Zach’s mouth quirked. “Okay.”
“Think you can avoid getting shot again until after my wedding? You know, cause then I’ll have four groomsmen instead of five and it’s just not a good number.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No. I’m serious.” Replacing his pen, he eyed Zach solemnly. “I don’t know how many more of these incidents you have left in you. I mean” – he shook his head at Zach’s chart – “you’re still holding out, but at some point, the camel’s back is gonna break.”
“Spare me the lecture, Jared.”
“Alright.” Jared pointed to a container Zach hadn’t noticed before. Looked like soup. “When you get the strength, you should have some of that. Your grandmother came by with it earlier.”
“What’d you tell her?”
Jared toyed with the chart. “The usual spiel.” He adjusted the water jug for no apparent reason. “We’re, uh, moving her to her new place this weekend.”
“Who’s we?”
“I’m doing some. But mostly the Mitchel brothers. I hear, it’s their side gig now,” he joked. “Mitchel, Weston and Sons. Get a free consultation and moving quote.” He chuckled. You still talk to those guys?”
Zach exhaled carefully and shook his head.
“Maybe you should.” Jared glanced at the chart in his hand like he had more to say. But – “I’ll let her know you’re okay. If you need anything, call. Carter said he’d be by later.” He started towards the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Oh, and Rick wanted me to tell you you’re a fucking idiot, although I’m sure he’ll be by to convey those sentiments to you himself.” He smiled thinly.
Zach suppressed his displeasure and stared at the ceiling. As he lay there slipping into a tidepool of depression, it occurred to him that he’d almost died on his thirtieth birthday. But fortunately, he thought of a welcome distraction. Who the hell had sent him that text and did it have anything to do with the Red Fisher?
Part II
Crescendo in Blue
“Risk is at the heart of jazz. Every note we play is a risk.” – Steve Lacy
9
Shelley appeared from the left end of her new neighbor’s Upper West Side apartment in designer jeans and a pink fitted sweater that hugged her curves comfortably. Her chestnut hair was in an attractive ponytail, and in her hands, she held a bottle of Windex and a dust rag. The entire apartment sparkled, dust-free, and smelled like the inside of a chemically-treated lemon. Despite the late fall breeze, she had thrown open the French doors to help air out the typical fumes of cleanliness. But the dazzling array of warm sunshine made up for the chill; vibrant beams streamed through the panoramic wall of ceiling-to-floor windows, draping the new-smelling Ethan Allen furniture and beige Sherpa rug.
Her apartment across the hall was identical except in reverse. Thus, she felt right at home here in 2E. A betraying voice whispered that she was simply running away again, finding a comfortable hole in which to bury her head, but she told herself it just wasn’t so. She stamped over to the kitchen to toss the Windex under the sink just as voices crescendoed outside the open apartment door.
“Oh my God! If you say that, like, one more time, I am throwing this box at you,” said Ashleigh as good-looking Erik Mitchel trooped after her, flirting shamelessly per usual, both of them loaded up with boxes. And right behind them came James, nearly the spitting image of their esteemed father carrying the largest of the boxes.
Shelley contained her inner despair and affixed a brilliant smile upon her face so that her big brothers wouldn’t notice anything amiss and report to daddy. James came over with a serious smile, dressed in the rare jeans and T-shirt ensemble. “Well, that’s the last of it,” he said, breaking a slight sweat. “Need any help in here?”
“No, thanks. I’m pretty much done.”
James pursed his lips the way her father did and watched her bustle around cleaning things which looked perfectly spick-and-span to him, he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Just a note to self.”
“Really.”
“Mm hm.” She drew out a ten-foot length of crinkled swag from a box. “It says don’t tell James anything.” She gave him an impish look as she started up a step ladder in front of one of the windows with the rose-colored material. James’ inclination was to stabilize her, but he resisted the urge.
“Are you coming to church tomorrow?” he asked. “You missed last week, and Mom flipped out.”
“I went with Mrs. Weston.”
“Hey, I’m not criticizing your religious preferences. It’s just that whenever you skip it means something’s going on.” He eyed the note again; hard not to since it was practically in his face now.
“Nothing’s going on.”
Charismatic Erik barreled over and asked in his usual way: “Hey, what’s that sticking out of your ass?”
Shelley’s neck tightened. “Nothing.” She started pleating the material to slip it through the brass sconces. But Erik, despite the warning look James gave him, plucked the note from her pocket. “Hey!” she exclaimed.
Erik opened the note and turned away as she nearly fell off the ladder trying to get it back from him. “Let’s see here… The Purple Gazelle. Three p.m. On nice stationary, I might add.” His head came up. “What’s this, Your Highness? An audition? Are you playing again?”
Ashleigh came over and hit his arm. “What is wrong with you?” She snatched the paper and gave it back to a thoroughly vexed Shelley who muttered a quiet thank you.
“What? I’m concerned,” Erik returned, smirking. “I wanna know what’s goin’ on. Gotta make sure Daddy’s little girl doesn’t get herself in any trouble.”
“Just leave me alone!” Shelley railed.
“Take it easy,” James cautioned. “He’s only trying to rile you.”
Erik boomed, “No, I’m serious!”
James glared at him. “Shut up.”
They were about to continue arguing but fortunately Abigail Weston brought her aged but trim and hale figure through the open door. She gasped in pleasant surprise at the transformation of her new digs. “Oh Shelley!” she exclaimed, her pleasant British timbre ringing mellifluously, which she’d maintained despite fifty years in New York. “Everything looks simply wonderful. You really went through –” She stopped abruptly as her sparkling blue eyes took in the dour faces of the young adults. She frowned. “What happened now? Can I really not leave you four alone for even an hour?”
“Erik’s being an idiot again,” Ashleigh quipped.
But Erik, the charming devil, draped an arm around the elderly woman and gave her his most disarming smile, which always worked in pixie dust ways. “A concerned brother, Mrs. Weston.”
“Of course you were,” she replied knowingly. “Now, thank you both so much for all your help. Please come visit whenever you like.”
“Wait, you kickin’ us out, Mrs. Weston?” Erik asked in feigned disbelief.
“Well, alright, Mr. Mitchel, if you wish for the blunt knife.” Abigail grinned pleasantly.
Erik grabbed his chest as if she stabbed him. “Agh!” he groaned. “You’re tossing me to the sharks.”
“But you are a shark, dear.” She patted his cheek as Ashleigh giggled.
James who was already headed to the door, thought to ask, “Zach got discharged, right? How’s he doing?”
Abigail’s mood dimmed slightly. “Same as ever, I dare say.” She sighed. “Anyway, give your parents my regards.”
Erik pecked her on the cheek, Ashleigh gave her hug and said, “It’s gonna be great having you across the hall”, and James bid her goodbye, casting a backwards glance at his sister who wouldn’t look as they trooped out.
Abigail shut the door, exhaled brightly, and surveyed the lay of the wide apartment with pleasure. She discarded her purse on the kitchen counter and walked over to the window where the daughter of her l
ate husband’s partner hung the draperies. “Oh, that’s sensational, dear,” she enthused, hands on her hips. “You have quite a knack for this.”
Shelley turned around and smiled, brown eyes regaining some spark. “Not true, but thank you.” She descended the ladder and pulled off the tie securing her ponytail. “Did your grandson like the soup?”
Abigail’s face darkened in shade. “I don’t think he had any.” She shook her head. “He was rather evasive when I asked. And he’s a terrible liar. Robert always said you can read the boy like a billboard.” She smirked sadly.
“I’m sure things will be better now that you’re living here closer to him.” Shelley sidled up to Abigail and put an arm around the woman just as Erik did. “Just think: you can invite him for afternoon tea, have candlelight suppers on the veranda, brunch with Jared and Carrie, and I’ll serenade you during every meal. For free.”
Abigail laughed heartily. “What’s in it for you?”
“I get to see you without having to go to Long Island.” She smiled with a tongue-in-cheek expression.
“Ho! I see how it is. Well, I’m glad I can accommodate, though I don’t approve of you avoiding your parents.”
Shelley sighed and started towards sealed boxes. Kneeling down by the coffee table, she tore open one.
“Ashleigh mentioned you’re not going to the wedding. May I ask why?”
“Because. I don’t want to be on display in front of four hundred people who know everything about me.”
“Is that all?” Abigail scoffed. “I’m sorry, dear, but that’s a terrible excuse. Even Zachary, who mind you would probably be willing to lose a limb in order not to go, is still attending despite the fact everyone claims to be intimate with his unsavory history. And knowing you both, I have to say, his failure was slightly more public.”
Shelley paused, downcast, before withdrawing a framed picture of a twelve or thirteen-year-old boy in a baseball uniform, striking a rather grudging pose, next to a brown-eyed girl of about seven – a fragile-looking creature in comparison. “Is this him?”
Abigail smiled wistfully, face misting with memories. “Yes. When he played Little League. That was taken only a year or so before Arianna died.”
Shelley studied the very serious face of the tall-for-his-age boy and the shining, proud smile of the girl. “I sort of remember him playing with my brothers.” She looked at Abigail. “But I remember Arianna more.”
“Of course. You girls used to play together, and I would make you tea and tiny biscuits for your dolls.”
“Oh yes! We would get all dressed up and have a little party in your garden.” Shelley slumped with the wistfulness of simple days gone by. “I loved that garden.”
“Yes. But it was time to let go. An old house with young neighbors who pitied my seeming loneliness is not my idea of a good retirement.” She smiled with a far-off look. “Besides, I need to be here for Zach.”
Shelley glanced at the picture again, focusing on that cold, deep blue gaze – so familiar. “He has your eyes.”
“Yes,” Abigail replied, gaze fixing on a distant spot. “He does.” Shaking off gathering memories, she briskly inquired, “Now. What is this business I hear about the Purple Gazelle?”
10
On the ninth floor of 1 Police Plaza, percolating coffee grounds hung in the semi-stale air while the sunshine coming through the glass façades took the edge off the fluorescent lighting – particularly the dull, flickering one a couple ceiling rectangles away. Despite the fact it was Saturday, a forest of detectives were present, filing missing person reports, investigating homicides, car theft, burglary, rape – working hard for the green. Zach, however, was just killing time after the preliminary hearing he’d just attended, refusing to meet anyone’s eye so as to discourage chit chat.
Slouched in his chair, he toyed painfully with a 0.7mm BIC while his deep azure eyes stared at his computer’s LED screen, pacifying his thundercloud mood with the latest Homeland Security news: global terrorist updates, border and immigration threats, the pros and cons of allowing the Islamic State to continue using social media, the recent breach on Pentagon computers by Russian hackers, and plans to crack down on the thousands of pregnant Chinese women who paid to give birth in the U.S.
Good stuff.
He heard flirty laughter and glanced irritatedly towards his “partner”, Rick, entering with the department sweetheart, a sexy number who was actually a decent shot. She had a no-dating-coworkers policy, but apparently one-nighters with muscly Italian men didn’t count. And they’d had quite a number. Zach knew because he had to hear about it the next morning. Every goddamn time.
A suited shadow fell over his monitor, and without looking up, Zach asked, “Well? What happened?” He punched a key to close the browser and faced the public prosecutor, striking a nonconformist posture from behind his equally anarchic desk.
Looking theatrically down in the mouth, Carter dragged over the nearest available piece of molded plastic and metal and lowered himself into the flexible chair. “The things I go through for you.” He shook his well-groomed head long-sufferingly, but then a grin crawled across his face, reaching all the way to his hazel eyes. “I talked to the prostitute, told her you were deep in the shit regarding DeJohnette, and she changed her mind about not testifying. She swore under oath that you did not in any way mistreat her or act inappropriate to the situation and called you her hero, quote unquote.” He smirked. “The indictment jury and Judge Blankenship liked that. And they especially loved the part where you took the time to hand the girl her robe.” Carter scratched around his collar and said sarcastically, “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so considerate.”
Zach narrowed his eyes, his body still aching. “Cut to the chase, please.”
Carter drew a breath and plunged forward. “Alright, bottom line: The Professor’s counsel changed his plea to guilty and dropped the allegations against you for armed assault and battery.” He opened his hands, self-satisfied. “You’re in the clear.”
Zach should have been pleased, considering such a black mark on his permanent record would have kept him from any job options at the federal level. But…
“Hey, come on. Don’t I get a thank you?” Carter joked as he smoothed down his scintillating, power-play tie and crossed one leg over the other. “You know for a while there when the defense dug up that incident at Ramone’s Steakhouse, I thought you were done for.”
Zach kept fiddling with the pen in his hand, keeping his head down and his burly form slouched.
Carter, on the other hand, looked like he was high on life as he stretched his hands up and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “I mean, showing your gun and not your badge at the brothel was bad enough. Oh, and then the knife throwing – don’t get me started. But nearly assaulting the governor’s nephew in a four-star restaurant?”
“I didn’t assault him,” Zach retorted, dropping the indifferent act for a second. “He was misbehaving.”
“Well, it gave me a heart attack anyway.” He brought his arms down and leaned forward, frowning now. “I’m still pissed that you didn’t tell me, and I had to find out in the preliminaries. I was seriously considering pleading temporary insanity or at the very least getting a psychiatrist to diagnose you with ‘antisocial personality disorder’.”
Zach glared but said nothing.
“You just better be glad that I was able to get the incident thrown out on the grounds it wasn’t relevant to DeJohnette’s case.” The pulsing, dim fluorescent caught his attention, and Carter glanced at it, squinting a little.
“I’m waiting for the bad news.”
Carter smirked and lowered his voice. “You’re getting a sixty-day probationary period, off the record, to prove to Judge Blankenship that you can keep your hands clean. And the only reason it’s not on paper is because I begged on your behalf.”
“Don’t lower yourself on my account,” Zach said tersely.
Carter scoffed. “Fine. N
ext time, just turn yourself in and save my goddamn breath. But for right now, you’ve got another chance. And as your friend, I’m asking you please don’t blow it.”
Zach rubbed a calloused hand over his face. “I’m not trying to–”
“I know, I know,” Carter pacified. “Trouble just follows you like a lost puppy. But you need to figure out how to control this. Maybe it’s time for some professional help?”
“No.”
“Come on, man,” Carter said to Zach’s stubborn profile. “Don’t you think it’s time to face the underlying problems?”
“The restaurant was a one-time blow-up.”
“Because of your dad.”
Zach slammed his fist on the desk. “Because of the asshole who took a swing at me!”
Rick and a couple nearby detectives looked over, and Carter waved them off with a tight grin, indicating everything was fine. Then, he regarded Zach whose face had turned a couple shades of crimson with a ‘see? I told you’ look. But he didn’t press the issue. “Never mind. Let’s just take the victory and drop the rest for now.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve decided I’m gonna help you go after Cervenka.”
A frown flickered over Zach’s visage, cooling him. “What about the whole ‘this is just you being you’?”
“Yeah, well” – Carter dipped his head sheepishly – “the prostitute had a few other things to say. Off the record. She’d been trafficked from Ukraine by the Brother’s Circle.” Carter looked away. “Might be nothing, but… it looks like the Red Fisher may have owned that joint after all.”
Zach easily hid any gratification because it was just so damn small. “And?”
“And it might be Cervenka. She seemed to recognize the name.” Carter scoffed. “What the hell. You need a project, I want a promotion. Win-win.”
“Okay.” Zach leveraged the pencil at such an angle that it looked like it would snap any moment.
Carter reached over and snatched it from him, dropping the utensil back in its metal cup holder. “Should keep you busy enough for the extent of your probation,” he said coolly. He rose from the chair. “Let’s work to find a way in. Discreetly, huh?”
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