Crime Seen

by Victoria Laurie

  ‘‘That’s about the gist of it.’’

  ‘‘Then I think we should accept. After all, the longer we wait for a better offer, the more we lose to interest and mortgage payments.’’

  ‘‘You sure?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Yes. But do you think David will agree?’’

  I smiled as I opened my car door and hopped inside. ‘‘Gosh, Cat, I don’t know. I’ll call him and see if I can’t convince him. I mean, he’s the one that’s really been working to make the house salable.’’

  ‘‘Should I call him?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘No!’’ I barked, then followed quickly with, ‘‘I mean, let me give it a shot first, and if he balks at the idea I’ll have him call you and you can convince him, ’kay?’’

  ‘‘Fabulous,’’ she said and I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’

  ‘‘Fine. How are you feeling?’’ I asked, pulling out of the parking garage.

  ‘‘I’m serious, Abby. Have you been following through on your physical therapy?’’

  Ever since I’d been shot, my incredibly overprotective sister had been mothering me to within an inch of my life. She’d gone so far as to check up with my doctors (who told her nothing), my pharmacist (who told her nothing), and my physical therapist (who seemed to be telling her everything). Of course, I could hardly blame her. Cat had been showering Lori, my therapist, with ‘‘tokens of appreciation’’ since I started therapy. ‘‘I’ve got an appointment tomorrow,’’ I said as I gritted my teeth.

  ‘‘It’s very important that you continue to go until you’re back to one hundred percent full range of motion,’’ Cat advised.

  I paused at a stoplight and rolled my eyes. ‘‘Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. And speaking of which, did you put Candice Fusco up to getting me into the gym?’’

  ‘‘How is Candice?’’ Cat asked, completely ignoring my question.

  ‘‘You did, didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘That girl is so fabulous, Abby. You should really hang out with her now that she’s moving to Royal Oak.’’

  ‘‘How did you find that out?’’

  ‘‘Dutch told me. Sometimes that man can’t find a way off the phone, and the only way I’ll let him go is if he gives me a juicy nugget.’’

  ‘‘This is an invasion of privacy,’’ I snapped. ‘‘Seriously, Cat, you’re driving me crazy.’’

  ‘‘What did you expect, Abby? You’ve been so tight-lipped ever since you got back from Denver, and you won’t fill me in on anything that’s going on with you.’’

  ‘‘That’s because there is nothing going on with me,’’ I said with a sigh. ‘‘Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’m at the grocery store and I’m doing the shopping for dinner.’’

  ‘‘Dutch said he can’t wait to see what you bring home this time,’’ she chuckled. ‘‘He says that the last time he let you go shopping for steaks for the grill, you brought home a rump roast!’’

  ‘‘Bye, Cat,’’ I said and hung up the phone. Sometimes my sister drove me batty. I headed into the grocery store and made my way over to the meat aisle. Pacing back and forth, anxious about selecting a cut of meat that wasn’t going to make me the butt end of a joke, I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice say, ‘‘It can’t be that bad, can it, Abs?’’

  I looked up and smiled. ‘‘Hey, Milo,’’ I said. ‘‘Dutch sent me for meat.’’

  Milo nodded and looked at where I was standing. ‘‘Is he into chitlins these days?’’

  ‘‘It all looks the same to me,’’ I said.

  ‘‘What did he tell you to get?’’

  ‘‘Something good for the grill.’’

  ‘‘I see. Well, if I know my old partner, which, lucky for you, I do, I’d say he’s more of a rib eye steak-eater.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ I nodded firmly. ‘‘Rib eye...’’ I moved away from the gross-looking innards and toward something that looked like steak.

  ‘‘That’s the pork section, kiddo,’’ Milo said.

  ‘‘I knew that,’’ I said, quickly changing direction and heading back toward the other end of the aisle.

  ‘‘Yoo-hoo,’’ Milo called, still farther down from me. ‘‘Over here.’’ I saw he was holding up a package that looked exactly right.

  ‘‘This is a rib eye?’’ I asked, looking at the package he held out to me.

  ‘‘Extra rare,’’ he said and wheezed his funny laugh. ‘‘Now, you’ll want three of these,’’ he said, loading up my basket.

  ‘‘Three? You think Dutch’ll eat two?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Milo said with a wink. ‘‘I think he’ll put two on the grill and then hear the doorbell ring, and it will be me just dropping by, and what a coincidence, you all just happen to have an extra steak to grill.’’

  ‘‘This is the price I pay for your silence about what I almost brought home, huh?’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ Milo asked me with a twinkle in his eye. ‘‘Did you almost bring home something else?’’

  ‘‘I see how we’re going to play this,’’ I said. ‘‘And what can you do for me in the corn section? Last time I brought home a can of creamed corn and Dutch about split his sides.’’

  ‘‘Over here,’’ Milo said and tugged me to the produce section. ‘‘Honestly, Abby, one of these days you’re going to have to learn your way around the grocery store.’’

  Milo helped me pick out corn and potatoes and a brownie mix for dessert, which I knew from experience was his personal favorite. ‘‘Not planning on eating with the family tonight?’’ I asked as we headed to the checkout counter.

  ‘‘Nah. Noel’s mother is over, and those two will be doing nothing but looking at wallpaper samples and paint samples and tile samples....’’

  ‘‘Not your cup of tea, huh?’’

  ‘‘I just provide the money. Noel’s job is to find ways to spend it.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’re welcome anytime, Milo.’’

  He smiled broadly at me and gave my shoulders a squeeze. ‘‘How you doin’, by the way?’’ he asked me as we edged closer to the cashier.

  ‘‘Good,’’ I said and looked at my shoes. ‘‘You know, just about there.’’

  ‘‘Your strength coming back?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. It’s getting there.’’

  ‘‘How’s your head?’’

  I looked at him quizzically, then dodged the question. ‘‘Doesn’t hurt a bit.’’

  Milo wheezed again. ‘‘You know what I mean. How you doin’ up here?’’ he said as he tapped his temple.

  Without warning, tears formed in my eyes and embarrassingly, I began to openly weep. As it happened, it was our turn to put the groceries on the conveyor belt, and Milo took the basket from me, set it on the belt, then pulled me close and gave me a squeeze. ‘‘Hey there, honey,’’ he said into my hair.

  ‘‘Sir,’’ I heard the cashier say, ‘‘I’ll need you to take your items out of the basket.’’

  I could feel Milo stiffen, and I tried to pull myself together, but the more I tried to suck it up, the more the tears flooded down my cheeks and I continued to sob into his shirt. I could see the cashier out of one eye. She looked tired and in no mood for my theatrics.

  Milo squeezed me again, then tucked me under one arm and overturned the basket with the other hand. ‘‘There,’’ he said at the pile on the belt. ‘‘They’re out of the basket.’’

  The cashier scowled at him but didn’t say another word as Milo pulled out his debit card to pay. ‘‘I... have... mon... eeeeey,’’ I blubbered, trying to pull back from him to dig into my purse.

  ‘‘I got it, Abs,’’ he said and wouldn’t let go of me. ‘‘Hang in there—we’re almost out of here, okay?’’

  I nodded against his shirt, and in a few moments Milo had our dinner and we walked quickly out of the grocery store together. Milo scooted me over to his big, black, beautiful BMW and held the door open while I got in. He then came around to the other
side and settled into the driver’s seat. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, reaching into the glove box to fish out some tissues.

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ I sniffled and wiped my eyes. Milo and I sat there for a few minutes, his hand stroking my shoulder while I dribbled into a tissue. ‘‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’’ I managed to say when I felt like I was getting a grip again.

  ‘‘It’s all part of the process,’’ he said to me.

  ‘‘What process?’’

  ‘‘Post-traumatic stress disorder,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve seen it a couple times in cops who get shot. You start to feel good again physically, but mentally you feel like you’ve lost your edge. You begin to doubt yourself and your abilities. Coping with the smallest decision can be a major deal. And just about the time you think you should be getting back to work is about the time you’re terrified to go.’’

  My eyes got large as he talked. That was exactly what I was feeling. ‘‘Whoa,’’ I said to him. ‘‘Talk about hitting the nail on the head.’’

  Milo nodded soberly. ‘‘Have you considered seeing someone to help you deal with this?’’

  ‘‘Like a therapist?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. I know of a good one if you’re interested.’’

  I played with the Kleenex in my hand. ‘‘It just seems like I should be able to get over this myself, Milo. Like, what’s the big deal? I got shot, I survived, I have a great boyfriend who takes care of me, terrific friends, a pain-in-the-ass sister, a dog I adore...’’

  ‘‘Logic has nothing to do with it,’’ Milo said as he wiped a tear off my cheek. ‘‘You had a terrible thing happen to you, Abby. And my guess is that right about now you think you should have seen it coming, ’cuz after all, you’re psychic, right?’’

  My mouth opened a fraction. ‘‘Jesus, Milo,’’ I said to him, ‘‘I’m beginning to think you may be telepathic.’’

  Milo smiled. ‘‘Naw,’’ he said. ‘‘I just know how you think. You’re one of these types that gets all guilty when you miss something, like when Allison was killed. I remember how that mess ate you up.’’

  I nodded. ‘‘Yeah, that was bad. But, Milo, this was right in front of my face. I mean, if anyone should have seen this coming, it should have been me!’’

  Milo looked at me for a long, long time before he said, ‘‘Abby, you’re not God. Underneath that superhero spandex you’re still human, and it’s human to believe the best about people. And sometimes, my friend, that’s counterintuitive. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t drop the ball—you just weren’t looking for it to come out of left field. You’re still the best psychic in town, and you can go back to work without worrying about messing it all up.’’

  The waterworks started again, and it was a long time before I could speak. Finally I said in a ragged voice, ‘‘Thanks, Milo. That means a lot.’’

  Milo leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘‘Now, come on,’’ he said as he started the car. ‘‘I’ll drive you home, and Dutch can come back for your car after he cooks me a big juicy steak.’’

  Chapter Three

  We made it back to Dutch’s, and the moment he saw my tearstained face, he came over to protectively hug me and shoot an accusation at Milo. ‘‘You just couldn’t leave her alone, could you?’’ he snapped.

  ‘‘Hey, partner,’’ Milo said mildly. ‘‘Good to see you too.’’

  ‘‘I told you not to push her,’’ Dutch growled. ‘‘Jesus, Milo, she’ll talk about it when she’s ready.’’

  ‘‘And meanwhile she’s internalizing all her fear and withdrawing from the world. You said yourself that you were concerned about her,’’ Milo argued.

  ‘‘Hello,’’ I said, pushing away from Dutch’s chest. ‘‘I’m standing right here, ya know.’’

  ‘‘Are you okay?’’ Dutch asked me, looking intently into my eyes. ‘‘Did you want to go lie down for a while?’’

  Suddenly, I realized that Dutch and I had fallen into a pattern the past few months. I’d felt wounded, both internally and externally, and Dutch had protectively been wrapping me in the soft cocoon of his house and his care. He’d been enabling me to hide from the world, but now I knew deep down it was time to stop hiding. ‘‘Actually,’’ I said, forcing a smile onto my face, ‘‘I’m really okay, Dutch. I think I’d like to help you with dinner. And Milo was kind enough to buy us some really good steaks, so how about we all just go into the kitchen and get the hell on with our lives?’’

  Dutch looked somewhat taken aback as I grabbed the grocery bag from Milo and marched into the kitchen. The fellas followed behind, and I couldn’t help but overhear Milo say to Dutch, ‘‘Told you so.’’

  While Dutch prepared dinner, Milo and I hung out on the back patio drinking wine and keeping him company. The conversation was noticeably light. Both men seemed to be aware of my rather fragile grip on things, and I couldn’t really decide if I was grateful or irritated about that.

  Finally, after enough idle chitchat about the weather and the price of a gallon of gas, I said, ‘‘Did you get anywhere on Max Goodyear?’’

  ‘‘Who’s Max Goodyear?’’ Milo wanted to know.

  ‘‘One of the cases I’m working that Abby’s been helping me with,’’ Dutch explained. ‘‘Yes, I took another look through his finances, Abs. Still can’t find a blip, though.’’

  My radar hummed. ‘‘What about kids? Did you look into that angle? You know, like maybe he’s got a son or a daughter who’s the funnel for the money.’’

  ‘‘Literal dead end there, I’m afraid,’’ Dutch said as he flipped the steaks. ‘‘Goodyear and his wife had a son back in the early seventies, but the baby died of crib death before he was two. There are no other children.’’

  I scowled. The crummy thing about being intuitive is that it can be frustrating as hell when the facts don’t match what your radar is suggesting. I sighed and gave him a shrug. ‘‘Ah, well, maybe I’m not as sharp as I used to be.’’

  ‘‘That’s ’cuz you need to work that thing out,’’ Milo said and tipped his wineglass at me. ‘‘There’s no better way to get it back in working order than to start up your business again.’’

  ‘‘Milo,’’ I heard Dutch growl, ‘‘lay off, would ya?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ I said to Dutch and laid a protective hand on Milo’s arm. ‘‘He’s right. I do need to get back in the game. In fact, there are some voice mails that I should return. Call me when the steaks are done, ’kay?’’ I said, getting up from the patio table.

  As I left the boys, I had to laugh when I heard Milo say, ‘‘Hey, partner, what’s up with your hair?’’

  When I picked up the kitchen phone, my eye caught the red light blinking on the answering machine. I called my office voice mail first, took down all six messages there, and clicked off. My eye kept wandering back to the red light, and before calling back the first prospective client I hit the PLAY button. The message was for Milo. ‘‘Hi, Dutch. It’s Noel. Listen, if my lunatic husband is there, could you please have him call me immediately? Also, tell him to answer his damn cell phone while you’re at it. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for an hour.’’

  ‘‘Yikes,’’ I said and hurried outside with the phone. ‘‘Milo, Noel called and she wants you to call home right away. She says she’s been calling your cell for an hour.’’

  I watched Milo pat his pockets, frantically checking for his cell, and then he whapped his forehead. ‘‘I must have left it on the charger at work.’’ I gave him the phone, and he trotted inside to call his wife and try to crawl out of the doghouse.

  ‘‘Dinner’s ready,’’ Dutch said. He handed me a plate with steak and tinfoil-wrapped potato and corn.

  ‘‘Should we wait for Milo?’’ I asked as he and I took our seats.

  ‘‘He’ll be out in a minute. Dig in,’’ Dutch said, cutting into his steak.

  I felt a little guilty, but it smelled so good and I was so hungry that I couldn’t help but cut off a piece, fav
oring my right side a little since the sawing motion of cutting was still very uncomfortable. Noticing the grimace on my face, Dutch asked, ‘‘You going to therapy tomorrow?’’

  I nodded. ‘‘And Candice wants to see me in the gym at six a.m. sharp.’’

  Dutch chuckled. ‘‘I knew that was going to work out well,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m glad she’s moved to town.’’

  ‘‘Want to come with me?’’ I asked, thinking that misery would sure love some company.

  ‘‘Can’t, babycakes. I’ve got an early meeting. Maybe the day after tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘You think she’ll want me to work out two days in a row?’’

  Dutch laughed. ‘‘If I know Candice, she’ll be thinking more like five.’’

  I gave Dutch a horrified look as Milo reappeared, his face grim. ‘‘Noel got a call from Craig Stanton. He’s been looking for me.’’

  ‘‘Who’s that?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘The head of the parole board,’’ Dutch said to me. He turned to Milo. ‘‘What’s up?’’

  ‘‘Lutz was knifed this afternoon. He’s in the hospital being prepped for surgery. They’re not sure yet how serious it is.’’

  There was a long silence between Milo and Dutch as the two of them seemed to be working through that. ‘‘He’ll live,’’ I said into the silence when my radar kicked in. Goose bumps formed along my arms, and in my head I saw that black dog, drooling and snarling. I knew that Dick Wolfe was behind the attack on Lutz.

  ‘‘That’s what you’re picking up?’’ Milo asked me.

  ‘‘Yeah. Give it a week. He’ll be better.’’

  ‘‘Did Craig say who knifed Lutz?’’

  ‘‘Conveniently,’’ Milo said sarcastically, ‘‘there were no witnesses. A guard found Lutz in a pool of blood and couldn’t say who stabbed him. They think it was most likely gang-related.’’

  My left side felt thick and heavy, which meant there was no way the stabbing was gang-related. I held back from commenting, though. ‘‘So the parole hearing’s been postponed,’’ Dutch said with a sigh.