,” I put in.

  “One Corolla looks a lot like another,” he said loftily, his tone suggesting I couldn’t tell an eighteen-wheeler from a skateboard.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to at least check out the VIN on the Corolla on the lot.” A stubborn note had crept into Detective Dixon’s voice. “Find out where the vehicle came from and who shows as the last owner.”

  Detective Harmon shrugged. A big, put-upon shrug. “Sure. Why not? It isn’t as if I’m busy or anything.”

  He left a minute later, grabbing two cookies off the paper plate on the metal cabinet by the bed. I didn’t know what to say to Detective Dixon. His fists were clenched, muscle twitching in his jaw.

  “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other murders,” I murmured finally.

  Surprisingly, Detective Dixon blinked and then laughed. The clenched fists relaxed. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. M. There will always be more murders.”

  “Well, I’d better be going. Perhaps we could share a prayer?”

  “Mrs. M… .”

  “Yes?”

  “I decided it was time to get in touch with God. Start going to church and all. I even bought a Bible.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “After messing up my life several times, I felt I was finally heading in the right direction. So what happens? Does God applaud my efforts?” He grimaced and answered his own question. “No way. I get zapped. Before I can even show up at church, a bullet rips into my leg and here I am in the hospital.”

  “Detective Dixon—”

  “You can call me Dix if you want. Some people do.”

  I noticed he didn’t say “Everybody does,” and even though he sounded grumpy, I got the impression this wasn’t a familiarity offered to everyone.

  “Dix—”

  “If this is how God rewards efforts to get in touch with him, I don’t think I’m interested after all.”

  “You’re blaming God for this, then?”

  “Well, not exactly blaming. I don’t suppose it was up to him to look after me, considering I’ve never been one of his people. But it seems as if he might have offered a little more encouragement when I show some interest.”

  “There’s a verse in Isaiah that says the Lord’s ways are not our ways. There’s another saying that isn’t a biblical quote, but one I’ve sometimes found helpful when I don’t understand things: God works in mysterious ways.”

  Dix lifted the blanket, rearranging it over his leg. “Maybe his ways are too mysterious. Because if he’s trying to make a point here, I’m not getting it. What I’m seeing right now is ‘Make a move toward God, get zapped.’”

  “There’s also plain old evil to consider. Evil people doing evil things.”

  He scowled lightly. “I can’t argue with that. I see evil all the time.”

  “But no matter how it looks sometimes, God loves each and every one of us. Including you.”

  “I remember that old song of Grandma’s.” He sang it in a surprisingly boyish voice. “Jesus loves me, this I know, because …” He had the tune right. Does any child who’s ever sung that little song forget the tune? “Because … because something,” he muttered.

  I sang the next line for him. “‘For the Bible tells me so.’ I’ll bring my Bible next time, and we can consider a few things together.”

  He tapped his fingertips together in an oddly old-mannish gesture of considered thoughtfulness. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t mean I don’t want you to come,” he added hastily, reaching for my arm. “Just … skip the Bible.”

  I was disappointed, but then, you have to start somewhere. “Okay. Tomorrow afternoon again?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  *

  There was a piece in that evening’s newspaper about Detective Matt Dixon—Dix—getting shot. It said something he hadn’t bothered to mention, that he’d shoved a toddler to safety before taking the bullet in his leg.

  I went back the next afternoon. A couple of police officers had been visiting him, but they were leaving as I arrived. Dix didn’t have much to say, so I filled in with white noise about my garden, Harley’s fishing, and how I used to tie flies for him. I stayed away from murder and depressing subjects.

  Dix didn’t say anything about his leg, but his occasional grit of teeth as I babbled told me it was hurting. “Would you like me to tell the nurse you need a pain pill?” I finally asked.

  “No. I hate pain pills. They make my body feel like a slug and my head as if it’s full of fog.” Somehow the gritty resistance to relieving the pain didn’t surprise me. “I don’t want to be in a fog. I need to think.”

  “About … ?”

  “They have to do another surgery to put a metal plate and a bunch of screws in there. I may wind up being disabled and stuck on a desk job for the rest of my life.” He smiled without humor. “To say nothing of never making it through an airport without setting off alarms.”

  “God can help.”

  “Do you really trust God in everything?”

  “‘Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you,’” I quoted from 1 Peter.

  “Without Bible quotations,” he growled with uncharacteristic surliness. “Just tell me about you and God personally. How believing affects you when things go wrong.”

  “Like if I got a bullet in the leg?”

  “That’s not too likely. But like when your husband died.”

  “Harley’s death, and my son’s death too, were like …” Like my heart had been shredded and ripped out. Like sunshine had disappeared into a bottomless pit. Like tomorrow had no meaning. But I didn’t want to be melodramatic, so I simply said, “They were more painful than I could have believed possible.”

  Dix looked up sharply. “I didn’t know you’d had a son.”

  I didn’t want to elaborate at the moment. “A bullet that changed my life would be a big jolt too. But Harley and Colin’s deaths didn’t shatter my faith, and neither would a bullet.”

  “No?”

  “No. I know they’re with him. And God took care of me yesterday, he’s taking care of me today, and he’ll take care of me tomorrow.”

  “That doesn’t mean you won’t suffer.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But if God doesn’t shield me from troubles, or even tragedy, then he gives me his strength to see me through it. He never deserts me. I could give you a biblical quote—but I won’t,” I added hastily.

  “Thank you.”

  “I also believe God can bring good out of evil circumstances. Although, in the end, eternal life with him is all that really matters, and Jesus died on the cross to make that possible for us.”

  He stared out the window. “I wish I had your faith.”

  “I wish you did too.”

  Dix might not want to share prayers, but that didn’t keep me from silently offering one right there.

  I wondered if I was his only visitor other than police force friends. I changed my mind about a question I’d rejected earlier. LOLs can get by with nosiness, right? “Do you have a girlfriend coming to visit you?”

  “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  I’d never been a matchmaker, but a big ol’ light went on in my head right then and there. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

  17

  I called Tiffany at Bottom-Buck Barney’s the following morning. I told her I had a friend I’d like her to meet. “He’s very nice. Good-looking too.”

  “So how come he’s not taken?” she asked with a suspiciousness I hadn’t anticipated. A suspiciousness that suggested some unhappy experience. I sighed. Being young isn’t easy.

  “Why d
on’t you check him out and decide for yourself?”

  Tiffany ran that through some bad-experience filter and finally said, “He’s not weird or anything?”

  “Tiffany, if he was weird, would I be recommending him to you?” I came down heavy on the reproach.

  “I guess not.”

  “One thing I probably should tell you, he’s a cop. Also something of a hero,” I added, since this situation seemed to call for a sales pitch.

  “Aren’t they all, to hear them tell it,” she muttered. But even if Tiffany was a bit jaded, she was still hopeful. We arranged to meet at the front doors of the hospital at 7:00 that evening.

  “Oh, I showed that picture to several people,” Tiffany added. “None of them know the guy.”

  Dix had suggested a rapid turnover in employees at Bottom-Buck Barney’s, and this guy’s connection with the car lot, if any, may have been before any of the current employees worked there. Although there was the boss …

  “Including Mr. Retzloff?” I asked.

  “I was kind of scared to ask Mr. Retzloff, since he’s … uh, you know, unpredictable,” Tiffany said. An understatement, I suspected. Not a man with a “Favorite Boss” plaque on his wall. “But I caught him in a good mood right after we’d just sold three cars. I thought for a minute maybe he did recognize the guy. He leaned over and really looked at the picture. But all he was interested in was the car. He called it a classic, a Mustang from back in the sixties.”

  “The sixties?” This put a slant on the photo that had never occurred to me. Could it be a very old photo, maybe even of Kendra’s father when he was young? Nothing to do with her murder?

  “Mr. Retzloff collects old cars. Can you imagine? I have a hard time keeping up the payments on my one car. And he collects cars, has some enormous, temperature-controlled garage to keep them in. I’ve also heard he’s kind of a letch, though he’s never hit on me.”

  Altogether, way more than I really wanted to know about Mr. Retzloff. Although, on second thought, I wondered if he’d acted like a letch toward Kendra. Was it even possible he was her on-the-sly boyfriend? “Is Mr. Retzloff married?”