by Sara Reinke
“I’m just saying, is all,” M.K. said, turning to glare over her shoulder. “Dad, she kicked me.”
“I did not,” Bethany said. “I kicked her seat, Daddy. There’s a difference. And it was an accident.”
“Accident, my ass…” M.K. said, her brows narrowed.
“Hey, hey,” Paul said. “Cut it out, both of you. Beth, stop kicking. M.K., watch your mouth.”
It was just like old times, as if the divorce had never happened. He might have been a relative stranger to them during the rest of the week, a voice they heard on the other end of a phone line every evening, exchanging polite small talk and incidental anecdotes, but in that moment, Paul was their father again―Dad―and everything felt right in the universe again, if only for a little while.
He couldn’t help but smile.
* * *
Paul dropped the three girls off at the video store, then walked down the stripmall sidewalk to Danny-O’s. As he stood in line, waiting to place his order and savoring the aromas of fresh garlic, basil and tomato sauce, an idea occurred to him.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed the quick-dial for Jason Stewart’s cell.
“Jason, hey,” he said, as his partner answered. “Where are you?”
“Paul, uh, hey,” Jason replied, sounding somewhat surprised. “I…I’m still at the office, on my way out, as a matter of fact.”
Paul glanced at his watch. It was quarter past seven. On a Friday night? Jesus, does this kid have no life at all?
“I had some things to wrap up…” Jason said clumsily, as if reading Paul’s mind. “From the meeting this afternoon, with the mayor’s press secretary…”
“Yeah, right,” Paul said, cutting him off. “Look, thanks for handling that. I had some thing to take care of, and I appreciate it. I’m sure you did great.”
“I…I…” Jason sputtered, apparently surprised anew. “Thanks, Paul. I just told them―”
“I need you to go in my office, since you’re there,” Paul said. “Look on my computer screen. I’ve got a website pulled up, the city’s PVA office.”
“Okay,” Jason said, and Paul listened to a few moments of scrabbling and scuffling, accompanied by Jason’s rather loud, heavy breathing. No wonder the kid can’t get a date, he thought, grimacing. “Okay, I’m here. I got it.”
“There’s a company listed,” Paul said. “Some kind of investment company that bought a bunch of other properties from that historic preservation organization. You see it there?”
“Keswick Investment Realty Group,” Jason said. “Yes, I see it.”
“Good,” Paul said, nodding. “I need you to find out everything you can about them, and the properties they bought. They’re all on that webpage.”
“That’s going to take awhile…” Jason began.
“I’m not at home, or I’d do it myself,” Paul said. “I’ve got my kids this weekend, so I’m going to be kind of tied up, but I’d still like to try and get some work done on it. Can you email whatever you can find tonight and I’ll get started on it then?”
The girls would be irritated if they found out what he was doing. He could hear them now: You promised no work on our weekends, Dad. Not to mention the tongue-lashing he could expect from Vicki if she caught wind of it: You always put your work first, Paul. You never think about us. You never think about anybody else or their feelings, just your own. You
Paul shook his head, clearing Vicki from his thoughts. He wasn’t thinking of himself. He owed it to Brenda, to make up for the debacle of the afternoon―first, finding nothing resembling a crime scene at any of the abandoned houses, and then when he’d kissed her. He owed it to Brenda. And I owe it to Melanie Geary, too.
“I…I guess I could…” Jason said.
“Great,” Paul said, grinning. “Send it to my home email. Anything you can find.”
“I’ll probably have to―” Jason began, but Paul cut him off as the guy in front of him stepped aside, and the cashier at Danny-O’s motioned him forward.
“Look, kid, I gotta let you go,” he said. “I’m standing in the middle of a pizza place, and it’s my turn to order. I owe you one. Thanks.”
“I―” Jason said, but Paul thumbed the phone off, tucking it in his pocket as he ordered his pizzas.
* * *
Later that night, after Emma was tucked in bed, Paul sat down at his home computer in the dining room of his apartment. He’d surrendered his bedroom to M.K. and Bethany without any complaint. He doubted he would need the room, much less the bed, that night. He had no intention of sleeping if he could help it. He was sick of nightmares, sick of sleepwalking, sick of feeling like he was losing his mind and control of his life. Work would be his respite, and he intended to distract himself all night long in front of the computer, working on the Geary case.
The case that isn’t mine, he thought, as he opened Outlook and watched a list of email messages download from his server. He didn’t give a shit what Pierson thought, or what he’d say if he found out what Paul was up to. This isn’t about Dan Pierson. This is for Brenda, and for me.
Here’s what I found re: Keswick Investment Realty Group, Jason had written to him. The timestamp on the email was 8:34 p.m., and it had been sent from Jason’s work email address. Paul winced somewhat. Christ, kid, I didn’t mean for you to stay at work and do this. Don’t you have a home computer like the rest of the free world?
Looks like Keswick is the leading management company for some of the city’s biggest development projects, Jason had written. Montpelier Estates, the Wyndham subdivision, Rolling Acres, Cedar Creek Point, the Liberty Heights development that’s in the works.
Jason had dropped links to various websites and news articles for each of these mentions, but Paul didn’t immediately explore further. He’d heard of all of the mentioned developments. It’s a roll-call of the ritziest places to live in the city, he thought.
They’re also the company of record for the Victorian Square project, the big, proposed downtown redevelopment plan, Jason had written. You’ve probably read about this―they’re going to tear down all the tenement apartments in the old “smokehouse ghetto” district, and put up mixed-income housing, plus a new sports arena, upscale shopping, restaurants, galleries, all there on the waterfront. The city’s dumping close to three-quarters of a billion dollars into the project, and that doesn’t even begin to touch the overall budget.
The houses that Greater Metropolitan Historical Preservation Society sold to Keswick are all in the peripheral areas of this proposed development. They sold them dirt cheap, too. According to their website, it was with the contractual agreement that Keswick preserve the existing buildings and incorporate them into the new construction without significant historical alteration.
Those three houses you were checking out yesterday are in a neighboring area, not yet in the planned development area, but immediately outlying. My guess is, they’ll be included sooner or later, because Victorian Square is still very much in the planning stages, and when they are included, Greater Metro Historical will sell them off to Keswick, too.
Paul snorted as he took a sip of beer. “So much for their integrity,” he muttered, uttering a moist little Budweiser-and-garlic flavored belch.
Keswick’s CEO is named Howard Minz, Jason had supplied. He’s a self-made multi-millionaire, a real bachelor/playboy type apparently, and a pretty decent philanthropist, too.
Howard Minz. The name was familiar, but Paul frowned, unable to place it. I’ve been looking at too many names lately, he thought, pushing himself away from his desk and rising too his feet. Juggling too many lines of thought, and all of them leading in goddamn opposite directions. Why am I bothering with this? It’s got nothing to do with Melanie Geary. Brenda was wrong about those houses today, but she’s on the right track. I need to forget all of this other shit and work on that―on finding the place where Melanie Geary was murdered.
He forked his fingers through his thinning blo
nd hair and grabbed his beer bottle and cigarette pack off the desk. He glanced over his shoulder as he walked toward the front door, meaning to go sit on the front stoop of the apartment building to smoke. The doors to both bedrooms were closed, the lights off beneath. M.K., Bethany and Emma were all sleeping. He stole out into the corridor, shutting the door quietly behind him and locking the deadbolt. He went down the stairs, barefooted, dressed in old sweatpants and a faded, ancient T-shirt, and stepped out onto the front porch.
He lit up a Camel Light and tilted his head back, holding in that first inhalation of smoke, savoring the scrape against the back of his throat, the immediate, satiating effect on his mind. He had quit smoking once, after a long, torrid addicition, but had started again last year. After Jay resurrected me, he thought.
I didn’t raise you from the dead so you could kill yourself smoking, Jay would sometimes tell him, an affectionate, if not somewhat worried glint in his eyes.
Jay had always been the better looking of the two. Paul had always freely admitted this. He looked like their mother with his blue eyes, blond hair and pale complexion, while Jay had been the spitting image of their father, with dark eyes and nearly jet-black hair, his skin a ruddy olive-tone yearround. Even at six years Paul’s junior, Jay had still been the object of affection for many of Paul’s female friends growing up.
“He’s too beautiful to be straight,” Vicki had once remarked. “And he’s got an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.”
Paul had always been admittedly somewhat envious of his younger brother’s looks; to say nothing of his lean, toned physique―sculpted musculature Jay seemingly had to do little if anything to maintain. Paul had always struggled to stay in shape, particularly as he’d gotten older, and especially since he liked to engage in decidedly unhealthy life habits. It was no great secret that Paul’s doctor had put him on a daily regimen of medicines to help regulate his cholesterol and blood pressure only months before Jay’s touch had brought him back to life.
It was medication Paul no longer had to take, however. When Jay had restored Paul, he had somehow undone all of the damage fifteen previous years of smoking might have caused. Jay’s touch undid whatever time and disease affected. Paul knew that was why he could run again the way he did, with the vigor and energy of a man half his age. He knew that’s why he could eat pizza again, and all of the other garbage he shoveled down his gullet. Because, despite what M.K. had said, he didn’t have to worry about cholesterol. Not now, and probably not ever again in his life. By the time the abuse he currently ladened upon his body would be health-affecting, he would be an old man, damn near eighty years old. And then it won’t matter.
He closed his eyes, listening to the hiss of burning paper as it curled back, seared from the burning tobacco as he inhaled on the cigarette. Jay had done more than save his life. He’d given him a new life. It wasn’t Jay’s fault it was a life Paul had come to hate.
“Hey, stranger.”
He jerked, startled by the soft voice, the scrape of rubber sneaker soles against the pavement. He opened his eyes and saw Susan Vey walking toward him, a lit cigarette in her hand, a curious smile on her face, as if she was as surprised to see him as he was her.
“Well, hey, yourself,” he said.
“We need to stop meeting like this,” she said, standing in front of him. She was dressed comfortably, in a T-shirt and shorts, her feet bare, like his. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her shirt, to judge by the steely points of her nipples jutting boldly through the thin fabric. Her long, heavy hair hung loose in glossy waves, draped in twin sheafs over her shoulders. The glow of the streetlight enveloped her from behind, rendering her nearly a silhouette in the cool, misty night.
Paul grinned. “Yeah. People will talk.” He patted the stoop next to him. “Pop a squat, kiddo.”
She sat beside him. They glanced at each other’s cigarettes, and then Susan tapped hers against him in a mock toast. “Here’s to coffin nails and other unspeakable vices.”
“Amen to that,” Paul said.
Susan’s cigarette was down nearly to the filter, and she flicked it toward the parking lot with the practiced ease of a veteran smoker. When she picked up his beer and took a long swig uninvited, he didn’t mind.
He wanted to talk to her about the kiss that morning, but didn’t know how to bring it up. He’d be lying if he tried to say he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. But at the same time, he didn’t want it to happen again. He didn’t quite understand her attraction to him, and while her company pleased and aroused him, he knew he couldn’t let things progress any further. Aside from the fact that she was too damn young for him, his heart just wasn’t in it. Not now. Not after he had kissed Brenda that afternoon. His body might have reacted to Susan’s kiss, but his heart had reacted to Brenda―and in a way the likes of which he hadn’t felt in more than twenty years. Not since he’d first fallen in love with Vicki.
“You look like you’ve got something heavy on your mind,” Susan said, nudging him lightly, playfully with her elbow.
He glanced at her, uncertain what to say or how to begin. She smiled at him. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said. “Or, at least, a pan of lasagna. That’s what I’m fixing for tomorrow. I’ve got a couple bottles of sauvignon we can open, too, and we…” Her voice faded as his expression grew pained. “What?”
“I…I need to cancel tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ve got my girls this weekend, M.K. and Bethany. I completely forgot. And then my brother’s coming back early from his honeymoon, and I’ve been babysitting for his daughter, and…”
“That’s okay,” Susan said, shaking her head. There was no mistaking the look of visible disappointment that crossed her face, but she turned away from him, trying to disguise it as she lifted the beer bottle and drank again. “I understand. Family happens, right?” She uttered a short laugh. “Just like shit.” She glanced at him. “It’s just as well. David’s staying with me for the weekend. They’re fumigating his apartment or something like that. I was going to kick him out tomorrow night, but since he still can’t get around too good from where he hurt his back, I guess this works out for the best.”
Paul could have let it end at that. She’d accepted his explanation. It had ruffled her feathers, yeah, but not hurt her feelings anywhere like the truth would. He could have, but then he thought of Brenda, of how kissing her had felt so honest and right to him, reflexive almost, like a part of his nature. “It…it’s not just that,” he said, drawing Susan’s gaze. “I mean, it is, but it…there’s more.”
He shifted his weight, turning to look at her squarely. “Susan, you’re a beautiful woman. You don’t need me to tell you that,” he said, and even in the dim light, he could see color stoke in her cheeks at the compliment. “But you…you’re a beautiful young woman, Susan. A really young woman. And you don’t need me to tell you that, either.”
She blinked at him, understanding apparent in her face. Her eyes grew round and momentarily wounded, like he’d slapped her in the face, and he immediately felt like a shit heel.
“I’m flattered by your interest in me,” he said carefully, not wanting to hurt her more. “But look, I’m fresh out of a divorce, and I was married twenty some-odd years before that. I don’t have my head on straight about anything and my life is all kinds of fucked up at the moment. I don’t want to drag anybody else into that mess with me, least of all you.” He touched her face, brushing his thumb against her cheek. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said again. “And you deserve someone who will be there for you. Maybe it’s not someone your age, but it…it’s not me. I’m sorry.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, her large eyes glossy, and then she blinked, ducking away from his hand and forcing a smile. “Nothing to be sorry for,” she said, rising to her feet. “I understand.”
“Susan…” he began, standing. He reached for her, but she drew back, shaking her head.
“It’s alright,” she said. “Really, Paul. I understa
nd.” She looked over her shoulder toward her building. “I need to get back. David sleeps pretty heavily with the medicine he’s on, and I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him. Or at least an ear, to make sure he doesn’t quit breathing or something. I…I’ll see you around. Maybe we can still go running.”
“I’d like that,” he said, because that wasn’t a lie. He had enjoyed her company genuinely, honestly, if only because it had been that to him―company.
“Maybe you can still give me a scoop sometime,” she said, managing a more genuine smile now.
Paul laughed. “That I can do,” he said, and then an idea occurred to him. He arched his brow. “I can do that tonight, as a matter of fact. There’s a case file that just came into homicide this week they’ve been keeping under wraps. They’re investigating it as a hate crime.”
Susan’s brows went up with piqued interest. “Really?”
“Yeah, a girl was murdered, a lesbian abducted from a local nightclub, they think. That work as a scoop for you?”
There was no point in keeping the story under wraps. Paul hadn’t received any official information on the case to release to the media, but he hadn’t been specifically told not to say anything, either. Which, he figured, was almost as good as permission.
Susan smiled. “It’s close enough,” she said. “Can I stop by your office on Monday? You can fill me in on the details and I can shoot it off my producer.”
“That sounds good,” he said. And Dan Pierson will have his ass in a knot when he finds out, he thought, which made the deal all the more sweet.
She stepped toward him, rising onto her tiptoes and kissing the corner of his mouth softly, platonically. “Thanks, Paul,” she whispered, and oh, God, at the brush of her breasts against his chest, his body railed at him for turning her away.
He watched her walk away, her hips swaying gently, tantalizingly beneath her shorts, and he had to sidestep, adjusting his suddenly-throbbing crotch before turning to go back inside himself. His mind and heart might have decided against Susan Vey, but his groin, it seemed, still had other ideas.