by Lee Baldwin
“You work home hours too?”
“Seems like. We all get up early and leave. You’ll sleep right through it. Wolfe will let you know when it’s okay to go back to your place tomorrow. He’ll text me.”
“Montana, I never heard from you when Mom died. You must have been around. It was right before the reunion.” I hadn’t gone. Didn’t hear from many who did.
She starts to look at me but doesn’t manage it. “Yes. Well. It had been so long, with nothing. I thought I might be intruding.”
“You’re the one who disappeared.”
“Well maybe it’s because I felt my company no longer desired.” Tone of her voice somewhere between Desperation Alley and Fuck Off Street. Couple minutes of dead air, we’re both staring somewhere on the wall, seeing nothing except ghosts of sweet memories that died long ago.
Abruptly, she gets up. “Want something to drink? I might have beer.”
“I’m good, I say. Water would be great.”
“Cooler in the kitchen. Grab a glass from the drainer.”
She disappears down the hall, past the kid’s room. I hear a door close. I take it that’s her way of saying goodnight.
I snoop a bit more then start arranging the blankets. The music from Thor’s room gets loud for a while. I hear thumping like a fist on a wall. The noise goes down somewhat. The jazz singer finishes. I get horizontal on the sofa, but it’s a long time before sleep comes. The house grows quiet but my mind is buzzing. But at least I’ll see no more of Montana today.
Chapter 4
Business With Pleasure
IT WAS THE LAST TIME I saw Montana that day. But not the last I saw of her that night. I’m sleeping along solid enough here on the living room sofa. Whoops. Something presses down on the cushion by my knees. Stray light from the fish tank in the kitchen gives me her outline. Gotta be after two a.m.
“Can’t sleep,” she says. “You awake?”
“Mph. If you say so.” I am generally disagreeable when someone wakes me up. But my mind takes quick inventory of everything that happened yesterday just to put it all in order. Then I’m awake, for sure.
“What are you doing?” I mumble.
“Lying in bed thinking it’s so sad. About that poor guy. Some poor nobody in the wrong place.” She focuses her gaze on me, her voice takes on more steel. “And what an asshole you are.”
“Doesn’t take much brainpower,” I point out helpfully. “You mean right now, or before?”
“Then. Now. Oh shit.”
She falls across my lower torso like she’s hugging me through the blanket. Then she’s kind of shaking like she’s crying, squeezing tight, but silent. I remember that about her, how she can be mega sad and totally hold it in. I get the picture that she and I have been having a whole convo inside her head the last couple hours. Then she sits up and starts hitting me in the stomach with both fists like I’m her new punch toy.
“Hey!” I’m trying to grab her arms. We’re fighting but not being too loud cuz her kid and his friend are asleep in the other room but meanwhile she is majorly wailing on me from some deep reservoir of anger or regret she’s stepped on over the years. Hissing out of her mouth are words like asshole, dumb fuck, shithead, and worse things you wouldn’t want your mom to hear you say.
“Why’d you come back,” she’s asking, “why are you in my goddamn life? Everything was fine now I’m in a big mess with you just when everything was going good. I hate you I hate you I always hated you I always will hate you! Just go away go away gothefuckaway!”
Of course knowing Montana, she’s a complete stranger to any notion she’s responsible. She didn’t have to take my parole case, did not have to pick up when I called, did not have to give me her personal number for any reason, didn’t have to come to my house, or invite me to hers. But no matter, merely the workings of female logic.
I finally get both her wrists, holding so tight she can’t hit me anymore. Make no mistake Montana is a strong woman and she hits the gym. This pulls her face right up to mine, shaking and pointing her stink eye stare right at me. She’s wearing a long pink tee shirt that says Hello Kitty on it, and panties. Or not. Enough light in here to make out her expression. Her face is feral, full of anger desperation loathing, teeth bared in a snarl. So why does it cross my mind she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen? And that’s when I get it she is afraid. She is scared shitless about something.
“It could have been you, Clay.” Her body shudders. The hard desperate look bleeds away then we’re just gazing at each other in disbelief, all those years gone by. She stops pulling away. On some mutual signal we lunge at each other, open-mouthed.
What happens after that is not really suitable for a family publication. You can look it up online if you want. However I will say that it was just like the old times only way better. We’re both more experienced, more mature, and had learned in two decades how to be more inventive. But deep down, the groundswell of lust and distrust is still there.
At least it is with her. All the pleasure we’re feeling, seems like she’s trying to pummel me to death with her hips. Which is probably why I wake up this morning with that sweet kind of all-over ache, like a zombie, alone in a strange bed that’s funky with bodily fluids.
I lie here for a while going over yesterday. Non-stop excitement from end to end. Then, how it was the last few hours, with her. Mated up so tight, completely wrapped together in that sweet refuge of love, we were whispering all the hot delirious things we’d said to each other years ago. No connection with reality, the cold looks she gave me in her office, the shock in her voice when I called. It’s like I’ve known for years, sex is a form of temporary insanity. But these images of all that do wake up my junior partner. Hey go back to sleep you’re insane!
I look around for my jeans. No dice. I pull apart the sheets, scrounge around the foot of the bed, nothing. And me not a stitch on. Dude where’s my drawers? And what time is it? I have to be at the gliderport at ten for a student. I open the bedroom door, listening intently. The place is still. I peek down the hall at the kid’s door, it’s closed, with its sign, Actual Parent Wanted. Something to think about later. Asleep or gone, I decide.
Ears alert, I creep softly toward the living room. I can see the sofa, sheets and blankets on the floor, my jeans and blue work shirt wadded up in the mess. Walk through, reach down and pull out my jeans. Stepping a leg in, that’s when I notice I’m not alone. Two girls, make that two young women, peer at me from bar stools in the kitchen. Since I’m halfway into one leg of my pants when I notice this, I just forge ahead, although soon’s I get that foot through I pivot away from them, step into the other and I get them all the way up. I reach down for my shirt.
“Sorry,” I say. “You guys were way quiet.”
They don’t say anything, just stare at me all expressionless. One’s a blond, the other kind of auburn haired. I’m about to think that blond one’s definitely datable, then I notice she’s looking at me with something that could be smoldering resentment. I have a couple stray thoughts. First, where is Montana’s kid, second, who is this chica giving me the stink eye? I know one thing for a fact, whoever she is, strangers walking out of Montana’s bedroom in the morning could be par for the course. Then I feel damn embarrassed. About last night, the whole thing. Whatever you do, never bring the kids into it.
The auburn haired chica blurts out, apropos of nothing, “I’ve seen you somewhere.” She smiles a little. Pretty. But given the circumstances I’m not sure what she finds familiar. Features, or fixtures.
Nevertheless I look right back at them. Now I’ve got my shirt buttoned, I start folding the sheets and pillowcases one by one, putting them in a neat unobtrusive pile with the blanket. Last item at the bottom of the tangle is a pair of pale green lace-trimmed panties. How nice, I think to myself. I get an arm under the pile of bedding, snag the panties in, and carry everything into the bedroom. Stack the whole thing neatly on the corner of the bed, close the door and wal
k back in the living room.
They’re still looking right at me, motionless as deer, completely silent in front of bowls of what’s maybe granola. Not being one to run and hide, I come right up to the kitchen counter where they’re both sitting.
“I’m Clay,” I say. “Sorry to come in that way. She said you all were leaving early. The place was way quiet.”
Up until now they could’ve been statues, but now they move. I notice a couple backpacks by the door.
“I’m Twyla,” says the auburn girl. After a couple of beats she smiles again, bigger, putting her eyes into it. My apology may have fixed things up some. She is still looking like she’s trying to place me.
The other one is still staring at me, stony-like. “I’m Tharcia. I didn’t know my mom was having guests last night.”
This explanation sounds to me like there’s an agreed household etiquette: don’t bring dates home when daughter is here. Or at least, not in front of daughter’s friends. The only thing escapes me now is, where’s the kid? Thor. But then a couple of my more functional neurons rub together and produce the suggestion that maybe the sign on the refrigerator doesn’t say Thor at all, but Thar, with an A. So Montana’s kid is actually this blonde teener. Nice.
I smile at her. “Would you be Montana’s daughter?”
She looks at me head-cocked. “Who is Montana?”
“Oh right,” I say. “Old nickname we had for her. Hannah.”
Comprehension comes into the girl’s clear blue eyes. “You must’ve been friends a hella long time ago. Nobody calls her that.” She looks at me levelly.
“Ah. Right. We know each other from high school.”
Now it’s her turn to look shocked. She shakes her head minutely from side to side like she’s trying to get a ball to drop in a hole. Her blonde hair, long but pulled up in a casual-messy runway model look, follows the movement.
“You know my mom from high school, from maybe twenty years ago?”
The other girl is smiling, “Nineteen years, Thar.”
“You know her from then?” the blond one repeats.
Now it’s my turn to be confused. This Tharcia baby doll is looking at me with even more intensity than before I put my pants on.
“Yeah,” I say. “Lost track of her after grad, though. Just ran into each other yesterday.”
Now she looks really disappointed. “And so the two of you just had to...”
Her voice trails off, but her meaning is clear. She is not impressed with her mother much, or with me.
“Would there be such a thing as coffee?” I ask, hoping to derail this spazz convo. The way these two girl-women are staring at me makes me wish I’d looked in the mirror once and maybe even washed my face. I can see behind them on the counter there’s actually a coffee maker with a couple of cups. But I wait.
Finally the blond one, the daughter, says “I’ll get you some.” All family manners now, but it’s just a veneer on what she’s thinking. Swings herself off the stool and walks to the cupboard. She moves her hips just like Montana, only slimmer. Hip hugger skirt over black stretch tights, killer.
“Milk and sweetener?”
“Black, thanks.” She sets the cup down and sits. So now were back in our stiff but lifelike little tableau. But at least I have some life-restoring fluid in front of me.
“You guys go to school together?”
The auburn one, Twyla, nods, working on her granola. “We have classes together on Thursday so were driving together.”
“In Twyla’s hot new car,” Tharcia says. What, can this mean she’s actually thawing?
“What classes?”
“This morning it’s Journalism and New Media,” Twyla offers. This afternoon it’s study group then internship seminar.”
“What school?”
“San Jose State.”
I’m watching the blond one, now it’s me thinking I’d seen someone before. At the same time Twyla is checking me out like will I ask for a date. Expectant look on her face. Yah right, she already took inventory. Tharcia jumps off her stool and takes her dishes to the sink.
“Move your butt, Twy.”
So I get a chance to sip my coffee while these two bustle around collecting odds, ends, backpacks, out the door. I check my phone and see it’s just after eight. Time to find a breakfast place and get over to the gliderport. I definitely need to catch up with the twins. And I need a shower. Been trying not to scratch too obvious with ladies in the room but now it’s game on.
The door bangs open and Twyla comes rushing through and into the daughter’s bedroom. I leave off with the pocket pool. On her way out she stops to ask with a smile if I’m going to be back tonight.
“Doubt it,” I tell her. Her face registers faint disappointment as she turns to exit but she keeps smiling.
“Later,” she says gaily, and out she goes. She’s taller than the daughter and has a nice...but hold up pervo, I warn myself, these girls may be underage. Even if not, one of them’s your parole officer’s daughter. There would be no question about Montana murdering me.
Over on Bascom Avenue I’ve just found a small diner, sipping coffee waiting for my eggs and country fries, when my phone goes. Number I don’t recognize.
“Mr. Clay?”
Oh shit I know this voice. Wolfe.
“Hello Detective. Did you find out who Roswell is?
He doesn’t quite say he’ll ask the questions but neatly sidesteps to ask me one.
“Mr. Clay. Last evening you told me that you and Agent Harrison were talking at the jogging trail in West San Jose. About what time was that?”
I groan silently. We’d gone over all that. I have to be careful, this guy thinks he’s on the trail of something.
“That must have been about six to seven thirty. Give or take. Why?”
“And then she followed you to her place?”
“You mean my place? She followed me to my place. Ummm not exactly. She’d never been there so I said meet me in Felton. She had something to do before she left.”
“Thank you. And did you reach her by phone while on the way?”
“Yah, I called, said meet at a restaurant there. I picked up some takeout.”
“Of course. And so you talked to her how many times, was it once?”
Mentally, I bust a valve trying to think. Of all the stuff going on last night, I wasn’t keeping tabs on my phone traffic.
“I think at least once. Excuse me if I don’t recall everything, yesterday was packed.”
“Certainly. So when you spoke to her, where were you?”
“San Jose. Actually I had left the park and was driving up Highway 17.”
“Recall what you spoke about?”
“Kinda. It was about where we would meet. That’s when she said she would be a little later.”
“And would you know where she was at that time?”
Boy I am not liking this one bit. Hundred bucks says he’s already snagged our phone records.
“I would imagine she’d be in San Jose still.”
“Interesting. The fact is, Mr. Clay, that you talked to her twice. Both times you were in the Felton area.”
“Sure. Means my memory of the times is off. Like I say, yesterday was pretty random.”
“Indeed. You might find it interesting, Mr. Clay, that when you spoke to Agent Harrison, she was first in Santa Cruz, later in the Felton area. She was not in San Jose for those calls.”
He waits a while. I hear airwaves stretch between us like a singing nerve. The waitress sets down my plate and sloshes coffee in and around my cup. Not sure I have an appetite anymore. For a bit of self-punishment, my mind picks this moment to offer another morose headline:
Lying Felon Handcuffed by Smart Phone App
“Well you’ve got me. I guess you will have to speak with her about that.” And I’m thinking that soon as this idiot hangs up I’m calling Montana.
“Yes. I spoke to her five minutes ago. For the first call, she said she was in Sa
n Jose, which does not match the phone records. For the second, she claimed she was in Felton, which matches.”
“Now that is just plain weird,” I say, trying to put some cred juice into my voice. But Wolfe has already let the air out of my argument. Damn. I do need to talk to her, but not on the phone! Need to use my burner, see her face to face.
“One other thing,” Wolfe says. My heart sinks into my gut. He has more?
“Did Agent Harrison change clothes at your place? Did she shower there?”
“No. That’s how she was dressed when she arrived.”
“You stated she was out for a run.”
“I didn’t see her on the trail. Pulled up and met her at her car. Not sure how she was dressed really.”
“Alright. Mr. Clay, if you think of any explanation for these anomalies, please do let us know.”
“Absolutely Detective. Not a problem. But what did you find out about Roswell?”
“And who is Roswell, Mr. Clay?”
This is so weird I am practically sputtering. “Roswell. It’s him, the guy who jumped, my student yesterday. The guy lying dead on my porch. That’s Roswell.”
“Mr. Clay, I should inform you we found only false identification on the body. Searches for a Martin Roswell fitting that description have no match in our system. We are awaiting fingerprint results.”
“You’re saying Roswell may be someone else. He showed us an FAA glider rating with that name on it.”
“And the school has records of that?”
“Talk to Julie or Stacy at the soaring club. Hollister Homicide. They have his logbook.”
“I intend to do that Mr. Clay.”
“Naturally. Find anything else at my house?”
“Aside from the victim and his backpack, we found a single shell casing and a number of cigarette butts, on the porch and in the dirt. Boot heel imprints. You are not a smoker, Mr. Clay?”
“Never.”
“Nevertheless, we will attempt a DNA match with that evidence. It suggests someone waited for perhaps an hour at that location. You will contact me soon about my earlier question?”