by Neal Baer
“Hi, Dad,” came the voice of his younger daughter, Katie.
“I’ll be right in, girls,” Nick shouted. He could hear that they were in the kitchen, putting plates on the table. But he had to make a stop first.
He veered off from the front doorway, down the hall and into the small bathroom. He closed the door, making sure to lock it. Then he turned on the cold water in the sink, though he had no intention of washing his hands. As quietly as possible, he removed the cover from the toilet tank and felt inside for what he knew would be there....
Except it wasn’t.
In a panic, he looked into the toilet tank.
The gun was gone!
Frantically, he retraced his steps. The damn thing was so much trouble to unwrap and then wrap up again that he hadn’t checked it in months. At least not that he could remember. But was he forgetting something? Had he hidden it somewhere else?
Or worse, did one of the girls find it? Nah, they would’ve confronted me. . . .
“Dad! Everything okay in there?” came his daughter Jill’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Nick shouted back, replacing the lid on the tank.
He unlocked the door and opened it to find Jill standing there, worried. “What was all the banging about?” she asked.
“I had to give the toilet a jiggle this morning to stop it from running,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t about to flood the place.”
If Jill had taken the gun, she didn’t let on. “Well, dinner’s almost ready,” his daughter said, her voice brandishing the implied authority she now wielded as Woman of the House since Nick’s mother had died.
“Smells like mystery meat,” Nick quipped.
Katie threw her arms around him. “We’re having your favorite—meat loaf. The way Grandma made it, with the bread crumbs.”
“Well, not exactly the way Grandma made it,” Jill corrected. “I think I actually got the recipe right.”
“I’m sure you did,” Nick said, as Cisco appeared at his feet, tail wagging. He sat and Nick petted him. “I can’t wait to try it. Think Cisco needs a little air first, though.” He registered the look on her face. “If that’s okay.”
“C’mon, Dad. It’s hot. And it’s on the table,” Jill said.
Nick kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Guess I can go after we eat,” he said.
He and Cisco followed Jill into the kitchen, where he forgot about anything else in his life but his two girls and the dinner they’d made. The meat loaf was even better than the one his late mother used to cook them. He savored a second bite.
“Something’s different,” he said.
“The sauce,” Jill informed him. “I tried one with three cheeses in it.”
“You mean instead of the ketchup Grandma used to use?” Nick said, taking another bite.
“Ketchup has too much sugar in it, Daddy,” Katie said, like a mother scolding a child. “Grandma shouldn’t have let you have so much.”
“Grandmas from her time didn’t really watch those kinds of things,” Nick said. “But you’re right.”
Cisco jumped up against the table, the smell of meat and cheese too much for him to resist despite his training. They all laughed as Nick grabbed his collar and moved the pooch away from the food.
“No human food for you, my friend,” he said.
Cisco sat, looked up at him with pleading eyes. Into which Nick now stared.
“That’s not gonna work, today or ever,” Nick assured the dog. “Now go wait by the door.” Cisco shuffled out of the kitchen, tail between his legs as only a dog can show defeat.
The meat loaf wasn’t the only improvement over Nick’s mother’s culinary skills. He bit into a steamed broccoli floret, marveling at its crispness, gratified that his daughters didn’t cook like his mother, who never met a vegetable she couldn’t boil to mush.
He relaxed, enjoying the one place where the outside world couldn’t touch him. The feeling quickly passed, though, as Claire’s words from before their spontaneous kiss—or, more accurately, his sudden move on her—came back to him. Was she right? Was he providing a safety net for his daughters?
Or was he so wrapped up in his return to real police work and his impending blindness that he was neglecting his duties as a father?
Nick stood up and kissed both of his daughters on the cheek, each of his arms on one of their shoulders. The girls, not used to such a display of affection from their dad, looked up at him, wondering if he’d lost his mind.
“What was that for?” asked Jill.
“You know how much I love you guys, right?”
“Sure we do, Dad,” said Katie.
“I mean it,” Nick said, detecting the concern in their voices. “I know it’s been tough since Mom died. And I know I haven’t been here—sometimes even when I am here.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” asked Jill.
“Just listen, okay? I’m going to make it up to you. We’ll go on a vacation. Maybe to someplace like—”
“Hawaii?” asked Katie with excitement, starting to dance her version of a hula and singing her version of Hawaiian music. Nick had shown her pictures a few years ago of a trip he took before he married her mother, and Katie had been obsessed with the islands ever since.
“Sure, why not?” said Nick, a smile crossing his face to see Katie so happy. Those moments had been few and far between since their mother had died.
“Just the three of us?” Katie asked, making sure he was serious.
“Just us three,” answered Nick, as he spied the hint of a smirk on his older daughter’s face. “What?” he said to Jill.
“Why don’t you take Cisco and get that drink you wanted,” she said.
“Okay,” Nick replied. “But I’m serious. We’ll go during Christmas vacation.”
“If you say so, Dad,” replied Jill. “Just the three of us.”
Claire sat behind the wheel of Nick’s Jeep, parked beside the curb, staring down a side street. She’d gone home to change, her dress replaced with comfortable jeans and a dark blue cotton blouse. Now the only light came from the streetlamps above and cars whizzing by. She wished the passing headlights would hypnotize her. Anything to distract her from the turmoil in her head.
She replayed the kiss with Nick, wondering what made her want more of him and then back away as if she’d done something terribly wrong.
Why am I at war with myself? Did I bring him back into my life for more than just to help me find who murdered Rosa?
She thought of Amy, that day on her parents’ driveway when her best friend was kidnapped. That day was the before and after of her life. After she lost Amy, she stopped feeling. She remembered telling her father that she wouldn’t ever feel sad anymore and she made sure to keep that promise. Whenever something troubling happened, she turned her feelings off, shut them down. She had gotten so used to cloistering herself from the world to avoid pain that she forgot how to feel much of anything. And now, especially after tonight’s experience with Nick, she so desperately wanted to feel. But could she?
Can I ever set myself free?
If she hadn’t been staring down the side street she would have missed the sudden flash of green that broke her trance. It was too subtle and short to be from a changing traffic light.
She reached for a pair of binoculars, which she’d picked up at her apartment, and used them to see what she expected.
Nick. Holding Cisco’s leash in one hand, his video camera, flashing a green light in night-vision mode, in the other. Pointing at Victor Palmer’s brownstone.
It was the reason she’d parked here, at the corner of West End Avenue and Seventy-Eighth Street. Because she knew Nick’s promise to stay away from Palmer was bullshit. And she was determined to save him from himself.
The video camera helped, Nick realized, even more than in the past, because of the extent to which his vision had deteriorated over the past year. The trip through the darkness w
as becoming more difficult, even with Cisco. He didn’t want to appear he was using Cisco as his guide dog. He felt bad about lying to Claire, and was pretty sure she knew what he was doing. But he wasn’t about to take any chances. Should this be the night Victor Palmer went out to kill again, Nick was going to stop him.
He settled on the sidewalk about twenty yards west of Broadway, where he felt Palmer wouldn’t spot him. He turned the camera on, set it on night-vision mode, and zoomed in on Palmer’s front door as a couple walked through the foreground of his shot, their hands locked as they headed up the street.
Am I falling in love with Claire?
He suppressed the thought as a man passed between the lens and Palmer’s house.
Something about the man made Nick swing the camera right, toward the man, who was heading away from him toward West End Avenue, on the same side of the street as Palmer’s home. The man moved quickly, carrying a heavy-looking duffel over his shoulder. Nick didn’t remember seeing the man before the couple passed by him, which meant that he must have come from one of the brownstones on the block.
Was it Palmer?
He looked toward Palmer’s brownstone. It was dark. Nick knew he had no choice but to find out. He headed toward the opposite end of the block, careful not to walk too fast so the man wouldn’t see him and get suspicious.
The man reached the corner and crossed to Nick’s side of the street, then headed across to the far side of West End.
Shit. If it’s Palmer, I blew it.
He continued to the corner, stopping short and pointing his camera across the street. What he saw shocked and scared him:
The man was definitely Palmer, and he was talking to a woman on the sidewalk, standing beside a red Jeep Cherokee.
His Jeep Cherokee.
Claire had also seen the couple pass, and the man with the duffel appear seconds later. Though he moved at a fast clip and was across the street, Claire recognized him as Victor Palmer.
He’s carrying a duffel bag. What’s inside? More bones?
She lifted the binoculars to her eyes and pointed them toward Seventy-Eighth Street. No sign of Nick. She had to act.
Composing herself, she got out of the Jeep, went around to the back, and opened the rear hatch. She lifted the cover off the compartment that housed the spare tire, grabbed Nick’s Glock, and had just wedged it in her pocket when a man’s voice came from the direction of the sidewalk:
“Is everything okay, miss?”
Claire turned.
Palmer was standing right in front of her. Smiling. His vibrant white hair was impeccably trimmed and he wore a navy blue cashmere sweater, gray linen pants, and soft, tan leather loafers.
Somehow, she found the courage to smile back. “Thanks, everything’s fine.”
She hoped that Palmer would move on, but he stayed next to her.
“It’s just that I saw you back here and you had the wheel well open and, well, it’s nighttime and a lady as beautiful as you shouldn’t have to change a flat tire alone.”
Claire now understood how this man charmed his victims. And if he’s looking for another one, I’m making it easy for him.
“I don’t have a flat,” she said, laughing so he wouldn’t see she was scared to death. “And thanks for the lovely compliment. I keep some tools back here and I was just looking for a screwdriver. . . .” And then she decided to make sure. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”
“Victor. What’s yours, my dear?”
“Claire. And you’re very nice to stop and see if I needed help.”
“Excuse me, is everything okay here?” came Nick’s voice from a few feet away. Claire had been so focused on Palmer that she failed to see Nick and Cisco crossing the street toward them. She decided to pretend that she didn’t know Nick, but just as she was about to speak, Palmer went on the offensive.
“Yes, everything’s fine, sir,” he said to Nick.
“Do you know this woman?” Nick asked.
Palmer seemed confused. Why was this man who, judging from the presence of what was clearly a guide dog, couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him interrogating him?
“Yes, I do know her. Her name is Claire. Not that it’s any of your business, though.”
“Actually, sir, it is my business,” said Nick, pulling his gold detective’s shield from his pocket. “I live a couple of blocks away and we’ve had some complaints of break-ins in the neighborhood.”
“Really?” Palmer asked, with suspicion.
“When I saw you over here with the duffel bag it just seemed strange to me, that’s all,” said Nick.
“Then you may want to call a cop who can see,” suggested Palmer in an annoyed tone as he eyed Cisco and noted his service dog vest, “because I was locking up for the night when I saw a green glow coming from outside my window.”
“Oh yeah?” asked Nick, covering.
“Like from a pair of night-vision goggles,” said Palmer, “or from that camera you’re holding.”
Claire and Nick looked at the evidence in Nick’s hand.
“You were pointing that camera at my house. And I live alone.”
“I was pointing it around the entire neighborhood,” said Nick.
Palmer pretended to relax but both Nick and Claire knew better. “I guess you have to protect the neighborhood from burglars, Detective,” he said.
“That why you left the house with the bag?” Nick asked. “Afraid someone might steal your valuables?”
“Yes, because if someone was watching my house I’m not about to give them anything to look at. If you must know, I was going to stay at a friend’s place.”
“Great. Just tell me who the friend is and where he or she lives and we’re done here.”
It was as if Nick asked him the chemical formula for gasoline. “I . . . I don’t think that’s any of your business,” stammered Palmer. Nick’s detective brain knew he had him cornered. Palmer seemed to read his mind, however, trying something else. “I was actually going to ask my friend Claire here if she’d give me a ride over.”
Palmer didn’t look at Claire. But if he thought she was going to back up his bullshit story, he was sorely mistaken.
“Friends? We just met,” she said, playing the part perfectly as she turned her gaze to Nick. “I was getting something out of the back of the car when he came up and started talking. And to be honest with you, Detective, I was a little scared.”
Gotcha, thought Nick. “Sir, drop the bag and put both hands on the hood of the Jeep,” Nick said.
Palmer did neither.
“You’re not going to frisk me, are you?” he asked in mock surprise. “Because if it makes any difference, the police commissioner is a friend, and I have his cell on speed dial.”
“Oh, there’s not much the police commissioner can do to me,” said Nick.
“He’ll do plenty when he finds out about—”
Palmer never finished the sentence. In a flash, Nick grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him face first against the Jeep’s hood.
“Shut up and don’t move,” he said.
Claire saw Palmer’s right hand tighten around the bag and knew what was coming.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
Too late. Palmer jammed the bag into Nick’s gut, catching him by surprise and propelling him backward until he fell, hitting his head on the sidewalk and passing out.
“Stop!” screamed Claire. Cisco lunged for Palmer but couldn’t reach him because Nick lay atop the leash. In a flash, Palmer had the bag open and was reaching inside. When his hand came out it held a butcher knife.
“What are you doing?” Claire yelled.
Palmer approached Nick, the knife behind his back.
“I’ll say it was self-defense,” he said eerily, as if possessed. “I didn’t know he was a cop.”
“Drop the knife or I’ll shoot!” Claire screamed.
Palmer turned to see her aiming Nick’s gun at him.
“Back a
way from him!” Claire ordered.
“Don’t be rash, Claire,” Palmer said, letting the knife drop from his hand and clatter on the sidewalk. Claire kept the gun trained on him as she moved toward the knife and kicked it into the street.
Palmer was still on his feet, which Claire knew was a problem.
“Get down on your stomach, put your hands behind your back, and spread your legs!”
Palmer didn’t move. Making her point, Claire unchecked the safety. If Palmer didn’t think she meant business before, he did now, and lowered himself to his knees.
“You’re making a mistake, Claire,” he said, trying to convince her.
“There’s no mistake,” she replied, kneeling beside Nick, noticing a trickle of blood running from his head down to the sidewalk. She retrieved his handcuffs and detective’s shield from his belt.
“On the ground, now!”
Several passers-by gathered around. Palmer knew he had no choice. Slowly, he lay prone on the sidewalk. Claire held the gun on him and straddled his legs as she cuffed him.
She looked up at the crowd.
“Somebody call nine-one-one!” she yelled. “Tell them there’s a police officer down and we need an ambulance!”
CHAPTER 17
“How is he?” Wilkes asked, heading toward Claire, who was leaving the treatment room of MSU Hospital’s Emergency Department. The cluttered, crowded ER was more chaotic than usual at 10:35 p.m. on a weekday night as three pairs of paramedics wheeled trauma patients from a car accident past the usual suspects: people with the flu, lacerations from making snacks before bed, psychotics who talked animatedly to invisible foes.
“He’s groggy but stable,” replied Claire, knowing she was about to face the consequences for what she and Nick did tonight. “They’re taking him up for a head CT to make sure there’s no bleeding.”
“Oh, there’s gonna be blood, all right,” said Wilkes, dispensing of all pretense. “After what you two pulled tonight.”
“Inspector, I can explain—”
