Cold Summer Nights

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  “Forty-two.”

  The detective’s lips curled downward at the corners while his head bobbed up and down. “Nice. 3D?”

  “I wish.”

  “I hear ya, that’s gonna be awesome. Can you imagine watching porn in 3D?” he grinned.

  Nick laughed and took a seat on the far end of the couch, trying to not feel guilty. He had nothing to hide about Amy’s murder.

  Ron set the beer down on the end table next to him and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pen. He glanced up to Nick. “Don’t suppose it’s okay to smoke in here?”

  “Uh, we can go out back,” Nick said, thumbing towards the kitchen.

  “That’d be good. Beer always makes me want to smoke. Plus as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s been a long couple a days.”

  “I bet,” Nick said, leading the detective through the kitchen.

  “Wow, stainless steel, huh?” he said, surveying the kitchen appliances. “Nice.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said, pulling back the French doors and spilling out onto the large patio.

  “And what do you do again, Nick?”

  “I’m an agent with Morton Realty,” he said, dropping into a comfy patio chair and setting his can of Diet Coke on the glass table.

  “Bet that’s a tough road to hoe these days,” Ron said, taking a seat across from him.

  “It is,” he said, trying to think of something else clever to say but coming up short. For some reason he felt guilty for murdering his ex-girlfriend, probably because that’s what the detective already thought. It was always the ex-boyfriend. Even though it was cloudy and cool, Nick felt hot in the detective’s spotlight.

  Ron took another long pull from the cold beer, staring hard at Nick the whole time. “Housing market will probably never come back, just like all the jobs.”

  “Well, I hope you’re wrong about that,” he chuckled.

  The detective narrowed his eyes like Nick had just called him a dirty whore. “I’m never wrong,” he said gravely.

  Nick’s smiled dissolved and he shifted in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.

  “I’m just kidding!” Ron blurted with a sharp laugh. “I’m usually always wrong; my wife can attest to that,” he snorted, looking down to his notepad. “Anyway,” he began, his voice devolving into a more serious tone. “Since you didn’t ask, I take it you already know Amy Miller was found dead in her apartment two nights ago.”

  Nick took a deep breath and tried to refrain from wiping away a light sheen of perspiration forming on his upper lip. “I heard.”

  Ron squinted at him. “From who?” he asked, readying his pen on the pad.

  “Initially, from my buddy, Rusty. Then I saw it on the news.”

  “Rusty Carson?”

  Nick nodded and the detective began scribbling. Nick was about to mop the sweat from his lip with his hand when the detective suddenly looked back up to him.

  “Tell me about the last time you saw her.”

  Nick took another deep breath and told him about the bar and Amy’s kiss and pushing her away because he already has another girlfriend named Summer. Throughout his story, he wondered if the detective could see that he was sweating, which only made his heart beat faster.

  “Did you love her?”

  Nick frowned. “Amy?” he asked, taking a sip of his soda.

  Ron nodded.

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe at one time.”

  Detective Hubbard eyeballed him before writing something down. “What about Summer?”

  “We’ve only been dating for a few months.”

  “No, I mean did Summer know that Amy had kissed you?”

  A hot flash slipped across Nick’s face as he slowly shook his heavy head. “I didn’t see the point,” he said in a shaky voice.

  Ron studied him and then went back to scribbling. Nick took the opportunity to quickly wipe his upper lip.

  “Why not?”

  Nick’s eyes thinned, sweat now sprouting from his forehead. His heart hammered so hard in his chest that when he spoke he sounded winded. “Because it wasn’t a big deal.”

  Ron stared at him thoughtfully, squinting and turning the pen in his hand. “You okay?”

  Nick’s heart pounded in his chest. “Yeah.”

  Ron nodded and dropped his eyes back to the pad. “What’s Summer’s last name?”

  “Umm, Sorenson,” he said, feeling beads of sweat begin running down his temples, making his heart race even faster. People who sweat like a pig during an interrogation always looked guilty. Innocent people who went to jail for a crime they didn’t commit was nothing new on Dateline NBC. It was all a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nick shifted in the patio chair again and took another drink of his soda.

  “And her address?” Ron asked, glancing up.

  Summer’s missing person flier shot through Nick’s mind as another hot flash washed over him. “I’m not sure.”

  Ron cocked his head, looking baffled.

  Nick tried to look casual wiping sweat from his eyebrows and upper lip.

  “You don’t know your girlfriend’s address?”

  Nick’s shortness of breath made him dizzy. “She has a small apartment in the East Village, so she just always comes over here.”

  Ron watched Nick mop his forehead again and raised his dark eyebrows. “Hot out, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said faintly, taking another drink.

  Ron chewed on the tip of his pen while his eyes examined Nick’s shiny face. Nick tried to maintain eye contact with the detective but looked away to the quiet backyard.

  “How long have you and Summer been dating?”

  “About three months.”

  “Do you know her phone number?” he smirked.

  Nick nodded and gave it to him, beads of sweat now soaking his armpits.

  “Where does she work?” Ron asked without looking up from the pad.

  “The Jordan Creek Wells Fargo.”

  The pen went back to work wiggling its way across the pad like a figure skater. Then it stopped. “Anything else you can think of?”

  The picture of Summer with blond hair floated through his jumbled mind again. Nick tried to stop himself from wiping away the sweat trickling past his sideburns. “Not that I can think of,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Ron stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Nick swallowed dryly and took another drink of his Diet Coke, emptying the can.

  The detective sighed and reached inside his coat. “If you think of anything else, give me a call,” he said, sliding his card across the patio table and getting up.

  “I will,” Nick said, taking the card, relieved the interrogation was over.

  Ron pounded the rest of his beer and set the empty bottle on the patio table. “What happened to the sun?” he asked, looking around the sky.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said, following his gaze.

  “Well, I appreciate your time, Nick,” he said, sticking his hand out. “And the beer.”

  Nick discreetly wiped his sweaty palm on his pants before shaking the detective’s hand. “No problem.”

  “Okay if I go around this way?” he asked, gesturing towards the driveway.

  “Sure.”

  “Oh,” Ron said, turning back around. “Let me know when you get that 3D TV so I can come over and watch the lingerie bowl sometime,” he cackled.

  “Sounds good,” Nick said, trying to laugh and taking another drink from his empty can.

  The cop watched him for a moment and snorted before turning for the driveway.

  Nick wiped his face on his shirt and waited until the Prius disappeared down the street before snatching his cell from the couch. “Come on,” he groaned as it rang. Rusty’s voicemail answered and Nick hung up. “Damn!” he said, remembering Rusty’s phone was broken. Nick stared out the bay window with unfocused eye, praying Rusty would keep his mouth shut about the missing persons flier.

  “Hi, you Rusty Carson?”
Detective Hubbard asked with another friendly smile when Rusty opened the door.

  Rusty looked the man over from top to bottom and then swept his eyes up and down the hallway behind him. “Yeah.”

  “Hey Rusty, I’m Detective Ron Hubbard with the Des Moines Police Department,” he said, flashing his badge. “You mind if I step inside and ask you a couple of quick questions about Amy Miller?”

  Rusty stared blankly at him while Ron patiently awaited his response with a pleasant smile.

  “It won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Come on in,” Rusty said dully, turning from the door and going back to the couch.

  Ron stepped inside and shut the door. He turned and scanned the messy apartment. “Gas prices still going up, huh?” he said, glancing at the report on Headline News.

  “Yep.”

  “Greedy bastards are going to want our first born soon,” he chuckled.

  Rusty didn’t respond.

  Ron stared at him. “You okay?”

  “I’ve been sick,” Rusty replied flatly, staring at the TV through glassy eyes.

  “Great,” Ron muttered, sitting in an armchair and pulling out his notepad. “I should’ve brought in my crime scene gloves and mask,” he snorted, then beginning the same line of questioning he had rattled off to Nick. It didn’t take long to get the same answers either.

  “So…Summer has no idea Amy kissed Nick in the bar that night?”

  Rusty shook his nappy head without looking at the detective and coughed into his fist.

  “And no one knows where she lives?”

  “Nope,” he replied, running a hand through his hair and not meeting the detective’s inquisitive eyes.

  Ron leaned back in the chair, not taking his eyes from Rusty. “Come on, Russ. How can you not know where she lives?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because she’s not my girlfriend and I’m not Google Earth.”

  Ron laughed lightly, carefully studying Rusty’s body language. “Good point. Anything else you can think of?”

  Rolling cold breath sliced through Rusty’s memory banks, swiftly followed by the missing persons poster with that blonde hair set off by the blue water in the background. He turned to the detective and raised his eyebrows. “Nope.”

  The detective nodded and handed off his card. He thanked Rusty for his time and left. Rusty dropped the card onto the coffee table and pulled the handgun back out from under the couch and set it next to the card.

  An hour later, Nick couldn’t take it anymore. He threw on his coat and grabbed his keys. Summer would be there in a few hours and he needed to talk to Rusty beforehand. He was already nervous about confronting her tonight. This was going to change everything. How? He had no idea, but only people with dirty secrets kept something crazy like this hidden.

  He checked his watch one last time and left in a hurry.

  Rusty opened his door and Nick barged past.

  “Did you tell him about the poster?” Nick asked.

  Rusty shut the door and returned to his indented spot on the dark green couch. “Can you believe this shit?”

  “No I can’t,” Nick answered, dropping into the armchair.

  “That cop totally smells something fishy with your girlfriend, dude.”

  Nick opened his mouth and paused. He took a deep breath and in a controlled voice asked again, “Did you tell him about the flier?”

  “Nick, come on, man. Would your boy throw you under the bus like that?”

  “Did you tell him or not?” he shouted, still breathing heavily from the apartment stairs.

  Rusty gazed at him, his mouth hanging open. “No, I didn’t.”

  Nick exhaled and dropped his face into his hands.

  “Nick, this is no time to be having a Charlie Sheen meltdown. You want a beer?”

  “What’d he ask you about Summer?”

  Rusty leaned back into the couch and started coughing. “He thinks Summer knows that Amy kissed you at Tangerine and he wants to know where she lives.”

  Nick sighed.

  “How’d it go with you?” Rusty asked.

  “Not good. I was sweating balls when he was questioning me and I’m sure he thinks I did it.”

  Rusty wrinkled his brow. “Why? You sick or something now too?”

  Nick shook his head. “Panic attack.”

  “Again? Nice timing.”

  Nick snorted and turned to the TV. “This is so messed up.”

  “I told you something was off about that chick.”

  “And on top of everything else, I’ve got my grandma’s funeral tomorrow,” Nick moaned, his face back in his massaging hands.

  “Yeah listen, I didn’t really get the chance to say it earlier,” Rusty began, wringing his hands and looking up to Nick. “But I’m kind of wrapped up tomorrow and not going to be able to make it.”

  Nick sharpened his gaze. “You’re such a dick.”

  “What? You know Wednesdays are my day to play online poker. Plus I’m sick.”

  Nick shook his head and kicked some balls of wadded up tissue away from his foot.

  On the way back to the station, Ron ate two more donuts, leaving six in the box. He replayed what little he had learned from Nick and Rusty in his head as he slowly chewed. The fact that no one knew where Summer lived rattled around the most.

  His cell started ringing so he answered it through the Prius’ stereo. “Hubbard.”

  “Yeah Ron, I got some movement on your boy.”

  “Which one?’ he asked with his mouth full.

  “Nick Foley. He placed a call just after you left his house.”

  “To who?”

  “Rusty Carson.”

  “I fucking knew it!” he yelled, slapping the steering wheel and triggering an avalanche of crumbs tumbling down his tie. “Shit! What else?”

  “The Jordon Creek Wells Fargo, or any Wells Fargo for that matter, has no record of a Summer Sorenson. And the number you gave me for her isn’t connected. Never has been.”

  “What the hell?” Hubbard muttered, swinging the Prius into a Target parking lot and quickly turning around. “I’m going back to Foley’s,” he said, getting into the gas pedal.

  “You need anything else?”

  “I’ll call if I do.”

  “Hey, when you get back here, go ahead and bring those donuts in this time. I’m starving.”

  Ron stopped chewing. “What donuts?”

  “Don’t play me like that, Hubbard.”

  Ron paused. “Rodriguez? Hello? You’re cutting out.”

  “Yeah, cutting out my ass, gringo!”

  Hubbard stopped for a red light at a busy intersection. “Oh, one more thing!” he suddenly remembered.

  “I told you I’m not giving you my abuela’s recipe for enchiladas.”

  Ron laughed sharply. “I don’t want your grandma’s recipe for enchiladas. I want the one for her tacos!” he cackled loudly.

  A silver pickup truck blew past in the lane next to the Prius and slammed into the driver’s side of a turning gold Ford Taurus with a deafening crunch. Pieces of glass and metal exploded into the air as both cars slid to a screeching halt on the other side of the intersection. A thunderstruck silence followed as Ron’s light turned green. No one moved.

  “Sonofabitch,” Ron gasped, dropping the remainder of the donut back into the box.

  “What the hell was that?” Rodriguez asked.

  “Huge wreck,” he replied, undoing his seatbelt. “Guy just blew a light at full speed. Send medics to Douglas and Merle Hay Road and send em quick.”

  “I’m on it.”

  The lanky detective exited his wife’s small car and started walking towards the demolished vehicles, staring at them in abject horror. Halfway across the intersection, he turned his walk into a jog and reached the Ford Taurus first. The driver’s side window was shattered, the outside of the door dripping with blood. He had worked enough accident scenes during his early years on the force to know a dead soccer mom when
he saw one. The rest of the car was empty so he turned for the silver pickup.

  People were already out of their cars and cautiously approaching the grisly scene, reminding Ron of a group of blood-thirsty zombies slowly closing in on him.

  “Get back in your cars!” he shouted, fishing out his badge and holding it up in the air. “Help is on the way.”

  The bystanders stopped coming any closer but didn’t return to their cars.

  The pickup’s driver side door had popped open upon impact and a teenage boy sat bent over the steering wheel. Blood covered his face after it had planted into the wheel with enough force to bend it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ron muttered, knowing another dead body when he saw one. They would need the Jaws of Life and a pry bar to get him out of the crumpled wreck. He turned back to the crowd, which was still creeping closer. “Get back!” he yelled, holding up his badge again. At this point, there was nothing any of them could do but get in the way.

  “H-help me,” the boy suddenly sputtered, spitting blood on the detective.

  “Motherfucker!” Ron yelled, jumping backwards.

  “Pleafe,” the teen pleaded through broken teeth.

  “Hey, hey, just take it easy, buddy. An ambulance is on the way.” Warily, Ron stepped forward, his heart hammering inside his chest.

  “Pleafe don’t let me die,” the boy moaned, producing bubbles in the blood around his nose and mouth.

  “You’re gonna be just fine,” Ron lied, taking a quick peek around for sirens in the distance. Other than concerned conversations from the nearby group of spectators, it was quiet.

  “Ron?”

  Ron’s heart skipped a beat. His shaggy hair shook when he snapped his head back to the boy.

  “She’s the one you want,” the teen said, with much less fear in his voice.

  Ron’s forehead slumped as he stared at the blood-soaked boy hunched over the wheel. Things went into slow-motion, and the buzzing crowd seemed further away. “What’s that?” Ron whispered, not hearing the approaching sirens behind him.

  “Many will die,” he choked, spitting more droplets of blood onto Ron’s jacket.

  Ron didn’t notice and brought his face closer, his wide eyes staring incredulously at the boy. “Who’s the one I want?”