by Tracy Clark
“Here we are,” Chandler said as we came to a stop. Ben immediately jumped out to check the alley.
Chandler reached for the door handle, but I stuck out my arm to stop her. “Not yet. When he says it’s clear.” Moments passed before Ben rapped on the window. “Now,” I said. “Right side, please. Me first, then Ms. Allen.”
Allen didn’t look like she cared for the order of things. She was likely used to always going first. She pursed her lips into a severe line and leveled flat eyes at me. I smiled back at her, gave her a wink, and watched her bristle. We were out of the car, inside in seconds and were instantly greeted by a young, bookish store rep with curly hair, large glasses, and a toothy grin.
The young woman bounced a bit on the balls of her feet, excited as a playful puppy looking forward to a noonday piddle. “Ms. Allen. You’re here. I’m Meghan Fahey. I’m so honored to meet you.” She looked around the tight group. “And everyone. Follow me, please. We’re ready for you.”
A short ride up to the second floor in a compact elevator, a brisk walk down a narrow hall, and a shuffle into a small VIP courtesy room, and the first test of our evening was over. Fahey flitted around the room, pointing out the amenities—coffee urn, powder room with fully stocked vanity table, color TV with cable access, and platters of cheese and fresh fruit daintily diced for VIP consumption. An ice bucket filled with ice and bottled water, soft drinks, and juices sat on a narrow side table. Allen graciously turned down refreshments when they were offered. The graciousness threw me. I hadn’t seen a lot of it in the past three days. I shot Ben a look. I could tell the graciousness had thrown him, too, and he’d known Allen longer than I had.
“So, that’s our ‘green’ room,” Fahey chirped, making little invisible quote marks with her fingers when she said the word green, since the room was actually a pale yellow. “We have a few minutes, so if you’d like to relax and compose your thoughts, we should be ready to get started in about, oh . . .” She checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Everything looks just wonderful,” Chandler said. “Thank you, Meghan. I’d like to take a look at the space?”
“Oh sure, no problem. It looks great. More than enough room for the crowd out there, and the books are all in. We should do absolute gangbusters tonight.” The two hustled off.
“I’ll go with them,” Ben said. “Get the lay of the land.” He leaned in toward me, whispered, “Yell if you need a referee . . . or riot gear.”
I sighed. That left me alone with Allen. Again.
It was as quiet as a mummy’s tomb when the door closed. Allen looked around for a chair that met her standards. She found one against the wall, but before she sat in it, she examined it, as if she could see all manner of parasites crawling across the upholstery.
Back at the office, after her full day, she’d showered and changed into a silk suit of vivid melon and added a gold and diamond bracelet and matching earrings to set it off. She didn’t look comfortable in the chair; she leaned back cautiously and then maneuvered around so as not to let any part of her bare skin touch it. When she’d found a position that worked for her, she crossed her legs, let the top one swing, and then looked at me as if she’d never seen me before.
I also looked around, but not for a chair. The bathroom looked secure, but I checked it, anyway. No outside access. In and out of the VIP room, there was only the one door we’d just come through, so unless Allen tripped over a lamp cord or scalded herself on the coffee urn, she’d make it another fifteen minutes.
I pointed toward the hall. “I’ll be out there. Plenty of chilled water behind you.” I reached for the knob.
“Wait,” she said.
Dang it. I turned. Allen placed her elbows on the armrests, thought better of it, and pulled them away, then folded her hands in her lap instead.
“I misjudged you. You’re not like most people I come across. You have a spine . . . and a smart mouth. I’m curious. Exactly when did you stop taking people’s shit?”
I raised an eyebrow. It was an interesting question, but a little unexpected coming from a woman wearing eight-hundred-dollar shoes. “Likely about the same time you started shoveling it.”
She smiled, but her eyes didn’t sign on to it. “You resent my wealth, find it offensive. You think me abrasive, unfeeling.”
I squinted. “That a question?”
“An observation. Here’s another. You don’t like me.”
“The jury’s still out. You’re a bit much.”
“How so?”
“Look, if you want to mind diddle Chandler and the others, that’s your business and theirs. Me? I could do with a lot less of it.” I turned again to leave.
“Mind diddle. I like that. You think I should have canceled tonight.”
“Again. All you.”
“But you would have. Out of what? Respect for the dead?”
Yep, but I didn’t say it. I watched her instead, wondering what tragedy or act of betrayal had made her, because surely her hatefulness could not have been forged by half a lifetime of happiness. What had she wanted and never gotten? What had she needed and been denied? Whatever the answer, it was unmistakable that it was anger and spite that sustained her now. Beneath all the diamonds and silk, beyond all that excess, Allen was flinty of spirit, an emotional pauper, and if she didn’t rankle me so, I might have been able to work up a little pity for her.
“Hewitt was a thorn in my side. It would have been hypocritical. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not that. I don’t lie.”
“Except by omission. You know who’s harassing you, but you won’t let us in on it. You’re at risk as a result, and so are we.”
Allen was slow to speak. “You and Detective Jones? What’s your history?”
She was still angling for that edge. She waited, watched. I didn’t say anything.
“See? Everyone has secrets.”
I said, “It’s not a secret. Just none of your business.”
She turned her head, ignored me.
When I took up my spot right outside the door, I thought about Allen and how alone she was, and a chill went down my spine. I checked my watch. Ten minutes till showtime. Oh boy.
Chapter 12
People loved the public Allen—the smiling, sparkling, polished Allen, who hugged everyone, pulling them into her circle of money sunshine, as if they were long-lost friends, family. The store had positioned a simple podium next to a table draped in black cloth and stacked high with copies of her book, her glamorous face beaming on the cover. Lined up in front were folding chairs, filled with awestruck fans grinning back at her, reassuring her that she was, in fact, a star.
Chandler stood across the way from us, hovering, this after already making sure that Allen’s pitcher of water had been filled and that she had enough pens to sign her name. She’d left nothing to chance. At one point, as Allen read aloud, I would have sworn I saw Chandler mouthing the words right along with her.
The audience was made up mostly of women, but there were a few men, husbands or boyfriends, presumably, who were along for the ride and didn’t seem too displeased with the prospect. Local news crews were spread out along the periphery, taping Allen as she worked the crowd. She’d make the ten o’clock news easily.
As she read aloud, she detailed her early life of poverty and extolled the grit and perseverance that helped her become the woman she was today. I had to admit it was a compelling rags-to-riches story. How much of it was true, well, who knew?
“It almost makes you want to bawl your eyes out, doesn’t it?” Ben whispered.
“You’re an easy touch.”
My eyes kept sweeping the room; so did Ben’s. Nothing out of the ordinary. Suddenly, the room exploded in a thunderclap of applause. I’d missed Allen’s big finish. Chandler looked like she was proud enough to burst buttons. Allen took a seat behind the table, uncapped a pen, ready to sign her books, as the people lined up. Ben and I moved in, then split up. He took the right side of the table, an
d I took the left, both of us keeping an eye peeled for anything hinky.
One of the local TV reporters, a woman I recognized from Channel 5, rushed up with a chubby guy dressed in baggy jeans and a station T-shirt, a bulky camera balancing on his shoulder. The reporter, blond, thin—Annie something or other—thrust a microphone into Allen’s face, and the camera flicked on, flooding Allen’s face with blinding light.
“What a beginning, Ms. Allen,” a plump brunette of about fifty gushed when her time came at the front of the line. She seemed thrilled to see that the camera was rolling and that she’d likely make the evening newscast. “What an inspiring life you’ve lived.”
Allen’s face lit up. “Why, thank you. And it’s not over yet.” She winked playfully at the camera, then glanced at the slip of paper passed along to her by Chandler with the gusher’s name written on it. “What a pretty blouse you’re wearing . . . Elizabeth.” This sent the woman swooning. Annie now had a few usable sound bites, Elizabeth had her autograph, and Allen had experienced the mother of all ego strokes.
Meghan Fahey eased in next to me. “You’re so lucky to work with her. She’s just the best, isn’t she?”
I managed a half-committed smile. “She’s one in a million.”
The parade of the woefully misguided went on for nearly an hour, as store assistants wove in and out of the line, closing up gaps, keeping everybody moving. Allen signed everything put in front of her—books, photographs, even a few body parts. Everyone seemed happy. No signs of trouble.
The line thinned after a while, but healthy pockets of faithful still moved around the floor, sneaking glimpses of Allen, snapping her photo, and comparing the autographs they’d gotten. Most of the news crews had gotten their footage and had packed up and gone; only Annie and her camera remained behind.
As my eyes came back to center, I spotted a black man who hadn’t been there before inching forward at the end of the line. I scanned the room, looking for where he might have come from, then turned back. He was holding a bouquet of yellow flowers and a copy of Allen’s book. In a sea of mostly white faces, you couldn’t miss him, but it was the flowers that made me hold my breath.
Medium complexion, youngish, midtwenties maybe, average height, average build; wearing a denim jacket, black cargo pants, black runners, and a green T-shirt; a healed scar over his right eyebrow. I committed it all to memory, the scar being the most important. He could ditch the clothes; he couldn’t ditch that.
I looked for Ben, but he already had eyes on him. The line moved forward. Another Allen autograph, a little more face time. The man’s eyes never left Allen’s face, but she hadn’t noticed him yet. He was so focused on Allen that he didn’t appear to have noticed me or Ben, either, or see that we were tracking his every move.
Four people behind in line, the man readjusted his hold on the flowers, wet his lips. Getting ready. I moved in closer to Allen; Ben moved in beside me.
“No crime in bringing flowers,” Ben whispered. “Strange choice, though. Carnations.”
My eyes were on the guy, only on the guy. “He’s staring at her pretty hard.”
“He’s just a man with flowers. Until he’s not.”
The more I looked at him, the more I felt there was something about him. “Why does he look familiar?”
“No kidding? You know him?”
I shook my head, still watching. “No, don’t think so, but there’s something.”
“I’ll stick with him,” Ben said. “She’s yours.”
I frowned, then nodded. Allen and I were beginning to be a thing. There were now just two people between the table and the flower guy. Ben stepped out in front of the table. The woman in front of Allen moved away. One person to go. Allen smiled at the woman. She’d bought three books, one for herself, the others for her daughters. She wanted them signed and personally dedicated.
His turn imminent, the young man glanced around and saw me watching him. I didn’t smile, didn’t blink. I gave no indication that my looking at him was coincidental. He blinked once, looked away, and found Ben watching him, too. He suddenly looked nervous, worried, but he held his spot. He was almost there, much too close to give up now. The woman ahead of him moved away from the table. He stepped forward, laid his book down. Allen palmed it, opened the jacket, then looked up to greet him and gasped.
“Hello,” he said. “You can make it out to Eric.”
Allen’s pen hovered over the title page. She drew in a sharp, startled breath, which she seemed physically unable to expel. Conversations went on around her, but I doubted Allen could hear the talk or see anything except for the face of the man holding the yellow flowers.
“These are for you.” He laid the bouquet on the table and took back the book offered him.
Allen never looked at the flowers. Her eyes never left the man’s face. He appeared upset. “You don’t like flowers? Go ahead and take them.”
I moved forward, scooped up the bouquet he’d laid down, checked it. Just flowers, nothing hidden inside. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to please move back. Ms. Allen appreciates the flowers and thanks you for coming.” Ben moved in closer, too, flanked him.
The man glanced hopefully at Allen. Surely, she would intervene. “She appreciates the flowers?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, suddenly right there. “And she thanks you for coming. Would you mind stepping this way, please?”
“No. I want to talk to her.”
I gently took the book from him.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
“I’m just putting it here,” I said, laying it on the table, “while we talk, calmly. You can have it back.” I gestured to an empty corner on the far side of the room, away from the crowd, away from Allen. “She can’t talk now, but if you’d step quietly this way.”
He shook his head, angry now. He didn’t want to speak to us. He made no effort to move. His eyes darted around the room. “Look . . . wait . . . That’s my book.”
We blocked his way, standing like a fence between him and the woman he’d come to see. He tried peering around us for a better look. “She’s—”
Ben reached out and took a firm grip of his upper arm. “Sir, you’re going to have to move back.”
The man yanked his arm free. “Get your hands off me.”
The murmurs and bits of conversation that had given the room a party atmosphere died out as suddenly as someone flicking off a light switch. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see cell phones emerging from pockets and tote bags, iPads being raised. The reporter and her cameraman inched forward, the camera filming. This was becoming a circus.
“Look, guy,” Ben began as he reached in again. I did, too, gently. We needed to move him back, calm him down. But he peddled away from us fast, got beyond our reach, fixing us with wild eyes.
“Back off.” His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and my hand and Ben’s cocked back to our holsters at the same time, the confrontation suddenly taking a sickening turn.
“Do not do that!” I yelled.
Ben barked, “Get your hand out of the jacket!”
Our stern commands tumbled over each other as we kept our eyes glued on the pocket.
A pocketknife emerged, the blade at least six inches long. Not a gun. I moved my hand away from my gun, relieved, but not relaxed, my heart pounding. Gun versus knife wasn’t a fair fight. All we needed to do was calm him down and move him out, not shoot him.
Ben’s hands went up, palms out “Whoa. Steady there. What say we bring this whole thing way down, huh? What’s your name, kid?”
“It’s Eric, right?” I said. “That’s what you said?”
The man’s eyes swept from Ben to me, then over the frightened spectators, frozen to their spots. “You started this.” He jabbed the knife in our direction, swung it in an arc right to left, holding us off. A gasp went up in the room. “I said get back. Let me talk to her.”
I kept my eyes on the knife, mindful of the distance between it and us. “Can’t do
that.”
He didn’t like that. He began to thrust and parry, bobbing on the balls of his feet, the knife jabbing forward.
“You have guns,” someone from the crowd shouted, “shoot him.”
“Shut up!” Ben yelled back.
The man’s hand tightened on the hilt of the knife. “You gonna shoot me? Go on then. Shoot me. Go on.”
“Dammit.” Ben muttered it under his breath, resigned. We exchanged a look. “You good?” he asked.
I checked the crowd, the knife, then nodded to Ben. “Yeah, okay.”
“My right.”
“Yep.”
We rushed forward together, fast off the mark. Ben grabbed the guy’s right wrist, locked it, tried to loosen his grip on the pocketknife. On my side, I grabbed his left wrist and forearm, twisted both, while at the same time Ben and I rammed the guy back, away from the table, as if pushing a tackling dummy down a football field. We slammed into a shelf of books, toppling most onto the floor. Shrieks went up in the room.
I pinned the guy’s arm back, my forearm pressing in against his neck. “Drop it! Now!”
He fought to get his arm free, but I had it twisted. If he moved it too wildly, it would surely break. Close up now, my face inches from his, I noted the scar parting his right eyebrow, the color of his eyes, the shape of his nose, his hairline. I shot a look at the wrist I was clamped down on and saw a small birthmark right at the joint, on the underside—dark, with jagged edges like an inkblot—another identifier.
I looked right into his face. “I said drop it!” I hissed it, my teeth clenched, fighting to keep him pinned, pressing in while at the same time kicking his legs apart to get him off-balance. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ben struggling on the other side. Ben was a big guy, a cop. What was taking so long?