by Susan Rohrer
Long gone was the era when papers would be sold out by this time in the morning. The Internet had changed all that. When the Times had laid him off, they’d blamed the flagging economy. To Joe it seemed a convenient way to jettison seasoned reporters. Hungry journalism grads would work for a fraction of what he’d earned over a decade or two of merit increases.
Joe passed over a variety of tabloids, his face souring as he settled on his rag’s over-hyped headlines. Ah, the fish wrapper of all fish wrappers. How could he not loathe the fact that he worked there? Instead, Joe picked up a copy of the Times. He could have made a difference there, if only they’d coughed up the cash to keep him.
He flipped to the Metro section and quickly scanned its pages. Far toward the back, there it was, exactly what he had been expecting to find. Underneath a small captioned photo of Tom Zoring, a brief article announced the defrocked priest’s second parole hearing that morning. Two lousy paragraphs they’d given to that travesty.
Reflexively, Joe grunted. They had buried the story. Years ago when the scandal had broken, it had emblazoned front pages across the country. Now, it was relegated to the “who cares” pages that lined people’s birdcages.
Joe tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. It was old news already. A text from Lou had confirmed what was surely all over the Internet in a matter of minutes. No wonder the newspaper industry was wobbling on its last legs.
Joe set down a sack of produce. He dug a few bills out to hand to the newsstand clerk.
“Traffic’s nuts, huh?” The clerk was always good for an innocuous exchange of banter.
Hardly in the mood, Joe forced himself to trade cynicisms. “Forty-five minutes it took me to go three miles.”
The clerk handed Joe’s change back. “So…they spring the perv?”
“Yep.” Joe arched his brow. “Like a Republican out of Harvard.”
A police cruiser screamed by as Joe trudged down the stairs to his basement apartment, his paper and produce bag in tow. There was still something of the morning left, but Joe had no intention of hurrying into work, not after the way the parole hearing had gone. He certainly was in no mood to face Debra with the fact that he hadn’t stayed for the actual ruling.
Given Joe’s druthers, he would have opted for time alone. But the sight of his brother, Clay—slouched at his door in sweats, still wearing remnants of smeared Marilyn Monroe make-up—told Joe to face facts. Privacy was not to be had.
Using the side of his shoe, Joe nudged aside a pile of Clay’s belongings. Joe dug his keys out of his pocket. “So, where were you?”
Clay looked up, a disgruntled sneer on his face. “You could say hello to your brother. Good morning would be refreshing.”
“Think you could move?” Joe was hardly inclined to spar.
Clay stood, then slid aside, barely enough so that Joe could unlock the door and enter. Clay followed uninvited. As always. “Actually, Joe, it’s funny you should ask. About me moving.”
Joe set his produce on the kitchen counter. Stella meowed at his feet. Joe opened a bag of dried cat food, then almost automatically, he scooped some into Stella’s bowl. “You got evicted again.”
Clay sashayed across the apartment. “How did you know? That’s amazing. You’re like that, you know that guy that was on...”
“Not in the mood, Clay.”
Clay just shrugged. He pulled the produce out of Joe’s bag and spread it out across the counter. “Mmm, health kick. I’m thinking of detoxing myself.”
Detoxing? What exactly did Clay mean by that?
“Oh, relax,” Clay said, “Did I not vow to you I was off the stuff?”
“Several times.” Another siren wailed.
“And I am.” Clay examined an artichoke. “I’m talking about that detox thing where you do the herbs and the veggies and blast out your pipes.”
Joe freshened Stella’s water. He would not play Clay’s game, especially with that elephant lumbering around the room. “Are you in any way cognizant that you had an obligation this morning?”
“What, I was supposed to go like this?” Clay swept a hand across his sweats. “Seven hours I was quarantined at the club. We were all stuck there from like ten p.m. till after five this the morning—some bogus meningitis scare. Finally, I get home, and I’m locked out. Everything I own is in the alley. Just dumped on the filthy cement. So, I spent the next three hours sorting through my stuff. I had to just pitch what I couldn’t carry. After that, I made a resolution.”
“What now?” Joe clenched his jaw. Why had he even asked when he didn’t really want to know?
“I’m not going to play the victim anymore. It doesn’t suit me.” There was a sudden vulnerability in Clay’s voice. “I’m not going to parade around at some politically greased parole hearing so some board that doesn’t know jack can snark at me like I was the pitiful, freakish result of the dysfunction of the priesthood. Can you understand that?”
Joe allowed himself to soften a bit. “I guess.” He did understand, better than Clay knew.
Clay perched on a barstool. He began arranging fruit into a bowl on the counter. “You okay if I, you know, hang for a while?” Clay raised his hands. “It won’t be long, I promise because... Okay, get this. Last night, this agent—no, no—a manager I was quarantined with, he left me his card.” Clay pulled the card out of his pocket and slid it across the counter to Joe.
Joe took a gander at the card. It was an expensive bond. He turned it over and checked the back. Nice printing quality. Handsomely engraved. Still—Clay and a real agent—it just didn’t add up. “You heard of this guy?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve read about him. I’ve written to him, like a billion queries. He’s totally legit.”
Cynicism rose in Joe’s throat. He bit the inside of his cheek. Clay was too trusting, still so naive. He was always jumping to conclusions this way.
“I am good, you know.” Clay’s voice took on a defensive tone. “And it is entirely possible that a bona fide judge of talent deemed me worthy of representation.”
“So, call him.”
“I plan to.”
What else could Joe say? He put away the rest of his groceries in stony silence. Clay just sat there, picking at his fingernail polish. Soon, there would be little red chips of that junk, all over the place where Joe prepared his food.
Joe forced himself to walk away.
Long ago, he’d learned that it was easier not to get into it with Clay over minutia. Not with more monumental matters on his mind. “Zoring walked this morning.”
Clay shrugged. He presumed to peel an orange for himself. “Yeah, I figured.”
Outside, more sirens wailed past. How many had that been? Joe opened up his blinds and peered out the window. A helicopter whirled by, racing in the same direction. There went another. Something was up downtown. Something big.
Joe grabbed his keys and strode across the apartment.
“Where are you going?” Clay piled his peelings on the counter.
Joe threw the door open. “To work.”
Laurel gulped for air.
All along the route she ran, sirens wailed impatiently as squad cars jockeyed their way through downtown traffic. She’d counted six emergency vehicles already. There went a seventh. Traffic was so snarled. They could hardly get through. Though her chest heaved from the exertion, at least she could get through on foot.
The closer that Laurel got to Frank’s building, the more ominous the unfolding scene became. Helicopters circled overhead. The police presence alone was staggering. It was surreal—horrifying, and yet eerily familiar. It confirmed everything she’d dreamed but had hoped would never come to be.
An ambulance idled. Rescue workers hustled a gurney toward the entrance of Frank’s building. There was the yellow crime scene tape. It was being stretched across the breezeway to the sliding glass doors, opening to the lobby with its elevator bank to the councilman’s offices.
As if all of the police barricades weren’t
enough to circumvent entry, upstairs, she would face an even more formidable blockade.
Somehow, she would have to get past Shana.
It was everything a waitress could do not to be intimidated by a woman of Shana’s regal bearing. Shana had come into Frank’s life an heiress, and of considerable sociopolitical influence in her own right. Shana had everything that Laurel didn’t, including Laurel’s ex-husband and daughter. What’s more, Shana was convinced that the court had found her unfit for good reason.
It wasn’t right to fear a human being. Laurel knew that. But she had to be honest with herself. She was afraid of Shana. Her stature in society was daunting enough. But mostly, it was the power Shana wielded over both Frank and little Grace. It rattled her last nerve.
Laurel steeled herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Get it together, she coaxed herself.
Quickly, she surveyed the situation. The scene was getting more overwhelmed with authorities by the minute. Soon, the site would be impenetrable. There wasn’t a moment to waste. Laurel veered toward the side of the building. Drivers laid on their horns, adding to the din, as news crews set up along the perimeter, crisscrossing the street. Laurel kept her head down. Her chance to get inside would be over if she drew undue attention.
A police bullhorn assaulted Laurel’s ears as she hurried around the building. Hastily, she scanned for an entry point. There had to be a way. She needed to get inside, but not so much for Frank’s sake. She already knew in her spirit that it was too late for him. But Grace was in there—sweet Grace—whose cries still rang in her memory. Grace needed her. Laurel knew it from the depths of her mother’s heart. But how could she get to her daughter, with the building being cordoned off by this swarm of authorities?
Avoid eye contact, Laurel reminded herself. Walk briskly. Appear to know exactly where you’re headed. Laurel knew that God had opened up the Red Sea. He had made blind eyes to see, and on occasion, seeing eyes to be blind. Was it too much to hope for the latter?
There. A metal service door slapped open. A catering truck was parked beside it. Laurel stepped up her pace. Her waitress’s uniform was sky blue, rather than the stark white of the exiting crew, but it was worth a shot. Maybe she could blend.
An empty food cart sat abandoned by the catering truck. In a snap, Laurel commandeered the cart and wheeled it toward the service bay. With so much crew exiting pushing full carts, going toward the back entrance was like swimming upstream. There must have been a luncheon. No doubt it had been canceled. Thank you. She dared not breathe those words, but she thought them just the same.
Laurel rolled the food cart up the ramp, toward the service door.
“Who do you think you are?” a surly detective shouted.
Laurel snapped his way. But the question hadn’t been directed at her. Rather, it had been addressed to a darkly attractive man, attempting to enter the building just ahead of her.
The man raised his credentials to the detective. “Joe Hardisty. Kickerton Press.”
The detective flashed his badge. “Yeah, well, I’m Detective McTier, and my pass trumps yours. If you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Hardisty, this is a crime scene.”
“Could I get a quick statement about the councilman’s condition?” the man asked.
“No statement. No nothing. Go!” The detective hurried the reporter away from the door, right past her.
This diversion wouldn’t last long. Quickly, Laurel slipped through the door with her cart. She glanced back at the detective. He was too busy barking at an underling to notice her.
“Check the food truck and hold every one on the wait staff for questioning,” the detective said. “Nobody else gets in or out from now on, got me? And sweep the media!”
Her heart pounding, Laurel abandoned the cart inside the door and ducked into a stairwell.
Shana faltered as the coroner estimated the time of death. Frank had been killed sometime between two and three that morning. The scene was all too familiar. The crush of police, the dizzying sight of EMTs, hovering over a body too cold to respond. How could that be Frank lying there? Not when she still loved him so.
Shana dried her eyes. It would be different this time. It had to be. She had been the victim as a child. She had lost both her parents and her own anonymity to the ever-ravenous press. They had dogged her for months as long-lost relatives battled for custody. They weren’t real family. They had cared nothing for her. It hadn’t been pity. It was the fortune she was destined to inherit.
For the press, it had been all about the papers it would sell. Shana knew that for a fact. They’d reduced her parents’ demise to a financial windfall. Even as a schoolgirl, they’d hounded her until their readers’ appetites had been sated. Then they’d unceremoniously moved on, flitting back in turns with the waxing and waning of public interest. During Frank’s campaign for office, Shana had declared an uneasy truce with the media. Frank had only encouraged her to speak to them when it had served their political agenda.
She just had to read people. It would have been reckless to open the door to just anyone who tried to wheedle into her confidence. Growing up in the public eye had taught her that much. Virtually all of her life she’d been surrounded, constantly it seemed. For the most part, she consciously chose to distance herself, to remain at arm’s length. There were precious few she could genuinely trust.
Only one, really.
And now he was in a pool of his own blood.
It was impossible to accept. How could Frank be gone forever? Just the thought threatened to overwhelm her. Shana could not let that happen. As deeply as Shana’s heart ached, as much as she longed to sob uncontrollably at the feet of her slain husband, she could not allow herself that luxury—not while anyone else was present, let alone Grace.
Absolutely not. She would not break down. She would be there for Grace the way no one had ever been there for her. Shana drew in a deep breath. She wiped her face and turned from the coroner. Remember who you are, she coached herself. You can get through this.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Shana approached Frank’s assistant, where she stood to the side, attending to Grace. “Rene, I realize this is well outside your job description, but if you could take Grace home for me—”
“Of course, Mrs. Fischer.” Clearly beside herself, Rene took Grace’s small hand to go.
Grace looked up, her face swollen from crying. “But I don’t want to go with Rene.”
Shana leaned down lovingly. “Darling, listen to me,” she said. “I love you so much, and I know this is terribly hard, but right now I really need you to go with Rene, so I can take care of Daddy.”
Grace’s gaze shot toward her father’s office. “But is he…?”
“I’m afraid so, Darling.” Shana stroked Grace’s back. It was all she could think to do. “That’s why I need you to go with Rene, now, just for a bit so I can help the police. Daddy would want that.”
Understanding registered on Grace’s face. It almost seemed that Grace would have accepted the idea of going with Rene. But that delicate balance of possibility evaporated the instant Grace saw her mother emerge from the stairwell. As horrendous as the situation was, it had just gotten worse.
“Mommy! Mommy…” Grace cried as she ran into Laurel’s waiting arms. It twisted the knife already in Shana’s heart.
Across the office, Laurel scooped her daughter up in an embrace. Even as Laurel cradled Grace in her arms, clearly, she was surveying the sobering scene. Tears brimmed in Laurel’s eyes. “Oh, Baby… Shhhhh… I’m here.”
Shana turned away, but the unfolding horror in Frank’s office wasn’t any easier to watch.
“Mrs. Fischer.”
Shana pivoted in time to see Laurel respond to her former name. Detective McTier was back.
With a quick glare at Laurel, Shana strode toward the detective. “I’m Mrs. Fischer.”
Detective McTier’s eyes shifted between the women. He nodded toward Laurel. “Detective Gavin McTi
er, Ma’am.”
Laurel extended a hand. “Laurel Fischer.”
“Yes, I’m...” McTier turned back to Shana. “I’m sorry to have to do this now, but—”
Shana knew there was no way around speaking with the man. “No, of course.” She glanced over at Laurel with Grace.
“I’ll take her.” Laurel lowered Grace by her side.
Shana drew in a breath. Grace wouldn’t hear of going with Rene now, not with her mother here. “This is obviously an exception to our agreement.” A taut gaze punctuated her point. “I’ll pick her up myself as soon as I can.”
Laurel nodded. “I understand.” She took Grace’s hand and quickly led her away.
Grace went so willingly with Laurel, much more so than set easily with Shana. Only once did Grace turn back, and then only momentarily. Mournfully, Shana watched Grace go. The disturbing scene would be etched upon Grace’s young mind forever. Just like her parents’ scene was still etched on hers.
four
It was such a simple thing—fixing lunch for Grace—but Laurel was grateful for every moment of it. This was how it should be between a mother and her daughter. There was something in the ordinary acts of chopping celery and dicing carrots for tuna salad that affirmed her hope. Their lives would go on, despite the freshness of the tragedy.
After many tears for her father, Grace had said she wanted to help. Laurel let her stir in the pickle relish and scoop the mixture into pita pockets. Every action seemed so strange, in light of what had just happened.
Grace didn’t seem ready to talk about it. Laurel understood well. She was still in the throes of processing it all herself. There was something consoling about what was happening during that time of silence they shared. They could just sit quietly and eat. They could savor time with each other, more than the meal. They could weather their grief in the safety of each other’s sympathetic company.
Just because Frank had divorced and remarried didn’t make the loss any easier for Laurel. Frank was, in truth, the only man she had ever loved. He was also Grace’s father. That would never change. Laurel gazed at Grace’s sweet face. She wanted time with Grace. She’d wanted her back, desperately so. But not this way.
