by Lori L. Lake
"There's something else," Reilly said. "I know what it's like to have a critical incident, and I—"
"Oh, God, not you, too? Dez, there's nothing wrong with me that a little ibuprofen won't cure. Really! This is not about PTSD."
"That's the same thing I told myself when I—"
"No." Leo held up a hand. "Don't go there. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not having any psychological issues."
"I didn't say that. I just want you to know you're not alone if you do."
Dez Reilly's blue gaze, sincere and honest, drilled into Leo's eyes. She knew Dez was just trying to help, and she let go of the angry tirade at the tip of her tongue. "Okay, thank you."
"Let me just say one more thing before you go. If you change your mind and want to explore anything at all about the Littlefield shooting, give me a call. There's a few of us who get together once a month and talk about this stuff. It's a good thing, Leo. If you need any support, you know I'm there for you."
"Thanks. I mean that. I appreciate your concern." She picked up her duffel. "Now if I can just get out of here without running into Hannen again."
"He's holding court in the front. Take the back stairs and you'll probably miss him."
Leo knew what the cliché writers meant about having a heavy heart. Between that and the piercing headache stabbing between her eyes, she wanted to hit something. She only had to make it to the parking lot. Buck up, she thought. I can do it.
AT HOME LEO found a note on the table: Still prepping for the Dunleavey case. Hope to be home by six.
Her partner had been working long hours. The past two nights, by the time Leo had crawled into bed after midnight, Daria had been asleep, and now she'd missed her again. Other than a brief phone conversation the day before, she'd only seen Daria in passing since the previous weekend.
Between loads of laundry and tidying up the house, she braised some strips of chicken, sliced a bunch of green onions, and grated Monterey Jack cheese. Corn was out of season, so she took a frozen package from the freezer.
When she heard a car in the driveway around half past six, she was whipping up eggs, milk, and salt to add to the chicken, corn, and onion already in the skillet.
Daria walked in the door in a rumpled suit, her curly hair in disarray, but her brown eyes brightened. "Smells like something good."
"Chicken Fritatta."
"Yum."
Leo set aside a spatula and hugged her.
"I'm so glad to be home. This case is completely kicking my butt."
"Go change and we can compare notes."
Ten minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table drinking glasses of dark Merlot and eating wedges of hot frittata sprinkled with cheese, drizzled with hot sauce in Leo's case, drenched in hot sauce for Daria.
"What's the scoop with Dunleavey?" Leo asked.
Daria smacked her wineglass on the table. "He says he's not guilty, never been anywhere near the robbery scene, doesn't know what happened to the goods, but the cops have six people swearing it was him. I don't know if I can believe the guy."
"Does he seem to be telling the truth?"
"He's either a very persuasive liar or the biggest dumb-ass on the planet."
"What's your bet?"
With a sigh, she said, "I don't know. I've never had a guy seem so sincere and protest this convincingly. I find it hard not to believe him, and I can't figure out any reason a half-dozen people would lie. I haven't been able to discover how any of them have an interest in this case or that they even knew Dunleavey. I think he's going down in flames."
"Wait a minute. You're the one who always reminds me that eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable."
"Yeah, yeah. I know, but no matter how I spin this, I keep coming up with no other theories that would exonerate him, and he hasn't got an alibi."
"Hence the long hours."
"Right. I keep going over everything, reading the witness statements, checking out details. Shit, I've got two boxes of statements and police reports alone. What a headache. Jury selection is almost done. There's no way to delay the trial. Unless I can find some evidence or a technicality, Dunleavey is going to be convicted."
"Get him to plead to a lesser charge."
"He won't. He maintains his innocence." Daria took the last bite of the frittata and reached across the table to take her hand. "I'm sorry to be so gloomy. I'm tired."
"I bet. You've been burning the midnight oil and the candle at both ends, too."
"I know. What about you?"
Leo looked into her dark eyes, hardly knowing where to begin. "I'm having trouble with my shooting quals."
Daria let go of her hand and poured another glass of wine. "That's not like you, William Tell. You could shoot an apple off my head from twenty paces."
Leo explained about her problems on the range, ending with the news that she was reassigned until the end of the year.
"Hey, that gets you off the evening and midnight rotations."
Daria's tone was so happy and hopeful that the frittata in Leo's stomach turned to a lump. They'd discussed this before—how could Daria forget what a touchy subject it was?
Daria went on. "I think it'll be great if you work days."
"Yeah, great for you. How many times do I have to tell you that I like working nights? If you weren't working so late all the time now, we'd have more time together, especially on Tuesdays and Wednesdays when I'm off. I'm here during your waking hours on the weekends." The argument was ancient, one that emerged from under the ice every so often and made both of them angry.
"Okay, okay." Daria put her hands up, palms facing out. "I give. I don't want to fight about that again. So, what are you going to do?"
"The range master suggested I get my eyes checked."
"A-ha! Old Eagle Eye is finally succumbing to age."
"You're not listening. My vision is clear and sharp. I'm going tomorrow to shoot a few rounds at the private range over in Maplewood."
"You're fooling yourself. Just go see the eye doctor."
"I hate wasting the money."
"Leo! You've got insurance." She covered Leo's hand and squeezed. "Is it possible that the Littlefield thing is interfering?"
Leo tried to pull away, but Daria held her hand tight in a warm clench. "Admit it. You're still upset. You're still not over that, are you?"
"I wish everyone would just shut up about Littlefield. That has nothing to do with this. The whole damn thing was a shitty situation, but that's got nothing at all to do with my shooting accuracy."
Daria gave her a skeptical grin but didn't pursue the issue. "Then it's something else."
Leo rose to clear the dishes.
Daria grabbed their glasses and went to the sink to rinse them. "I'm not kidding, Leo. What if there's something wrong? Go see Doctor Spence, and if it isn't your eyes, get a physical."
"I just had a physical a few months ago."
"But you never know…"
She went on to cite cases where people turned out to have weird diseases. The longer Daria lectured, the more Leo tuned her out. By the time they'd cleaned up the kitchen, she was so irritated that she stomped into the TV room and flopped down on the couch. Daria followed her in, talking now about a brain aneurysm from which a colleague's relative died.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Leo said and clicked the remote.
Daria was clearly taken aback by the venom in her voice. "Geez, I'm just saying—"
The television came on, and loud music drowned her out.
"Thanks for making dinner," she said over the music video. "I think I'll go edit my opening statement again."
After Daria left, Leo felt bad, but not bad enough to seek her out in the den. She'd been on pins and needles all day, and she was sick of it. Tomorrow, after the difficult day she figured she'd have at DHS, she'd spend some time at a shooting range. The damn private range was expensive, and she hated to spend the money, but she had no choice.
Chapter Two
ELEANOR SINCLAIR GRABBED her shoulder bag, stepped out of her apartment, and crossed the hall to the open door to her partner's apartment. Callie's rooms were the exact layout of Eleanor's, but reversed, which always made Eleanor feel like she was stepping into a parallel universe. Other than the mirror vision, the only other difference between the two efficiency suites was that Eleanor's had a sliding glass door leading out to a garden a quarter-acre in size. Instead of a door, a bay window in Callie's living room gave a view to the street.
Callie Trimble sat in a navy-blue easy chair, barefoot, wearing a baggy housedress covered with orange and yellow swirls. Her son Ted was sprawled on the couch across from her. For a forty-year-old tax professional, Ted was surprisingly scruffy-looking in baggy shorts and a rumpled Hawaiian shirt. He hadn't bothered to remove his tennis shoes before putting one up on the couch, the other on the coffee table. Something he was saying was making Callie laugh.
"Hey there, young man," Eleanor said.
Ted sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and grinned, almost daring her to upbraid him for his bad manners. With his dark blue eyes and mischievous face, he resembled Eleanor so much that over the years, he'd often been mistaken as her son instead of Callie's.
"Eleanor, how are you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I was just telling Mom about all the funny things my computer mouse can do."
Callie said, "He makes the mouse run all on its own with batteries. I want a mouse like that."
"We'll have to go on a shopping trip then," Eleanor said.
Callie brightened. "Can we go now?" She brushed steel-gray hair out of her eyes and smiled with such glee that it made Eleanor's heart hurt. In two minutes or two hours, Callie would have no memory of Ted's little mouse.
"Maybe tomorrow? I'm off to my book group in a minute."
"Tomorrow?" Callie said. "Tomorrow would be fine."
Eleanor winked at Ted. "Take good care of her until I return."
"Always do." He laughingly blew a kiss her way. She had sharp enough peripheral vision to see that no sooner had she turned than he slouched back on the couch with his foot up on it. She decided she didn't care. He made Callie happy.
She strode down the east wing's long hallway. Where the west hall and the administrative wing met her hallway, someone had left a crumpled handkerchief in the middle of the carpet. Eleanor pulled a clean tissue from her shoulder bag and bent to scoop up the hanky.
"Oh, that's Agnes Trumpeter's." Sherry, one of the aides, held out a hand. "She's always losing that dang thing everywhere she goes."
Eleanor handed it over. "It's been well-used. Probably needs a good washing."
"I'll take care of that, Eleanor. You going out?"
"Yes. I'll be back in two or three hours. I let the cook know I won't be in for supper."
"But you'll miss the sing-along."
Sherry's expression was so sincere Eleanor had to smile. "I'll catch the next one." With a nod to Sherry and a wave to Habibah, another aide who stood by the front desk, she made her way out to her car. She let out a huff as she got in. Every day she forced herself not to blow up at any of the workers or the other occupants of the Rivers' Edge Independent Living Apartments, but after ten weeks, her patience was wearing thin.
She drove out of the parking lot onto a street nowhere near any rivers or edges. She wondered why the owners had named the place Rivers' Edge. Unless it was a reference to the River Styx, and they had in mind the mythical ferryman, Charon, waiting to haul all the old people down to Hades as soon as possible. Eleanor already thought she was living in a minor version of Hades, and maybe Rivers' Edge was an allusion to a good place to drown.
She felt such a sense of relief whenever she escaped from the hellhole of her new home. Wishing it weren't so, she resolved to think about it no more and stopped at a diner for a solitary meal with a book for company.
After eating, she left Minneapolis, crossed the river to Saint Paul, and passed through her old neighborhood, wistfully viewing the spacious homes, converted mansions, and Victorian-style brick houses with ivy crawling across them. For old time's sake, she drove along the scenic East River Parkway. The Mississippi River, with 100-foot-tall bluffs on one side, sparkled in the early evening light. The walking and biking paths atop the bluffs were crowded with people eager to enjoy the warm sun.
Eleanor drove to the community library and headed for the entrance. In her canvas shoulder bag, a copy of the evening's book, Pride and Prejudice, bumped against her hip. She'd been delighted when an old classic was chosen by one of the twenty-somethings in the group. Eleanor hadn't known that P&P, as the younger set called Jane Austen's novel, had been made into a movie starring famous young actors. Apparently the remake had girls hot to read Austen. The young woman who selected this month's book had prattled on about Matthew MacFadyen, Keira Knightly, and several other actors Eleanor had never heard of, but when the girl mentioned Dame Judi Dench as Lady Catherine and Donald Sutherland as Mr. Bennett, Eleanor didn't feel quite so dense.
Nowadays, though, whole days passed when Eleanor never stopped feeling dense. For a moment, she felt a stab of longing to be back in the classroom teaching high school seniors, talking about books and films, and asking them hard questions about ethics. She knew it was easy to create a romanticized memory of the forty-two years she'd spent teaching Language Arts at high schools in Saint Paul, but for the most part, she'd enjoyed the work. Every year she estimated at least twenty percent of her students actually succeeded in reading and thinking and learning. Even after clothing styles became scandalous and rap music took over the airwaves, Eleanor still had serious students who made her school days worthwhile.
She would not have retired so soon if she'd had any other choice, but—
"No, not going to think about that," she mumbled aloud. She stepped through the automatic doors of the library and inhaled the scent of floor polish and books, her favorite combination.
AT HALF PAST seven, Eleanor left the library accompanied by two young women named Valerie and Lindsay.
"Hey, El," Valerie said, "would you like to get a cup of coffee with we two?"
Eleanor ignored the bad grammar and the overfamiliarity and thought, why not? She spent nearly an hour with the girls at Starbucks eating a sweet roll and drinking a surprisingly good cup of chai tea. She'd never cared much for coffee, and she didn't realize so many types of tea could be had nowadays in coffee shops—if you didn't mind spending five bucks, that is. Neither of the girls batted an eye at the expense. She could buy an entire box of teabags for what she'd just paid, but then again, she supposed you were also paying for the ambiance.
"I should be toddling on home," she finally told the girls.
"This is great," Lindsay said. "It's cool that you'll read Sense and Sensibility with us. Can we talk about it next month after the group—or maybe we should wait longer to be sure we have time to finish the book?"
Eleanor had read the book so many times she knew parts of it by heart, but she didn't tell them that. "I can be ready by next month if you can."
"Okay," Valerie said. "Let's do it."
Eleanor said her goodbyes and left them sipping coffee. She stepped out into the muggy evening. Temperatures during the day had been scorching, but even though summer was waning, the mid-September evening temperature hadn't dropped much. She hurried to the car, grateful for air conditioning.
On the way back to Rivers' Edge, she thought about how nice it was to chat with such lively young people. Now that things at the new apartment had settled down, perhaps she could volunteer as a tutor or get involved in neighborhood activities. She'd had no chance to check into that, but perhaps it was time now.
She entered the front door and made sure she closed it securely. The pounding beat of piano chords echoed from the dining room—or café, as some of the residents insisted on calling it. The sing-along was in full swing. She stood for a moment trying to place the tune the piano player was banging out. When a wavering voice sang, "Way dow
n upon the Swanee River," she recognized the melody, if you could call it that. She thought a Greek Chorus could have managed a more tuneful monotone.
She crept silently through the lounge area toward the hallway. In the TV room, Walter Green lounged on the couch, his mouth open, white-haired head back against the wall. She tiptoed past and down the east hallway, glad that the singing grew fainter with each step. At her studio apartment, she found the door ajar as she'd left it. Directly across the hall, the door to Callie's apartment was also open, and the overhead light was on. Eleanor poked her head in, but her lover was nowhere to be seen. Eleanor assumed she'd gone to the sing-along.
With a sigh, Eleanor trudged into her own apartment and set her bag on a ladder-back chair just inside the door. She flipped the light switch to turn on a table lamp in the corner. The left half of the apartment was a sitting area with a desk in the far corner by the sliding glass door, two tall bookshelves along the left wall, and a sofa and recliner in the middle of the room. She'd hung up her favorite pictures and framed photos, but so many had gone into storage, especially the largest paintings. She missed them.
The right half of the apartment consisted of a partially screened bedroom area in the far corner, and an enclosed bathroom that took up a quarter of the apartment's footage. For the monthly rental cost of this miniscule 24-by-24-foot studio suite, Eleanor knew she could be paying a mortgage on a home worth a quarter million dollars, which irritated her to no end. But this was the most practical place for the price, so she tried not to think of that.
She shivered. The air conditioning hummed, but then she felt a rush of warm, moist air. Squinting, she saw that the sliding glass door wasn't shut. She crossed the room to close it. The piano and reedy singing voices sounded louder because her apartment opened to the garden, and the dining room's sliding glass door was also open.
Back in the apartment she moved toward the bedroom alcove and saw an orange and yellow splash of color on a white bedspread. Callie lay at an angle, facedown on the double bed. Her bare legs and feet hung off the near side of the mattress.