“Clarissa, I’m sorry about before. I just… I—I want to help, that’s all. I’ve brought my racket,” she held the tennis bag up as if to prove her words true.
There was a pause.
“You want to play tennis? Now?”
Chase nodded slowly.
“I’ve been… I have some experience with loss, Clarissa. And what I’ve found is that exercise is the best way to start, and eventually get through, the grieving process. Look, I know Thomas…” the words were proving more difficult than Chase had expected and she took another deep breath, trying to steady her nerve.
Come on, you can do this. You’ve talked people off the ledge, worked your way into trap houses full of thugs that should’ve shot a pretty white girl like you on sight.
“I know you’re hurting. And I won’t lie to you; the hurt will stay with you for a long time, if not forever. But there are certain things that you still can do to try and extract some pleasure from this world. I know it doesn’t make sense to you know—the idea of pleasure and happiness seems impossible—but in time, you will understand. Clarissa, you have to be strong; after all, you still have Thomas Jr. to look after. In order to make sure he can recover from the loss of his father, you need to recover first. And exercise can help.”
There was a long pause, one that dragged on for so long that Chase had all but given up. She went as far as to turn back toward her car when she heard a metallic click and saw the door size cut-out in the wrought iron fence open an inch. Chase nodded to the camera and then stepped through, making sure to close the gate behind her.
She walked briskly up the long, inclined drive to the front door, and halfway to it, it opened. She had expected the man-servant Raul to be standing there, but was surprised to see that it was Clarissa dressed in a tennis outfit. It wasn’t sweaty like the other day, suggesting that she had put it on after Chase had pressed the intercom button.
“Clarissa,” Chase said softly, unsure of the appropriate greeting given the circumstances. She was reminded of the awkward encounter in the woman’s house, sitting across from one another on couches, and hoped that this wouldn’t be a repeat of that.
But a teary-eyed Clarissa Smith immediately stepped forward and embraced her. Her grip was so strong, desperate, that Chase nearly stumbled backward off the steps. After regaining her balance, she leaned into the hug and tentatively returned it.
Clarissa broke the embrace and then wiped tears from her eyes. She sniffed.
“Tennis court is out back. Please, follow me.”
As Clarissa led Chase through the house, first through the front foyer, and then through a family room, she paid attention to the pictures on the walls or in frames resting on expensive looking tables.
“Raul’s not here?” she asked casually after noting the man’s presence in more than a handful of the photographs, smiling behind his dark mustache, his arms wrapped around Thomas’s shoulders, or standing behind the three Smith’s.
“No. He left about an hour ago. Raul is like family; he lives here, sleeps here, helps look after Thomas Jr. He’s either here or he’s out running errands for Weston.”
Chase raised an eyebrow at this, but didn’t press. She had seen the way the widow had interacted with Thomas’s brother; pressing her further would likely cause her to clam up. Better to just let her talk.
They walked in silence through the family room, and then down two steps to another seating area. The back wall was covered in floor to ceiling windows, but the blinds, the kind between the two panes of glass, were at half-mast sparing them sun’s full wrath.
To Chase, they reminded her of sleeping, half-open eyelids. Or sad eyes.
“Court is back here,” Clarissa said softly. Her directions weren’t necessary. Through the windows, Chase saw a stone patio with several lawn chairs laid out. After about twenty feet of flagstones, the ground transitioned into grass. Just beyond that, she saw the black wire mesh fence and the green artificial turf of a tennis court.
“I usually have a two-hour training session on Fridays, but I canceled my lesson,” Clarissa said as she pulled the sliding glass door open and indicated for Chase to exit.
Chase nodded and stepped onto the stone patio, strangely nervous about her game. It had been at least a few years since she had stepped onto the court, and it was all she could do to hope that all those lessons that Gampie had paid for as a child had stuck with her.
Is tennis like riding a bike?
Chase certainly hoped so.
Clarissa must have seen this on her face because she offered a wan smile.
“Don’t worry, I’m not very good yet—I’ve only been learning for the past six months or so,” she said as they walked side-by-side toward the court. “I was looking for something to do while Thomas was away on business, and since Thomas Jr started school, I was alone a lot. Thomas suggested that I get a hobby and for some strange reason, tennis popped into my mind. Maybe it was because the US Open was on the TV at the time, or maybe I just always wanted to learn and didn’t know it until that moment. Anyways, two days later, contractors were here, and by the weekend the court was ready to use.”
Clarissa recounted this story with a strange mundane quality that made Chase wonder.
Lonely at home, mentions tennis in passing, and husband erects a tennis court the following week?
Clarissa opened the chain-link door to the court, and Chase stepped in, pressing her toes into the strangely spongy ground, trying to get a feel for it.
Keep her close, maybe? Have Raul keep an eye on her?
It was a full-size court, complete with regulation lines. There was even an automatic ball server in the corner, the top overfilled with fluorescent tennis balls. Chase heard the door close behind her and turned to face Clarissa.
The woman lowered her eyes for a moment, before raising them again. There was an incredible sadness in those brown eyes, a sadness so deep that Chase found herself wondering if the loss of her husband was the only thing that had contributed to it, or if there was something else.
An older wound, perhaps, one that had never quite healed.
“You said you knew grief,” Clarissa began slowly. “Tell me how you know.”
Chase cleared her throat and told her story.
When she was done, they were both in tears and holding each other.
Chapter 25
Drake followed Raul out of the cemetery. When the man made his way to the cemetery parking lot, Drake whisked across the street and got into his car and waited.
Raul pulled out a few seconds later behind the wheel of a brand new black Range Rover, and Drake ducked down low, hoping that his rusty Crown Vic wouldn’t look out of place on this street.
He didn’t think it would; in fact, it was Raul’s car that would be noticed.
Nice car for a housekeeper, Drake thought absently. But then considered that it might just be one that he was borrowing from the Smith’s.
When the Rover passed, Drake started his car with a throaty roar and pulled a quick 3-point turn and continued after him.
If Raul knew he was being followed, he didn’t allude to it. Drake had tailed many a suspect in his day, and he knew not only how to stay out of sight, but also knew what sort of evasive maneuvers people made when they realized they had a tail. In these cases, rare as they were, Drake knew it best to back off, to make the driver rethink whether they were being followed, and to pick up the chase another day.
Raul took the most direct route from the Fallen Heights Cemetery to downtown, driving at or just slightly above the speed limit, signaling every turn. All told, Drake was beginning to think that Raul was perhaps the most courteous driver in New York City.
It was obvious to Drake even before his car was swallowed by skyscraper shadows where Raul was going, but when one of the largest of these monoliths, complete with the emblematic SSJ symbol at the very top, loomed over him, his suspicions were confirmed.
Raul was heading to Smith, Smith and Jackson Law
Offices, Drake was sure of it. Convinced of the man’s intentions, he decided not to follow the Smith’s housekeeper any longer. Instead, he enacted a risky technique, but one, if completed correctly, would appease even the most cautious driver’s fears of being followed.
He sped up and overtook Raul’s Range Rover while looking in the opposite direction, and then cut in front of a cab two cars ahead of him. Someone honked, but this was not enough to arise suspicion; after all, it was New York City.
Drake continued toward the impressive skyscraper, and then pulled up directly next to a cart selling candied peanuts, half-on and half-off the curb, across the street from SSJ.
He debated getting out, but decided it was best to see what Raul did first. Chances were that he would enter the underground parking lot, in which case Drake would lose him in any event; there was no point risking being made.
Someone shouted outside his window, drawing his attention. He looked over and saw an Arab man indicating his peanut cart with one hand, and Drake’s Crown Vic with the other.
Drake reached over his sport coat on the passenger seat and rolled down the window an inch.
“You can’t park here!” the man said, walking forward. “You can’t park here!”
Drake scowled and reached into his belt to pull out his detective shield. He flipped the top and tilted it toward the half-open window in order to ensure the bright sun glinted off of it.
“Looks like you made that out of foil! That’s not real! You can’t park here!” the man continued.
Drake was surprised by the reaction and leaned even closer.
“It’s real—I’m a detective.”
The man shook his head and then he turned to another Arab man who was also approaching Drake’s Crown Vic.
What the hell is this?
Only then did Drake realize that he was parked between the peanut vendor and a yellow cart selling pita gyros. The second man, the proprietor of the gyro cart, was also holding his hands out.
“He can’t park here,” the first man said.
“No, he can’t,” the second followed. This man raised a finger and indicated the no parking sign just above Drake’s Crown Vic. “Look, you can’t park here.”
Drake swore, and his eyes darted to the road, confirming that Raul’s Rover was still a few cars away from SSJ. He turned back to the vendors and flashed his detective shield once again.
“I’m a detective. I’m here for two seconds, then I’ll be gone.”
Both men shook their heads.
“Everyone says that. Yesterday a man parked here and ran over to the building,” he indicated SSJ with his chin, “said he was the Pope. His car was towed in under five minutes.”
“Goddammit,” Drake muttered under his breath. “Look, I’m a detective, this is a real fucking badge.”
The second man was right up next to the car now.
“Let me see,” he demanded. Drake hesitated. A detective shield would go for a pretty penny on the street and there was no way he was passing it through the opening in the window for this man to grab and take off with. “Let me see,” he demanded again. Then he smiled, revealing a gold incisor.
Fuck this, Drake thought. I’ll show them proof.
He yanked his sport coat off the passenger seat and tossed it on the floor.
Drake’s eyes bulged.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
The seat was empty; his gun holster and gun were gone.
Where—?
His heart started to thud in his chest. He had put the gun there when he had gone into the cemetery, to visit Clay’s grave, he was sure of it.
Drake remembered unclicking the strap and placing it beneath his coat.
Or did I?
All of a sudden his memory of the time before he had visited Clay’s tombstone, before he saw Raul, grew hazy.
Shit, all of the last six months were like watching an old soap opera on a CRT TV, the screen smeared with Vaseline.
“Let me see the badge.” the man demanded again. His hand gripped the top of the open window. “Smells like alcohol in here. What kind of cop drinks on the job?”
And there was that smile again, the gold tooth seeming to glow in the sun.
“Fuck off,” Drake said.
The man’s smile grew.
“What kind of…”
Drake drowned him out and turned back to the SSJ building. At first, he couldn’t see the black Rover anywhere—not behind, beside, or in front of him—and he swore again.
But then he spotted it across the street; Raul must have performed a U-turn and was now parked at the bottom of the main steps leading to the building.
What’s he waiting for? What’s he doing here?
It was nearing lunchtime now, and there were dozens of people out on the concrete steps, some talking on their cell phones, others sitting in the sun and munching on sandwiches.
“You’re taking away from my business! I have a permit!” one of the men shouted.
Drake ignored him and tried to concentrate as he scanned the steps for a familiar face. It was clear that Raul was waiting for someone.
He spotted a man exiting the front doors before hurrying down the steps. Dressed in a fine gray suit, complete with a purple tie and matching pocket square, the man stood out because of the envelope tucked under one arm. It was the kind Drake was intimately familiar with.
In fact, he had received one just the other day.
“Hey officer!” the peanut vendor shouted. “Give this man a ticket! He can’t park here! Tow his ass!”
Drake shook his head and leaned over his steering wheel, wishing again that he had Chase’s young eyes or at least her large sunglasses.
But as the man neared the Rover, he finally recognized him.
“Shit.”
The man in the gray suit was Weston Smith.
“Here! He’s here! Give him a ticket!”
“Excuse me, buddy,” an authoritative voice addressed him. “You, take your hands off the car, let me deal with this—I know you got a permit. Hey, buddy, you can’t park here.”
Drake waved a hand at the man without turning to face him.
Weston Smith?
Weston was right up next the passenger window of the Rover now, his lips moving in what appeared to be clipped speech. Then he looked around quickly, before passing the package through the window.
And with that, Weston turned and started sprinting back toward the office building.
A second later, the Rover also started moving again.
“Shit,” he swore again.
“Hey buddy, I think you should get out of the car.”
Drake put the car into drive, and the officer put his hand on the butt of his gun and raised his voice.
“Buddy! Get out of the car!”
“Sorry,” Drake muttered as he floored the Crown Vic and yanked the wheel hard, cutting across three lanes of traffic.
As he sped after the black Range Rover, questions flooded his mind.
Why is Weston at work the day after his brother is murdered? What the hell is Raul doing here? And why is Weston paying him off?
And, finally, and perhaps most importantly, Where the hell is my gun?
Chapter 26
Chase wiped the sweat from her brow and then shook her head.
“Good game,” Clarissa said from the other side of the court.
Chase smirked.
It had been a good game. The first game Clarissa had wiped the court with her, but the second, once Chase had gotten into a groove, and muscle memory took over, had been more competitive. And this third and final match had been a barn burner, needing a tiebreaker before Clarissa won it with a backhand blast down the line.
It felt good to get out and play tennis, to get the blood flowing through her veins again.
Chase walked over to the net and shook Clarissa’s hand. It was sweltering out, and they were both soaked with sweat.
“I’ve got an extra towel and some wa
ter, if you want.”
Chase nodded.
“Sure, thanks.”
Clarissa led her to a small bench near the door to the court, and they both sat. She handed Chase a towel and bottle of water, and they both wiped the sweat from their faces, their arms.
After catching her breath, Chase cracked her bottle and chugged greedily, then pressed her back into the chain link fence while at the same time stretching her calves. There was a small awning over the bench, offering them both some much-needed shade.
“You sure you just started?” Chase teased. “I took lessons for nearly ten years. Granted, I was much younger then and didn’t have my own court to practice on.”
Clarissa smiled, which warmed Chase inside.
“Quick learner, I guess.”
Silence fell over them again, and Chase felt bad about breaking it, but as much as she liked Clarissa, and she really did like the woman, she still had a job to do.
She decided to take it slow.
“So Thomas travels a lot with work? That’s why he built this for you?”
Clarissa shrugged and stared at the artificial turf.
“Yeah, I mean he used to travel more, but not so much recently. It’s hard on Tommy Jr.” She looked up unexpectedly. “I haven’t told him yet, you know. Just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
Chase’s heart thumped in her chest.
“Clarissa,” she said, trying not to sound patronizing. “You have to tell him—imagine he finds it out at school? From someone else? I mean it was on the front page of the New York Times.”
Clarissa wiped a tear from her cheek.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, but I just have no idea how. How do you tell your son that his father is dead, that he’s never coming home? Never going to tuck him in at night again? Read him bedtime stories? Sure, Tom traveled a lot, but when he was here, he was a good father.”
Chase took another sip of water.
“I don’t know if I can say anything that will help you. I mean, I came here just the other day to tell you that your husband was dead. It’s… it’s never easy, and this was with—pardon my callousness—someone I didn’t know. I can’t imagine having to break the news to someone close to me, much less a son. Part of me wants to say that it’s like a Band-Aid, that it’s always best just to tear them off. But everyone must do it their own way, I think,” Chase leaned close to the other woman. “But I do know that it is best coming from you, and not from some asshole kids at school.”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 11