by Zelda Reed
“Don’t fucking leave me,” I scream, but she’s already out the window.
I hear her land, two feet rushing up the street.
“We need back up,” the first cop says into his radio, while the other struggles to his feet.
He hoists me up by the arm and yanks me close to him. “How stupid do you gotta be to assault a cop at the scene of a crime?”
He leads me out the room and I throw a glance over my shoulder, looking out the open window.
So much for trust.
Five
They stick me in a cell at the downtown precinct with a teenage girl who reminds me of Suzanne. She can’t be more than sixteen, her blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail, pale yellow like the color of her dress. She paces the cement floor in white heels, the click-clack oddly comforting in a room of reckless noise.
The cells around us are filled with unruly criminals, hands wrapped around steel bars as they try to catch the attention of the guards on duty. Two cells down a woman releases a blood curling scream from the pit of her stomach. The girl and I jump. The women in the cell across from us laugh.
There are no words for how terrified I am. Not only have I committed a crime but I’ve been tossed in county lock-up and worse, no one knows that I’m here.
A sharp buzz rings throughout the hall.
“Yo guard,” the woman in the cell across from us says. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to shut the fuck up,” he says.
He’s pig faced and red at the neck. He uses his baton to beat the cell bars, like we’re animals in a cage. He stops our cell, eyeing the pair of us, the outcasts in a sea of rough faces.
“What the fuck did you do to get in here?” he asks my cellmate.
“Nothing,” she says. “My friend stole something but they couldn’t catch her, so they got me instead.”
The guard rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, you have the same story?”
My cellmate throws me a look over her shoulder.
“Something like that.”
______
An hour before lights out Officer Bradley strolls down the hall, a ring of keys on his outstretched finger. My cellmate, balanced on the edge of her seat, straightens her back as he makes his way over to our cell.
Even in the darkness of the room I can make out the pink twinge in his cheeks and the gold flecks in his brown eyes. He even manages to blush when a woman in the cell across from us, sticks her face between the bars and says, “Hey, sugar, wanna bend down a little lower for me?”
He opens the door and my cell mate stands up. “Is my mother here?” she says.
Officer Bradley squints. “What’s your name again?”
Her face collapses. “Erin Fletcher.”
“I’m sorry Miss Fletcher,” he says. “I’m here for her.”
He points to me and my stomach leaps into my throat. I’m on my feet within seconds, my legs aching at the feel of being stretched. I’ve been sitting all evening, curled close to the wall, hands on my lap as I picked at my fingers and hoped beyond hope that someone would rescue me.
Officer Bradley smiles as I step out of the cell, leaving Erin behind. She rushes to the gate, her small fingers wrapping around the bars as she says, “Can I get another phone call? Please?”
Officer Bradley wraps his hand around my arm. “You sure can,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
Scowled faces watch as Officer Bradley leads me to the door at the end of the hall, the single window full of artificial light. My stomach ignites with joy – I’m finally getting the fuck out of here – but that nagging voice starts up again in the back of my mind.
I assaulted a cop so my phone privileges were stripped away from me. I didn’t have the balls to threaten to sue until they were reinstated. I didn’t call anyone and no one knows I’m here. Officer Bradley, most likely, isn’t bailing me out of the goodness of his heart and I watch too much television not to know that this can go two ways.
Either I’m getting out or he’s dragging me to a back room where a group of baby-faced cops like him can beat the shit out of me for abusing one of their own.
I think about Alanis and how she would handle this situation. I imagine her wiggling out of Officer Bradley’s hold, knocking him in the throat and locking him to a cell with his handcuffs. She would find some vent or backdoor to snake through, rushing out of the building unseen. But I’m not Alanis. I’m the one who was caught.
Officer Bradley leads me through three doors before we arrive at the front of the police station. At least twenty telephones simultaneously ring as pairs of officer’s drag in citizens, handcuffed and intoxicated.
Standing in the middle of the chaos, sticking out in his gold wireframe glasses and brown cotton vest, is Martin. A leather suitcase hangs at his sides as he spots me moving in-tandem with Officer Bradley.
“Here she is,” Officer Bradley says, presenting me to him like an unruly child.
Martin smiles. “Thank you so much,” he says. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“I can only imagine,” Officer Bradley says. He’s glancing down at me as if I’m sixteen and have been caught stealing clothes on State Street. “Once again, I’m sorry nobody called you first.”
Martin holds up his hands. “No offense taken. I have the utmost faith that you and your colleagues will do better next time.”
Officer Bradley hands me a plastic bag of my things: a ring from my mother, a gold bracelet, two diamond earrings, my phone and a twenty dollar bill I’d stuffed in my pocket. My purse, my wallet, and my keys to my father’s condo are all in Alanis’s car, pushed beneath the passenger’s side seat.
On our way out the precinct I send her a text message on our way to the parking lot. I slip on my jewelry and shove my phone and money in my pocket. I throw the bag away in the nearest trashcan before submitting to the silence.
Martin strolls with his head up and alert, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he surveys the city around us. Tourists and family’s pass. He makes eye contact with all of them, nodding when they acknowledge his presence, passing him polite, “Hellos” in return.
We reach his car. A brown Taurus from the eighties. “With the original leather seats,” he says, opening my car door for me. I slide inside and it smells, not new, but clean and fresh. The scent of someone who cares for his vehicle.
We’re minutes away from the station when Martin breaks the silence to ask, “How are you?”
I glance over at him. “Shouldn’t you be asking what the hell was I thinking, breaking into a crime scene?”
Martin smiles. “I thought I’d start with something easy.”
I’m envious of Martin’s disposition, the way his fingers relax around the wheel, unburdened by bullshit. Unlike me, Martin isn’t attempting to push through a haze of fog, trying to separate reality from fiction. He isn’t trying to grip the grim reality that the man you’ve been fucking – the man you love – might be your father’s murderer. He isn’t hating himself for the potential of guilt. The tragedy of what-if. What if Neal didn’t murder my father? What if he did?
“I’m…All over the place,” I say.
“Your father’s death has been hard on all of us,” he says. He turns his head towards me, eyes sliding from the road. “Unless there’s something else going on.”
The perpetual lump in my stomach grows into my throat. What do I say? Your current boss murdered your old one…I think?
A moment of silence passes between us. Martin lets out a sigh. “You are so much like your father, Caitlin. Since you’ve returned it’s almost difficult to look at you.”
“We’re nothing alike,” I say.
Martin’s smile grows. “You are almost the perfect blend of your parents. You’ve inherited their best traits, though I fear you’ve picked up on your father’s worst. A fault that’s almost entirely his.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from rolling my eyes. There he goes again with his ridd
les. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I told you before it took a very long time for your father to trust me. It wasn’t until I pulled the most impossible of strings that he saw me in a new light. When you were growing up, I could tell you were growing up with the same trait. Even as a little girl I knew that you would never let anyone in. Not until they proved themselves to you.”
It’s uncomfortable, hearing someone read you like a book, hitting all the right notes you’ve tried to keep hidden.
“Although I’m not entirely sure how to prove myself to you, I’m going to try with a little honesty of my own. Since you arrived I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”
My jaw clenches. “For what?”
“For the very reason you’re sitting in my car. I hoped your trip would go smoothly, that nothing would be amiss, but just in case I assigned one of my trusted colleagues to watch over you.”
My mind floats back to the man who disappeared in the bushes at the park.
“He was the one who told me you were in county lockup. He’s the reason I was able to wipe all of this nonsense away.”
“What do you mean?”
Martin glances at me. “I have friends in very high places. I don’t like to play those cards unless I absolutely have to and in this instance, I thought it was a necessity. Now I don’t expect anything in return. Julian wasn’t just my boss, he was also my best friend. Like he looked after my son, I’m looking after you, but I do ask that you consider trusting me.”
The knot in my throat expands into a boulder. “I trust you,” I say. “I just don’t know where to start.”
Martin nods. “Why were you in Neal’s home?”
“Because I think he killed my father.”
______
Martin and I stop for coffee at a small bakery on the outskirts of the city. I let everything out in a red corner booth, a cheap poster of Picasso’s “Seated Woman” hanging framed over my head. Martin quietly listens between sips of his coffee with two sugars.
There are moments when I’m driven silent by his concentration, his willingness to listen and not round the conversation back to him. I’m used to conversing with my mother who is the queen of letting her mind run when the conversation isn’t about her. She knows how to pretend – to make her eyes a little wider, to nod every minute or so – but when I ask her to repeat the last thing I said, she can never do it.
She’s better than my father, who rustled his paper whenever I opened my mouth to speak, pulling it up to his face as if to say, I’m busy, maybe later.
When I’m finished and it’s all laid out on the table, Martin remains silent. He stares at our bluestone tabletop before he says, “What do you think?”
“Think about what?”
“Do you think Neal killed Julian?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. Dismiss the logic and the facts. Dig inside of yourself and truly think about whether or not he’s guilty.”
I don’t have to dig deep. My fingers wrap around the cup of my coffee, warming the tips of my fingers the way Neal’s smile warms the inside of my chest. I imagine the bright glimmer in his eyes as he hovers over me, one hand in my hair as the other trails down my side, his lips moving forward to plant against my own.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think he’s guilty.”
Martin opens his hands. “See how easy that was?”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“For what it’s worth. I don’t think he’s guilty either,” he says.
“But what about the pills? And he did lie about my father signing the property over to him.”
Martin holds up his hand. “I’ve been in this business for a very long time and have seen this level of sabotage before. Someone is doing a miraculous job of setting Neal up. You already know who that person is.”
“Chris,” I say.
Martin smiles. “Of course.”
______
Martin doesn’t drive me back to the city. Chicago’s a glimmer in our rearview mirror as we ride to the wealthy suburb of Glenview.
Martin’s home is an estate-sized mansion made of grey brick with two floors and three chimneys growing out the main wing. It’s the sort of home I would expect from someone like my father. Gaudy but sophisticated, with enough room out front for ten cars to park comfortably.
From the driveway I can see into the living room where Gilda has her back to the window, a cashmere sweater thrown over her shoulders as she tilts her head back and laughs.
“You have company?” I ask as we step out of the car.
Martin nods. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll like them.”
He fishes a pair of keys from his pocket as our feet land on the welcome mat.
“You knew didn’t you?” I say as the porch light comes on.
“Knew what?”
“About Chris? That he was planning something like this.”
Martin drops his hand from the knob. “As I said, I’ve seen schemes like this before. Mr. Kick is not nearly as clever as he thinks.”
The front door opens. Gilda’s standing on the other side, dressed in a warm-colored blouse and pants, balancing a glass of whiskey in her right hand.
“You two were supposed to be here hours ago,” she says.
Martin leans in to kiss her, a simple peck of the lips, full of more love than I’ve seen in years.
“We were sidetracked,” Martin says, accepting the drink.
“Well dinner’s long been over,” Gilda says, closing and locking the front door behind us. Her hand drops to my shoulder. “Are you hungry? I can make you a plate.”
I open my mouth to refuse – Isn’t that the polite thing to do? – but my stomach grumbles.
Martin laughs. “We’ll each take a plate.”
The pair of them lead the way towards the kitchen, Martin’s arm thrown around Gilda’s waist as she rests her head on his shoulder. In this small moment they embody everything my father was grasping for as he moved through his various wives. A sense of complacency, comfort, of seeing someone after a long day and only wanting to hold them in your arms.
A smatter of laughter spreads into the kitchen from the living room as Gilda builds two plates of food. Martin hands me a glass of wine and they dance around one another, bumping hips and catching shoulders, stopping to kiss every once in a while.
“Martin,” a voice I know says from the hall. “When are you going to come in and say hello.”
Gina waltzes into the kitchen, carrying a nearly empty glass of wine. The apples of her cheeks are flushed red. There’s a constant smile tugging at her lips. She’s drunk and swaying against the threshold of the room.
“As soon as I received my plate,” Martin says. He moves over to her and places a kiss to her cheek. “How was dinner?”
Gina grins, her front teeth stained red. “It was wonderful. Gilda is an amazing chef.” Gina spots me over Martin’s shoulders, standing on the other side of the kitchen island. She makes her way over and purposefully bumps her shoulder into mine. “I heard they locked you up.”
“It was only for a little while.”
Gina shakes her head. “You’re lucky your father isn’t alive because you know he would’ve left you there.” Gina doesn’t say this maliciously. It’s her way of reminiscing. Remember when your father promised to let you rot in jail?
Footsteps round the corner and the next guest makes his appearance. My lips spread across the rim of my glass, as my heart beats in my chest.
Neal throws me a grin from across the room, dressed in fitted black pants and a casual checkered shirt. He hasn’t shaved in a few days (Alanis told him not to. Lee might not recognize him with a bit of a beard) but I know him instantly. He crosses the room and pushes himself between Gina and me, both arms wrapped around my waist as he pulls me close.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, leaning close enough for his breath to ghost across my lips. “Are you alright?”
&nbs
p; I refuse to let the weight of my days build up in my throat. I swallow it like a champ, leaving it to boil in the pit of my stomach, stowed away for later. “I’m fine now that I’m here.”
Weeks ago I would’ve gagged at such an admission. How cliché can I be? But my words are nothing but the truth. Seeing Neal cements all that I believe. He couldn’t have killed my father, not without the truth breaking him apart until he’s compelled to tell me.
He presses his lips to mine and I push myself closer, our chests bumping together. He pulls my bottom lip between his own. We kiss until Gilda clears her throat, the sound pulling us apart.
“You two are adorable,” she says. “But this one here needs to eat, and I do mean food.”
Martin and I have dinner in the dining room, sitting around the table with Gilda and Neal and Gina. Gilda’s made a pot of coffee for Gina while Neal nurses a glass of scotch.
Our feet and knees bump into one another as Martin deals them an abridged version of my abridged story.
Gilda makes a disapproving noise in the back of her throat. “I knew there was something off about that boy,” she says, meaning Chris. “He’s always been very shifty.”
Neal’s uncomfortable in his chair. “He fooled me,” he says, an air of shame suffocating him. “I thought we were best friends.”
Gina reaches across the table and places her hand on Neal’s. “That boy’s a con-artist,” she says. “He could’ve fooled any of us.”
“He fooled me,” Martin admits. “For a moment. But he screwed up when he told me about Julian giving you, Neal, the property on the South Side. We spoke at length about that property going to Caitlin. For him to sign it over without discussing it with me was more than odd. When I confronted Julian about it, he was lethargic and could barely remember simple things. He said he had a vague memory of the conversation and what was done, is done.
The reason why I didn’t tell you about the property, Neal, is because I wanted to make sure my suspicions were correct. That Julian did not willingly sign over the property but Chris used the fogginess of his illness against him.”
