Now, Calvert pushes open the door marked “Grand Opening” and is greeted by a friendly voice from behind the counter: “Welcome to Coffee Girl. What can I get you?” The room is narrow, with a counter down one wall and café tables spread around. The floors are worn pine planks. The woman is white teeth and round cheeks over a sparkling espresso machine.
“I’m meeting someone,” Calvert explains.
“You’re my first customer. That calls for a drink.” She has a warm, inviting way.
“This is your first day?” he asks.
“Yes. We were supposed to open weeks ago, but there was a plumbing issue. Stressful! Better late than never, right? What can I make for you?”
Calvert moves to the counter. His brown suit gives his wilting body needed structure. His mouth hangs open as he reads the list of options. Time passes. He rubs his sore shoulder. He reads each description like he’s interpreting an unfamiliar language.
The woman leans her hands on the counter. “Can I tell you about our coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Our espresso is Coffee Girl. It’s roasted in small batches at Candy Skull. They’re local. Humboldt Park. You know Candy Skull?”
“No. I’ve been away. Espresso sounds good. I’ll have that.” He nods once.
“Can I recommend a cortado? It’s my specialty.” Her smile lights her face.
Calvert can’t remember if he’s ever heard the term. He’s forgotten a lifetime of information. “‘Cortado’ is like a word from a poem. I’ll have that.”
Coffee Girl makes her smile a little bigger. Calvert watches her grind beans and pack grounds. She twists the coffee into the machine. There is a churning sound and a rumbling noise. Streams of rich, dark coffee fill two shot glasses.
“Meeting someone special?” Coffee Girl asks.
Calvert doesn’t understand.
She adds, “You said you’re meeting someone. You’re in a suit. Must want to make a good impression. You didn’t have any papers and things to write with. I’m guessing it might be, you know, a meeting with someone special.”
He touches his suit. “Job interview.” He worries he needs paper and things to write with.
“This should help.” She sets a short glass of espresso and frothy milk on the counter. He lifts it and sips. His dying taste buds fire. “Very good,” he says. “I taste it.”
Her smile beams. “I’m Rosa.”
“Rosa,” he says. He likes the round way it fills his mouth. “I’m Calvert.” Her eyes glance over his outfit. “Is my suit okay? It’s the only one I packed. My tie was broken.” His fingers fiddle his open collar.
“You look nice.”
He asks, “Do you have paper and a pen?”
She holds up a finger to indicate he should wait. She steps through a swinging door and comes back with a yellow pad and a pencil.
“I’ll return it,” Calvert says.
At the table he makes a list: Make list. Paper and pencil. Some of the money Abbey had provided was intended for a phone of some kind. He writes, Phone. Next to it he writes, Cheap. He also writes, Mouthwash. Toothbrush with soft bristles. Clip tie. Towels and washcloths. He recalls clothes smell good with the use of dryer sheets, scented candles cover odors, and baking soda draws smells from the air. He adds those to the list. He crosses the first two items off. He folds the first page over.
On a new page he writes Rosa to help him remember. He thinks of her bright smile, her care with her coffee. He has no interest in women. Not since his death. Not since Mere must have died in an accident he may have caused.
There’s a line from a dead comedian: “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” Calvert feels the same about women. He wouldn’t want a woman who would have a dead man. If only I could meet a nice dead woman.
Next to Rosa’s name he writes, cortado. He writes, brown eyes and not dead. He underlines the last part. His pencil hovers over the down stoke of a capital “K” for “Kati,” but he doesn’t write his former student’s name, a name that came to him out of nowhere. More fallout from my visit home. Kati’s eyes may have been brown too. He can’t recall. His focus had often lingered elsewhere when they were together.
He taps the pencil, thinking of half-buried details. No words materialize. He flips to a blank page and waits to see what strikes him.
Road Rage
Whistler’s day is off to a fast start. Not a good start, but a start nonetheless.
Inspector Ruther jams the brakes. Whistler’s sticky shirtfront is cold where the seat belt crosses his torso. His preference for tepid coffee saved him a burn. He’s pushed into the seat as the unmarked cruiser accelerates. His stomach doesn’t like the way his new boss drives. Ruther casts a long shadow in the department, has worked in the city his whole career, and has a reputation as Chicago’s best detective. Several of his major cases are taught in the Academy. But so far, Whistler is not impressed.
Whistler would not call himself introverted. In fact, he likes to think he’s plenty outgoing. However, he does prefer to ease into new situations, get the lay of the land. This chaotic race toward a crime scene, with no preamble, is not what he’d wanted.
Much of his training as a cadet was geared toward making fast assessments and taking definitive action to interject control into any scenario. He was taught that snap decisions guided by tactical muscle memory, rather than careful deliberation, might save his life. He understood the value of the strategy, though it was contrary to his personal preference. He imagined, with no evidence to support it, he would be more comfortable working as an investigator than he had as a beat cop because he’d have more time to consider the facts, gather evidence, understand the truth.
Beside him Ruther is talking. “So, as I was saying,” he hears Ruther say. But Whistler is preoccupied with how clammy his chest is.
Traffic is heavy and every other street is partially blocked for road repairs. The ride is the most stressful of his life. Ruther’s driving makes Whistler nervous. He wonders if that’s the point. It has to be newbie hazing.
“Your job is simple,” Ruther says, gaining Whistler’s attention. “Solve the cases I assign. I answer to the chief of detectives, he answers to the chief superintendent. But there’s a catch. This department is the way the mayor directs resources to situations that threaten to spin out politically.” As Ruther talks, he accelerates up to the taxi in front of him, riding as close as possible without touching the other car. The cab’s brake lights flash red; Ruther smashes his brake pedal. The sedan stands on its nose. Whistler stomps the floor on the passenger side where a brake pedal should be. The digital tablet slides across the seat. He slaps his right forearm against the edge of the dash and stops the tablet with his left hand.
Ruther doesn’t speak as they wait at the light. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. The light changes. The cab moves forward. Ruther starts talking as the squad car rushes within inches of the cab’s bumper. “The mayor’s chief of staff sometimes has directives from the mayor. Or the mayor talks to the superintendent. If the superintendent is under pressure, the chief of Ds gets his ass chewed. As you know, shit runs downhill. In other words.” Ruther slams the brakes. Whistler’s seat belt presses painfully into his chest. He saves the tablet again.
The cab runs the red light and makes it across the intersection before pedestrians fill the crosswalk. Ruther is aggravated. He drums his fingers harder than before. He radiates irritation. He glares as if his heat vision might blast the cab. He chews his lower lip; his mustache crawls under his nose with the motion.
The light turns green. Ruther guns the engine despite people in the street. He honks. Pedestrians make a hole. “In other words,” he repeats, “we work for the superintendent, the chief of Ds, and the mayor’s office simultaneously. We are always under pressure. You understand? I give you a pile of problems, and you find solutions fast as you can. Easy peasy motherfucker!” A businessman in a trench coat the same color as the shadow fr
om the overhead tracks steps in front of the car. Brakes grab. Whistler jams one hand against the headliner. The department-issued tablet flies, and he barely saves it.
Ruther mashes his palm into the horn. Business Man looks up from his smartphone and steps quickly across the street. The light turns red. Ruther rolls down his window and yells, “I will run your ass over!” The man doesn’t turn to look. Whistler has no doubt of Ruther’s commitment to vehicular homicide.
The car starts rolling before the light goes green, “Easy peasy, slick and greasy. You do all the work and I take all the credit. If we can’t clear a case, you get the blame. I try to give you the resources and time you need. The good news is, we get significant resources compared to other departments. That’s the job. Got it, Diaz? You’re not saying much. You follow me?”
“Yes. I follow. What about today?”
“Dead white female in the mayor’s favorite part of the city. The mayor called the superintendent, and his chief of staff called me before my cornflakes could get soggy.” Ruther cranks the wheel and jams the car down a one-way alley. He drives on the sidewalk and parks. “Come on.” A twitch of his lip and his mustache flicks toward the back of the car.
Whistler meets Ruther as the trunk comes open. Ruther pulls a paper bag over, takes out a folded white dress shirt and a black tie. “Here. Get yourself together and meet me up there.” He points toward the crime scene. “Sorry about the coffee gag. I didn’t know you’d be so jumpy. Your file made me think you were made of sterner stuff. Come up when you’re ready. I’ll introduce you, and you can get to work.”
“Sure, Inspector,” Whistler says, thinking maybe Ruther’s not so bad.
“Oh, Diaz. I’m going to keep calling you Diaz, okay. Whistler is a stupid fucking name. I hate it. It’s embarrassing. You may not be embarrassed, but you should be. Because it’s fucking stupid.” Ruther turns and goes.
Whistler looks around to be certain no one is easing up on him. He sets his tablet in the trunk. He removes his holster and badge. Next he unbuttons his shirt, removes his tie.
Once Ruther’s loaner shirt is buttoned and tucked, with the sleeves rolled up, Whistler finds it baggy but acceptable. He gets the tie knotted and the collar turned down. His badge and gun go back on his belt, his tablet goes under one wing. He takes a look in the side window. I’m no Serpico.
Ruther is at the center of a gaggle of men when Whistler approaches. “What time does Sean Connery arrive at Wimbledon?” There is an expectant pause. Ruther delivers the punch line in his best Connery. “Tennish.” The men standing around laugh. Whistler joins in. Ruther has a solid Connery. When he’s sopped up the adulation, Ruther says, “This is Detective Diaz. He drew the short straw this morning. Be nice to him.” The other men acknowledge Diaz with chin nods and shuffling feet.
“Hi,” Diaz says.
“This,” Ruther says, indicating a patrolman to his left, “is Chief. He was first on the scene.” Diaz wrinkles his brow, confused by the title, but shakes Chief’s hand. Chief’s skin is dark and glossy, and his head looks like it’s been waxed and buffed.
“This is Champ. He’s with Chief.” Champ is pale, with a face full of freckles and an orange flattop. His hand is cold, hard, and dry.
“Over there we have Hoss and Tiny.” Hoss is a patrolman, medium brown skin and fit. The one called Tiny is in dark jeans and a tight, tan blazer. He dwarfs Whistler. He looks like a linebacker moonlighting at Banana Republic. “Tiny is on a diplomatic mission from Homicide. It’s our case, but Homicide is a good resource. So lean on him as much as you can.” Tiny nods in Whistler’s direction. “Last, to your right, you’ve got Doc.” Doc has receding silver hair and glasses. The combination of high forehead and spectacles give him a thoughtful look.
“The name is actually Ted Majors, I’m on crime scene for the medical examiner’s office. Don’t mind Ruther. We’ll get you up to speed.”
“Wow. I’m going to choose not to be offended,” Ruther says, “Introductions made. My work here is done. Diaz, do what you need to. Catch a ride back to the house with Hoss. Find me and let me know where things stand. I promised the superintendent a briefing at the end of the day. Let’s hope the press stays away. Did you finish the media training?”
“Yes. How to prepare a statement, strategies for taking questions, how to behave in front of a camera, always assume the mic is hot. We broke into working groups and filmed ourselves, took critiques, went again. It was—”
Ruther dramatically throws his hands up, “Jesus Diaz. Let me stop you there. Fuck. Save it for your diary. We have work to do. Point is, fuck that training. You don’t know what you’re doing, no matter how rich the feedback in your breakout group. The press will eat you up. Reporters are slippery animals. If reporters show up, ignore them and skulk away. Don’t say dick. Got it? You follow me?”
“I follow. But what about the public’s right to know? It is one of the things—”
Ruther’s mustache is irate. “The public has a right to know my balls. Listen. Someone will decide when to speak to the press. That person will not have a made-up name and a brand new big-boy badge. Got it?”
“Got it.” Whistler is thankful his complexion mostly hides his flushed cheeks.
The mustache seems soothed. “To recap, what do you do if the press shows up?”
“Skulk.”
“That’s right. You skulk. You skulk, you skulk the fuck away. Enjoy your weekend. I don’t know about you, but I’m working. Actually I do know about you. I’m authorizing overtime until this is put to bed. So everyone is working. And break!” Ruther slaps his big mitts together and leaves Diaz to sink or swim on his own.
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Earlier, Anna Beth had stood shifting from foot to foot as the elevator dropped, getting some blood moving in her tired legs, giving her stiff hip flexors a stretch. She yawned so wide she snorted. Something tickled the back of her neck. She reached behind to capture an errant sprig and retighten her ponytail. A bell pinged and the elevator doors parted before her. Her bodyweight settled into the deep pile of lush, ornate carpet. She had no idea which way to go. There must have been signs, but they were so discrete she couldn’t spot them.
It had been almost five in the morning, local time. That made it nearly three, her time. She’d yawned again at the thought. She’d lost track of days. Is it Friday?
The hotel felt abandoned. The air was chill on her bare shoulders. She crossed her arms over her tank top and vigorously rubbed her dry palms over her upper arms. She felt exposed in her fitted getup, wanted to avoid anyone from the conference, anyone at all.
She picked a direction at random and moved down a long hallway of floral wallpaper and oddly formal sconces. Under a chandelier that marked a crossing of hallways, she spotted a sign that pointed down an identical stretch of guestrooms. Her feet moved fast. She swerved around a cluster of three silver ice buckets with an empty wine bottle upended in each. Someone had a good night.
The last door on the left was glass and leaked the distinctive scent of chlorine. She waved her room key and the door opened itself.
Anna Beth’s job was not fulfilling. She was, in fact, not much more than a glorified assistant. Although her boss, Greg Kidd, was one of the foremost consultants in the burgeoning autonomous car sector of the transportation market, she primarily spent her days coordinating travel and meetings. Attending this conference had been her idea. She believed it would demonstrate she could do more. After a successful professional conference, she’d planned to ask Greg for a raise and a change of title, new responsibilities. After all, she had a degree in computer engineering from Carnegie Mellon. Not a doctorate from MIT like Greg, but nothing to sneeze at.
The whole scheme had turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. Her flight from San Francisco was delayed by a thunderstorm. She’d slept in a chair in the terminal, hoping to grab a standby seat that never materialized. She landed at O’Hare on the second day of the conference, only a few hours b
efore her panel discussion. She had at least had the clarity of mind to make certain the hotel didn’t let her room go. She checked in, took a spit bath at the sink, changed clothes, and made it in time for the tech meeting.
It turned out her laptop didn’t play well with the projector, and Buddy, a self-proclaimed problem solver, didn’t have the dongle to solve the problem. Buddy had smirked when he said “dongle.” Anna Beth was careful to ignore him. Nothing undermined a woman’s capacity to be taken seriously more than the slightest hint of seeming sexually available. Smirking at dick jokes was all the encouragement some men needed. Besides, Buddy was gross.
Admittedly it had been a long drought, sexually speaking. Despite that, she was not the least bit confused about how uninterested she was in Buddy. Someone named Buddy was not to be taken seriously. Buddy is a dog’s name.
The panel started on time, and she couldn’t use the slides she’d spent a week perfecting. The talk was poorly attended. She counted fifteen heads in an auditorium that seated three hundred. It took place late morning, nearly the lunch hour, and most attendees were already sucking down cocktails. The moderator introduced her as “an associate of the very influential Dr. Kidd,” but failed to share her name or credentials. The other panelists were older, more experienced, and acquiesced to one another’s technical expertise like only longtime peers in a small industry could. The dance they did, talking back and forth, joking lightly, nodding significantly at one another’s contributions, was exactly what she had intended when she formed the panel. They each gave examples of recent advances that led to measurable increases in driver safety.
Despite the fact they’d coordinated the discussion via teleconference twice the previous week, the old men stepped all over her prepared points. Anna Beth was left with little to add. She fumbled pathetically for a couple minutes, restating points already made. During the Q and A she was directly asked one question: “Why isn’t Dr. Kidd in attendance?” To top it off, when she chucked her heavy workbag over her shoulder to make a fast exit, her hips gave an involuntary twist, and she’d broken one of the heels of her favorite pumps.
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