“I know.”
“I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.” He tried to smile. “Have a nice life, Jack.”
“You too, Alan.”
He walked out.
The first time he left me, I didn’t try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?
Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?
“Alan . . . wait.”
He turned, eyes hopeful.
“Yeah?”
Looking at him, I knew.
“You’re wearing my jacket.”
Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.
I went to him.
Our hands met.
“Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.”
“So do I.”
“Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody.”
“Maybe.”
“Can we discuss it over dinner?”
“That might be best.”
I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.
“Can I call you? After work?”
“No. The work can wait.”
“Excuse me?”
“The work can wait, Alan. Let’s go.”
We didn’t go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.
Twice.
CHAPTER 32
I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven’t worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other’s buttons.
I’d called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn’t be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
“I’ll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.”
“His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won’t. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.”
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn’t have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I’d had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn’t a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
“Jack? That you?”
“I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast.”
“You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“No. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. It’s probably just a panic attack. I don’t have my damn sleeping pills and I’m bouncing off the walls.”
“Why don’t you have your pills?”
Moment of truth time.
“I’m in Alan’s hotel room.”
I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.
“You still love him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?
“You need some time apart, to figure things out?”
“Yes.” I was crying now.
“A week? A month?”
“I don’t know, Latham.”
“I understand.”
Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?
“I might never come back, Latham.”
“You have to choose what’s right for you, Jack.”
“Aren’t you mad at me?”
“I love you. I want you to be happy.”
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.
“There’s no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!”
“Call me when you’ve made a decision, Jack.”
He hung up.
I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.
I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.
Alan knocked on the door.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
He let himself in, sat down next to me.
“Dammit,” I cursed, rubbing my eyes. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not this weak.”
Alan laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
He put his arms around me.
“You’re not weak, Jack. You’re human.”
“And that’s funny to you?”
“I always suspected it. I just never thought I’d see it.”
He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.
If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.
Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn’t be allowed out.
After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.
One thing at a time.
CHAPTER 33
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.
I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.
Nothing happened.
I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.
Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.
The gun was gone.
Something in the darkness moved.
“Mom? Alan?”
No answer.
I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.
A faint chuckle came from nearby.
My digital clock went out.
The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.
The closet.
“I’ve got a gun!” I yelled to the darkness.
Another chuckle. Low and soft.
Fuller.
Another movement. Closer this time.
My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?
How do I make it out of here alive?
My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don’t look back.
I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.
I screamed, and woke myself up.
Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I’d just completed the last leg of a triathlon.
“Jack?”
Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.
“What’s happening?”
“Just a bad dream.”
“You’re going to shoot a bad dream?”
I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the draw
er. My fingers wouldn’t let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.
I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.
I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.
“Morning, Mom.”
Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.
“Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty.”
“Court.” I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. “You okay?”
“This cold weather is affecting my hip.”
“It’s got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on ‘broil.’”
“My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it’s freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets.”
I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.
“Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?”
“Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I’d hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know.”
“Why not invite him here?”
“He’s retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn’t ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates.”
“He can stay with us.”
Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.
“Really?”
“Sure. If he doesn’t mind sharing the sofa bed.” I winked at her.
“Well, I think I’ll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing.”
I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan’s health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Cancer.”
“Thanksgiving is next week.” I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. “Invite him over for that.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call him now.”
I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.
“What the hell is this?”
“Alan’s soy bread. He has that gluten allergy.”
I tossed it in the garbage. “It tastes like a sour sponge.”
“Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they’re called. Beans and milk aren’t a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don’t let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie.”
Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.
Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.
My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.
I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.
Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.
Her cocounsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman’s terms, the results of Eileen Hutton’s autopsy.
“. . . thoracic cavity eviscerated and . . .”
I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.
I didn’t look at Fuller.
As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.
As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller’s.
He vomited all over the defense team’s table.
CHAPTER 34
A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.
Libby seethed.
“That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn’t he? How the hell did he do it?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue.”
“Have you ever seen that done before?”
I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?
“Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”
She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.
The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.
I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.
Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.
I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.
“So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?”
“He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Me.” My voice cracked when I said it. “He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb.”
Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.
“Your witness.” Noel took his seat.
Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.
“Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you’ve been on the police force for twenty years, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?”
“Objection. Relevance.”
Garcia smiled at the judge. “I’m simply bringing into question the lieutenant’s reliability as a witness.”
Libby stood up. “Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling.”
“Withdrawn.” Eric smiled. “And I’d like to thank the assistant state’s attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?”
“Two years.”
“And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?”
“I didn’t know him personally.”
“Professionally, then?”
“He did his job, as far as I knew. I never had any problems with him . . . until I had to shoot him.”
That got a chuckle from the peanut gallery.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, how a twenty-year veteran, a hero who was responsible for bringing a heinous serial killer to justice last year, failed to realize the suspect she was chasing was working side by side with her all along?”
“Officer Fuller knows police procedure. Because he knows our methods, he knew how to avoid detection.”
“And did that bother you, him avoiding capture?”
“Of course it bothered me. It’s my job to catch murder
ers, and he was out on the streets, murdering people.”
“Did it bother you beyond a professional capacity? Didn’t it, in fact, get personal?”
“I keep my personal and professional opinions separate.”
“Even though Barry is one of your own? You don’t hold him in particular disdain, on a personal level?”
“No, I don’t. My disdain is purely professional.”
Another chuckle.
“Lieutenant, you testified earlier that, during your visit to Barry Fuller at Cook County jail, Mr. Fuller threatened you.”
“Yes.”
“During your conversation with him on that date, do you believe that you remained calm and professional?”
“Yes.”
“Not personal?”
“No.”
“Tell me, Lieutenant, is this your voice?”
He pulled a cassette recorder out of his pocket and hit the Play button. The female voice that emanated was both high-pitched and vicious.
“Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”
Both Noel and Libby screamed out objections, but my recorded voice could be heard above them, the murmur of the jury, and the sound of Judge Taylor banging her gavel.
“Objection, Your Honor! There’s no foundation for this tape. This wasn’t previously disclosed at the pre-trial hearing.”
“Your Honor, the State had prior knowledge of this tape, and they failed to give this to us in discovery. Full disclosure goes both ways.”
Libby made a face. “Foundation, Your Honor.”
Garcia smiled. “Witness credibility, Judge. Lt. Daniels has previously stated she clearly separates personal and professional opinion. The tape is a gentle reminder of her true opinion.”
“Privacy law, Your Honor. Lt. Daniels had no prior knowledge this tape would be used in evidence.”
“But she did have prior knowledge of the tape’s existence, Your Honor. In fact, she’s the one who created it.”
Judge Taylor turned to me. “Is that true, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Garcia held up the recorder.
“Tape A for identification. Authentication by Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Lt. Daniels, was that indeed your voice on that tape recording, made during your visit to the Cook County jail on October twentieth of this year, while interviewing the defendant, Barry Fuller?”
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