Once outside, he released a heavy sigh, relieved he and Ritchie could head home. The high humidity hit him in the face, and made his nose stuffy making it difficult to breathe. He sniffed, but it did little to help.
As instructed, Ritchie was straddled over his bike, ready to take off. Max grabbed his backpack from Ritchie, unzipped it and shoved the microphone inside. He then hoisted it over his shoulder, sliding one arm, then the other through the loops, adjusting the straps so it would sit evenly on his back. He jumped on his bike and pedaled as fast as he could out of the church parking lot; the wet road spraying more water over his socks and sneakers.
Thoughts raced through his mind as he pedaled toward home, unaware his legs were working harder than ever before. Sweat trickled down inside his T-shirt. The breeze circled around his body as he pedaled faster and it made him feel cooler. The fact that his home was a short distance from St. Catherine’s gave him solace that once the equipment was back in the basement where it belonged, he could stop worrying.
The boys pedaled across the Upper West Side of the city and made the final left onto 95th Street right into the Harwell’s driveway. Nausea waved through Max’s body when he saw his father’s police car parked in the driveway.
“Oh God,” he shrieked, “Dad’s here. Damn Ritchie, maybe Mr. Cullen called him.” He shivered from a cold sweat and looked over at his friend. “I’m really scared,” he finally revealed to his friend.
“You should have thought of that before, Max,” Ritchie said coldly. “Listen, I’m heading back to my house.”
“You mean you’re not going to stand by me?”
“Nope. I told you not to do this.” Ritchie wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “See you around,” he waved and continued down the driveway.
The door opened and Jack Harwell waved to his son. “Hey, Max.”
Max was encouraged by his father’s upbeat greeting and sensed things were still okay in the life of Max Harwell, the Upper West Side’s amateur sleuth.
“Hi Dad. What are you doing home so early?”
“I’m here to pick up the surveillance equipment.”
Max swallowed hard just as his legs turned to jelly at the mention of the equipment, and lost control of his bike, jumped off, and let it fall to the ground.
“Are you all right, Max?” his father inquired.
“Yeah, I wasn’t paying attention.” Max squeezed his shirt and a small amount of water ran down his leg.
“You’re soaked to the gills, son. You got caught in that downpour, huh?”
“Yeah,” squeaked out of his mouth. Max held his breath as he walked up the steps. His father’s mood confused him. Did he know what Max had been up to this afternoon? He pushed the thought from his mind certain it was his guilty conscience working overtime. He released his pent up anxiety and stood on the porch waiting for an introduction to the young man standing next to his father.
“Max, I’d like you to meet Ryan O’Reilly. He’s enrolled in the Police Academy for its next session. We’re giving him a first-hand view of what it’s like to be a cop in the city with a ride-along. Max watched his dad lean over toward Ryan and whisper something. He knew what he’d said to the young man—the same thing he told everyone.
Ryan smiled. “The Lieutenant tells me you want to be a detective too.”
“Yeah, someday, maybe,” he answered on his way over to greet him. Before extending his hand to Ryan, Max wiped his clammy palm on his damp shorts. He thrust his trembling hand toward him and prayed his father wouldn’t notice his nervousness.
Max looked at his father. “I need to go to the bathroom, Dad. Really bad,” he announced and ran down the hall to the wake of laughter.
He slammed the door, removed the backpack weighing heavily on his shoulders, and rested his back against the door. He clamped his eyes shut as if in pain and wished he’d listened to Ritchie’s warning. He said a hasty prayer and promised God he’d never touch the surveillance equipment again, ever, if he’d just help him out of this jam.
He placed his ear flush against the door and strained to hear his father’s conversation. He mentally urged his father to stay outside a little longer so he could make a fast trip down to the basement and return the equipment. Instead, their voices sounded closer.
His heart was pounding like a machine gun in battle from worry about his father and Ryan in the hall right outside the bathroom door. How was he going to get downstairs to the basement if they went down there before him? His heart accelerated when he heard the basement door open. God, he was in so much trouble.
Waves of nausea made his stomach feel like a bad case of seasickness. He ran to the sink and turned on the water, cupping his hands underneath. He filled them with the liquid, brought it to his mouth and swiped the remaining moisture with his T-shirt. He swallowed hard and resumed his post, straining harder when he heard Ryan asking for something. Startled by a sharp rap on the bathroom door, Max jumped.
“Are you all right in there, son?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m okay.” His voice cracked.
“Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you, son?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, call me if you need anything. Otherwise, join us in the kitchen when you’re done. Ryan and I are going to have a cold drink.”
Max caught a glimpse of his surprised facial expression in the mirror. “I’ll be out in a little while.” He lay flat on the cool floor, waiting for his father’s shadow to disappear from underneath the doorframe. When he was satisfied they were gone, he gingerly opened the door and peeked out. The coast was clear. He grabbed his backpack up off the floor and slowly tiptoed toward the basement door. No second chances on this one.
He slowly pulled the basement door open praying it wouldn’t creak, and walked down the stairs, taking slow deliberate steps to avoid making any unnecessary noise. With four steps to go from the bottom, he heard footsteps above. He moved faster, taking two giant steps to the bottom. He hoisted his heavy backpack up onto the table, unzipped the bag and removed the equipment, making sure to place it in the same spot. The recorded confessions came to mind. He flipped the lid open and pulled out the tiny cassette, and slipped it into his pocket.
The light flicked on, and he could see his father’s feet as he descended each step. His first thought was to hide behind the furnace, but ruled it out figuring if he got caught, he’d be in a boatload of trouble—trouble his father knew nothing about—at least not yet. And, he’d never be able to step a foot outside the house again, except to attend school and church.
His stomach cramped with pains so severe he thought someone had just punched him in the gut. He convinced himself to walk back up the steps like a man and face whatever happened. He was exhausted from the events of the morning and all he wanted to do was lie on his bed and pretend it never happened.
“Max?” Jack Harwell said quizzically. “What are you doing down here in the dark?”
Man, he was screwing up royally today. “Dad,” he pointed toward the window. “It’s bright enough outside,” he said. “I can see.” He turned and smiled as he began to mount the steps, surprised he’d come up with an answer so quickly.
“Oh, that’s right,” his father grinned. “How could I have forgotten your eyes glow in the dark?”
“Very funny, Dad,” he said, over his shoulder.
“I guess this means you’re okay?”
“Yeah Dad. I’m fine.”
“So, what are you doing down here? I thought you were joining us in the kitchen.”
“Well,” Max stammered in an effort to come up with a logical response, “Ah, I wanted to return the hammer I borrowed from your tool box. Me and Ritchie are building a tree house over at his place.” He chastised himself for the tall tale.
“Ritchie and I,” his father corrected.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Ritchie and I.”
“Terrific. I’m sure your mother will be proud of you.” He gave a hearty chuckle.
“Education in the use of tools is a good thing, especially since I’m not handy around here.” He turned to Ryan, “My wife keeps buying me all these tools,” his hand swayed to the pegboard filled with tools. “She thinks it will give me the incentive to learn, but I have two left hands when it comes to repairs.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah, my mom has the same thing on her wish list.”
“So Max, is Mr. Jones teaching you how to build the tree house?”
“Yeah.”
Father McKinley’s last sermon about the effects of telling lies flashed through his mind. The waves of nausea returned and danced in the pit of his stomach.
“Just don’t forget to return my tools after you borrow them. I don’t want your mother thinking she needs to replace them with more tools.”
“I won’t.”
By the time Max reached the top step, he felt much better. The equipment was back where it belonged, and he was convinced no one had contacted his father about having seen him at church.
Life was good. He looked up at the ceiling and said a silent prayer, thanking God for the big favor, grateful he wouldn’t have to deal with his father’s fierce temper.
He gave a dramatic exhale relieved the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders until his father’s voice reverberated off the walls. He closed his eyes for a brief second.
“Max, damn it” he shouted. “You did it again, didn’t—” his voice trailed off when his two-way radio squawked. He grabbed Ryan’s arm, “Let’s go, O’Reilly.”
The two men rushed past him. “We’ll discuss this later, young man,” Jack Harwell said, his finger pointed in his son’s face.
5
“Well, this has certainly been an interesting morning,” Jessie said to her partner.
“To say the least.” He shook his head. “Hopefully the Stuarts will be more useful once they’re dressed and down at headquarters.”
“You thought she was pretty nice, huh Gerard?” A tiny surge of jealousy tugged at her heart as she waited for his response.
“Are you kidding me? She’s not my type of woman. Not that I’m knocking her choice of sex games.” He turned to her and released a loud whoop. “So what do you think, Jessie? Are you going to be that kind of woman when you get married?”
“Probably not, because I’m never getting married.”
“Of course you are. You’re going to marry me.” He gave her a wink, and she thought her heart would jump right out of her chest. The heat of a blush colored her cheeks.
“Only in your dreams, Bud.”
Zach grinned. “Then why the blush?”
“Well, I’m embarrassed for Mrs. Stuart,” she lied. “Now, everyone knows about their fetish.”
“Hell, she wasn’t embarrassed. Didn’t you see the look on her face? She loved every minute of the attention. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they don’t use this as one of their future fantasies, and hire actors to play the cops.” He flung his hand in the air. “Speaking of which, I told you they were getting it on. You didn’t believe me.”
Jessie rolled her eyes. “Is that all you men ever think about is women on their backs?” Zach waggled his eyebrows. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” she said with an eye roll. “I, on the other hand could care less about what people do in private.”
“Liar.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because most women would say the same thing. But down deep inside, they’re dying to know every detail so they can live vicariously through them.”
Jessie sniggered. “And you know this, how?” she asked.
“Because I know women.”
“Of course you do, Don Juan.”
Her thoughts drifted back to the kind of woman he wanted for a wife, and it gave her a warm fuzzy feeling. She wasn’t sure she even knew what a good marriage was. She’d never met anyone who was happy. How could she? Growing up in a dysfunctional household, playing nursemaid to a mother who turned to the bottle after her husband walked out, and the slew of men who paraded in and out of their lives left her rather disillusioned. Remembering those years gave her a sick feeling inside. A sudden sadness crept up and made her eyes water. Zach noticed.
“Hey, Jessie” he latched onto her arm and stopped her. His eyes scanned her face as his hand cupped under her chin, “why the tears?”
His gentle touch caused her pulse to increase. Instead of rushing into his arms, she brushed his hand aside and continued ahead.
“Talk to me,” he called after her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Gerard.” A few feet away from him, she wiped the tears with her forefinger. “One of those tiny gnats flew into my eye, you knucklehead,” she said looking back at him over her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but if that’s the way you want to play it, okay.” He gave her a quick glance and changed the subject. “I guess the Stuarts little rendezvous didn’t turn out to be so private after all!”
“I guess not.” she shrugged, “but I’m sure they never expected to stumble over a dead body either. But, what really has me puzzled is the significance of leaving their clothing at the hotel. Like seriously . . . what was the point?”
“Jessie, Jessie, Jessie. It’s called passion.” A light chuckle spilled from his mouth. “C’mon, let’s go get some food. My stomach is talking back to me. I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s dinner at ten o’clock.” He checked the time. “Christ, that was twelve hours ago.”
“Ooh, how could you even think of food after inhaling the stink on our bodies? We need showers first, hot shot. I’m not sitting across from you and eating a hamburger.” She brought her arm up close to her nose and smelled her skin. “I’m disgusting. And if it wasn’t for you stinking just as bad, I’d be embarrassed.
“Moi stinks?”
“Oh yeah. Big time.” She laughed.
“Hey, thanks for the compliment.”
“Anytime, my friend.” She gave him a wide grin. “Drop me off at my place so I can shower, will you? I can’t go to the precinct dressed in these clothes anyway.”
“Didn’t you bring a change of clothes with you?”
“No, I didn’t. Did you see me carrying anything out this morning?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know. I guess I had my mind on other things.”
“Besides, I was half asleep for God’s sake, and definitely not thinking clearly.”
“Well, you could always parade around like our witnesses,” he teased. He placed his hands on his hips. “What do you think?” She twisted her mouth to the side at his comment. “Not such a good idea, huh?
“No.”
“And by the way, just for the record,” he said, “I have my clothes in the trunk,” he gloated. “I can’t believe you forgot to bring a change of clothes. All good detectives have an extra suitcase packed at all times.”
“I never repacked my overnight bag from the last time we pulled an all-nighter. I was so tired, it was the last thing on my mind.”
Several strands of hair had managed to loosen from the scrunchie securing her long locks. She removed the band and smoothed her red hair back with both hands, then pulled the scrunchie off her wrist and pulled it over her thick ponytail. She caught Zach watching her movements with an appreciative glance. He gave a playful tug on the long curls. She smacked his hand.
“I forgot to mention,” she said, “Bradshaw is already at the hospital checking on another victim. The lieutenant called and asked him to look in on our Jane Doe and let us know the minute she’s conscious. Since we haven’t heard from him, I can only assume she’s still unconscious, and our time is better spent elsewhere trying to uncover some leads.”
“I know, Jess. I was the one who asked the lieutenant to have Bradshaw check on Jane.” He grinned. “Food . . . now, okay?”
“No,” she pinched the sides of her nose with her fingers. “Showers . . . then food. We’re sticky from sweating and drenched
from that downpour. I can’t even imagine walking into a restaurant—fast food or otherwise in this shape.” She rushed to the driver’s side door. “I’ll drive this time.” Zach pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors, then tossed them to her. Inside the hot car, they looked at one another simultaneously, grimaced, and rolled down all the windows.
“You’re right,” he said, pinching his nose. “We stink! Can I shower at your place too?”
Jessie pulled away from the side of the road. Now that it was mid-morning, there was a lot more traffic, and the ride promised to take much longer than either of them anticipated.
“Sure. So what do you say,” she said, her hand on the switch, “we let the siren wail so we can get cleaned up a lot faster.”
“I say, go for it.” He waggled his brows again. “I’d say you’re really anxious to get me into that apartment of yours, aren’t you?” He flashed a toothy grin and the dimples in his cheeks seemed even deeper. “You do know,” he said in a devilish voice, “I can’t be trusted.”
“Oh really?” she teased right back. “Well then I should warn you, Sherlock, I’m tired, I’m suffering from PMS, and I carry a gun. Any questions?”
“Nope,” he shook his head, “none whatsoever.”
6
“Phillip Bradshaw, NYPD,” the burly detective mumbled to the desk nurse and slipped his shield inside his pocket. “I’m here to see Jane Doe.” He sucked in a deep breath, tired from a long arduous night, wishing he had shut his phone off before Harwell’s call asking him to check on a victim.
A rush of panic broke out and distracted the nurse who was checking the patient database.
“Bus accident, all hands on board,” a member of the staff shouted rushing out from the ER. Bradshaw turned to see a team of medical doctors and nurses rushing outside to meet the ESU vehicles. The red lights flashing against the building resembled the flames of a dancing fire.
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