Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  Anarchy drove me to a neighborhood I didn’t know existed, pulled into a gated driveway, and pushed an intercom button. “Detective Anarchy Jones. Purple Rabbit.”

  The gate swung open.

  “Purple rabbit?” I asked.

  “It’s this week’s password.”

  “Password?”

  “The location is a secret and they change the password every week.”

  “Oh.”

  The driveway wound through trees that hid the house. “The entire place is surrounded by a six-foot wall topped with broken glass and razor wire.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached across the front seat, claimed my hand, and squeezed. “It’s here to keep the women safe.”

  I nodded, unable to find words other than oh.

  Anarchy parked in front of a rambling older home with big eaves and what looked like a steel front door. He put the car in park. “The driveway is slick. Wait until I can help you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I closed my fingers around the door handle.

  “Ellison, just wait.”

  I waited.

  Anarchy circled the car, opened my door, and helped me out. Together we negotiated the icy front steps and waited for someone to open the front door.

  “This is Phoenix House?”

  He nodded.

  The door opened and a young woman—not more than five or six years older than Grace—waved us inside. “Come in, it’s cold out there.” She regarded me with kind eyes. “I’m Gloria.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gloria.” I extended my hand. “I’m Ellison Russell.”

  She shook my hand and turned her attention to Anarchy. “We haven’t seen much of you lately, Detective Jones.”

  “I’m working homicide,” he said.

  “Women we couldn’t help.” Gloria’s voice which had been bright and welcoming now sounded as gray as the weather outside. Her gaze swung back to me. “Were you able to bring anything with you?”

  I glanced down at the handbag hanging from my arm.

  “It’s not what you think, Gloria,” said Anarchy. “Mrs. Russell and Khaki White were friends.” That was overstating things a bit. And what exactly did Gloria think?

  Tears filled Gloria’s brown eyes. “I didn’t realize. Khaki was an angel. I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.”

  “Would you please give Mrs. Russell a tour?”

  “Of course,” said Gloria. “Come this way.”

  She led us into the living room where two small girls held looper looms on their laps. A mound of colorful loom loopers lay between them. Each girl held a red plastic hook.

  “I get the purples,” said the blonde child.

  “Fine, but I get the greens. Mommy wants a green kitchen.”

  They were making potholders.

  Their mother, whose left eye sported shades of both purple and green, smiled down at them.

  “Phoenix House can accommodate up to ten women and their children,” said Gloria.

  I swallowed. Really, I needed to come up with something better than oh. “Oh?”

  “We’re at capacity right now.”

  Ten women hiding from their husbands? I looked more closely at the woman on the couch. She wore bell-bottom jeans and a loose sweater. She looked like someone I would fail to notice on a busy sidewalk.

  “How do the women who come here find you?” There. I’d managed something other than oh.

  “The police bring them here. They usually arrive with nothing.”

  And she’d asked me if I brought anything with me…I blinked. Did I look like someone whose husband hit her?

  Gloria was still talking. “We give them clothes, underwear, and toiletries. More important we give them a safe place and counseling.”

  “Counseling?”

  Gloria kept her voice low, barely a whisper. “The women who come here have been in abusive relationships for years. They’ve come to believe the poison their partners have been feeding them. They’re worthless. They only get hit because they’ve done something wrong. They’re nothing.”

  We passed through the living room and into the dining room.

  A woman with well-coiffed hair and a silk blouse sat at the head of the table and sipped from a coffee cup. I didn’t know her, but I could have. She wouldn’t have looked out of place at a bridge table at the club or at one of Mother’s charity luncheons.

  “Is that the executive director?” I asked.

  “No. That’s Mary. She’s been staying with us for about six days.”

  “What?” I stared. Until this morning when I found Karen, it never occurred to me that someone I knew—someone who swam in my ocean—would be married to someone who hit her.

  “Did you think wealth or privilege excluded a woman from violence?” Gloria sounded almost amused.

  I’d thought exactly that. My footing, which had always seemed so sure, swayed beneath me.

  Anarchy wrapped my hand in his. Big, safe, reassuring.

  “I—” I shook my head. Even at his worst, when he was doing his damnedest to undermine my confidence as an artist, Henry never hit me. “I had no idea.” I manufactured a smile for Mary who was looking at me with an empathetic tilt to her head. “How did Khaki get involved here?”

  “She had a friend whose husband abused her.”

  Who? I didn’t ask. Whoever Khaki’s friend was, she deserved privacy.

  “I believe it was a friend from college,” Gloria added. “She died.”

  “How awful.”

  “Khaki realized that abuse wasn’t limited to working class families. She did her best to get women—” she didn’t add like you “—out of potentially dangerous situations.”

  We finished the tour, me mute except for the occasional oh. We ended up at the front door.

  “Thanks, Gloria,” said Anarchy.

  “Wait.” I dug a checkbook and a pen out of my handbag. I’d given Cora thousands of dollars to bring Phyllis Schlafly to town. The least I could do was triple that amount for a place that actually helped women. I signed the check and handed it to Gloria.

  Her eyes widened. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I looked up at Anarchy whose brown eyes were a bit misty. “I’m ready.”

  He led me outside. “I didn’t take you there so you’d make a donation.”

  “I know.”

  He opened the passenger door for me. “That was very generous of you.”

  I climbed into the car. Despite the cold, I felt warm. “I wish it could have been more.”

  It would be.

  nineteen

  Anarchy drove with both hands on the wheel, his gaze locked on the slick road in front of us. “Are you hungry?”

  How could I be hungry after all I’d seen? My stomach gurgled, surprising me with its emphatic answer. “Yes.”

  For a half-second he pulled his gaze from the road and looked at me. “We’re not far from my favorite place for fried chicken.”

  I hadn’t eaten anything fried since early 1972, but fried chicken—especially fried chicken at Anarchy’s favorite restaurant—sounded delicious. “Perfect.”

  He parked beneath a bridge (zero white Mercedes) and led me into a ramshackle building perched on the edge of a river bank. The floor sloped toward the river, and I imagined I could feel the whole building sliding toward the water.

  I glanced at Anarchy and he gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s hung on this long. I bet we’re safe for the afternoon.”

  I was willing to trust him.

  A denim-clad hostess led us to a table and handed us menus.

  “Don’t even think about ordering a salad.” Anarchy peeked at me over the top of his menu. The expression in
his eyes warmed me all the way to my cold toes. “You’ve had a rough day. You deserve a decent meal. In fact—” he reached across the table and plucked the menu from my fingers “—I’m ordering for both of us.”

  A waiter approached the table. “May I—”

  “Two beers.” Anarchy’s twinkling gaze remained locked to mine. “Bud. Draft if you’ve got it.”

  “I don’t drink beer.”

  “Try it. You might like it. Besides, it won’t hurt you to learn how the other half lives.”

  My tongue tied itself into knots. Double knots.

  He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Are you all right?”

  I’d be better if my heart would stop running wind sprints.

  The space between his brows furrowed and he rested his chin on his hand. “First Karen Fleming, then Phoenix House. It’s a lot for one day.”

  I couldn’t talk. And not because of Karen or Phoenix House. This was Anarchy as I seldom saw him—relaxed, at ease. I nodded.

  The waiter reappeared and put two beers on the table.

  I lifted the heavy glass mug and gulped.

  Anarchy watched me. His eyes, which had been looking very cop-like of late, were warm. He shifted his attention to the waiter. “We’ll both have chicken dinners. Green beans. Mashed potatoes.”

  The young man made a note on his pad and scurried away.

  I sipped again. Somehow, the beer untangled the knots in my tongue. “Drinking on duty, Detective Jones?”

  Anarchy lifted his mug. “I’m not on duty, Mrs. Russell. This is my weekend off.”

  “But—”

  “I came because you called.”

  An internal cartwheel (he came because I called!) slammed face first into guilt. “I ruined your Saturday. I’m sorry. Did you have anything planned?”

  He looked down at his beer. “Stanford’s playing USC.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “I ruined Detective Peters’ Saturday too. No wonder he’s so cranky.”

  “He’s always cranky.” Anarchy lifted his mug to his lips.

  “Why?”

  “Same old. Peters is an old school cop. I went to college. I’m not exactly his dream partner.”

  That seemed a ridiculous reason to be cranky. I said as much.

  “Cut him some slack. He’s third-generation cop. He’s not big on change.” Anarchy stared across the table into my eyes.

  I smoothed the gingham napkin on my lap. What exactly was Anarchy saying? That I wasn’t big on change either?

  The sound of coins hitting the floor saved me from commenting. The coins rolled across the tilted floor like marbles in a chute. A lone quarter finished its journey near our table. We both watched it spin and fall.

  The silence that followed was itchy.

  Anarchy bent, picked up the coin, and handed it to the little boy who’d dropped it.

  “Thank you, sir.” The child took off in search of the rest of his fallen money.

  I cast about for a new topic. “Do you think Daniel Fleming is the one who did that to Karen?” I didn’t expect an answer. It was an open case. Anarchy never commented on open cases.

  He surprised me and said, “That much rage? It’s usually domestic.”

  “Is that why you took me to Phoenix House?”

  “I took you to Phoenix House to convince you that some of the men you know are capable of violence.”

  Seeing Karen had convinced me of that.

  “They’re not picky about who they hit, Ellison. If you’ve been asking questions about domestic violence, you need to stop.”

  I hadn’t been asking questions. Not even one. An image of Karen’s battered face flitted across the back of my eyelids. Maybe I should’ve been asking questions. “I never imagined someone I knew would have a husband who hit her.”

  “You’re not alone.” The expression in Anarchy’s eyes shifted from warm and melty to serious. “Let me do my job. I’ll catch Khaki’s killer, and Stan’s, and the man who beat Karen. I don’t want you involved in any way.”

  I took another sip of beer. “About Khaki.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and his expression turned even more serious.

  I wanted the smiling, easy-going Anarchy back. “I just want to tell you one thing.”

  He relaxed. Marginally.

  “There’s something off. She charged ridiculous amounts of money for antiques.”

  “And her clients didn’t complain?”

  How to explain? “There’s a certain mindset that paying the most means you get the best. If anyone complained, it was simply a way to highlight they could afford to pay her prices.” Thornton’s complaints about the kitchen table came to mind. “Hiring Khaki became something of a status symbol.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The number of couples who got divorced after she finished with their houses.” Another sip. Beer wasn’t so bad. “She did Karen and Daniel’s house.”

  “Are you saying Khaki White had affairs with her clients’ husbands?”

  “No.” I was making a complete hash of this explanation. “I don’t know what she did.”

  “Is that all?” The smile was back, and it was most distracting.

  Khaki’s high fees and the divorce rate among her clients sounded so unimportant now that I’d told him. In my head, those facts had been epic. “I suppose so.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” When Anarchy smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Crinkled in a way that made my own lips curl.

  “Two chicken dinners.” The waiter put down two platters—platters not plates—of food.

  I gaped at the trough in front of me. “I’ll never be able to eat all this.”

  Anarchy grinned. Grinned and my heart skipped a beat. “Try.”

  When we’d devoured all that was humanly possible (I collected a ridiculously large doggie bag for Max), Anarchy drove me back to my car.

  “I’ll follow you home.”

  “There’s no need.” The freezing rain had stopped and the streets were wet rather than slick.

  “I want to see you safely home.”

  There it was—my heart doing another sprint. “Thank you.”

  I drove home listening to Carol King sing about a man who could take her to paradise and bring her to her knees. I sang with her, hyper-aware that the headlights in my rearview mirror belonged to Anarchy.

  He followed me into the driveway, parked behind me, and was at my car door before I had time to collect my purse and the doggie bag from the passenger’s seat.

  My blood fizzed and the smile that rose to my lips was involuntary, appearing of its own volition.

  “I’ll see you to the door.” He held out his hand and I took it. Electricity zinged past the protective leather of our gloves.

  The late afternoon light was fading and the front stoop was cast in shadow. I searched my purse for a house key.

  “Ellison.”

  I looked up.

  Anarchy caught my chin between his thumb and fingers.

  My tongue went back to being tied in knots.

  Despite the cold air, I was suddenly burning up.

  He drew me closer and his lips touched mine.

  I groaned. I melted. I forgot all about standing on my own, finding myself, and being a woman who roared.

  His other hand caressed the nape of my neck.

  Our lips parted.

  His tongue—

  Inside the house, Max barked. The front light flipped on, and I jumped away from Anarchy quicker than Rosie ever dreamed of wiping up spills with Bounty.

  Anarchy caught my wrist. “Wait.”

  Someone was going to open that door and catch
us.

  “Will you go out with me again?”

  Is that what we’d done? Gone out? On a date?

  What I’d told Hunter played through my mind. I need to find out what it’s like to be on my own before I can be with anyone. But instead of repeating that, I said, “Yes.”

  The door opened and Grace peered out. “You’re home.”

  Guilty as charged. “I am.”

  “Granna’s been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. She wants you to call her right away.”

  I swallowed a sigh. “Thanks for seeing me home, Anarchy.”

  “My pleasure.” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll call you.”

  I ignored the speculative look on Grace’s face. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  No one moved.

  We stood there in the cold until Grace rolled her eyes. “Granna’s waiting.”

  With one last, lingering look at the man I had no business wanting, I trudged into the house where Max nudged the doggie bag with his nose.

  It was Grace who closed the door on Anarchy.

  “What does your grandmother want?”

  “I don’t know, but she sounded upset.”

  “Where’s Aunt Sis?”

  “She was able to get a flight back to Akron. She told me to tell you thank you and she’ll call you later in the week.”

  I carried the leftovers into the kitchen and put them on the counter.

  “Where did you eat?” asked Grace.

  “A fried chicken place.”

  “You ate fried food?” Grace’s tone was disbelieving.

  “I did.”

  “You like him.” Her voice held a hint of accusation. “I knew you liked him.”

  “What if I do?”

  That stopped her. She thought a moment. “You seem happier when you’re with him, so I guess I like him too. Granna, on the other hand…”

  She didn’t need to finish her sentence. I knew exactly how Mother would feel about my seeing Anarchy.

  “No idea what your granna wants?”

  “None.” Grace pulled the bag of leftovers closer. “Is there chicken in here?”

  “Yes.”

  Max donned a worried expression.