Exceptionally attractive Vikings…
Emma made it to Mr. Traffic Court
's office building with a few minutes to spare, and pulled to the curb. A handsome, fortyish man in an expensive suit ambled up to her passenger door and leaned into the open window.
Emma noticed right away that he had lovely green eyes and a great smile.
"So," said her first date in nearly two months. "Looking for a good time?"
* * *
Several well-meaning people in Thomas's life had mentioned that he harbored an abnormal number of pet peeves, but he stood by the fact that each and every one of them could be easily defended. Stupid people—that was his number one pet peeve, and it was self-explanatory.
That one was followed closely by nosy people because privacy was sacrosanct; top-forty music because it was homogenized pabulum that ruined society's ability to appreciate real music; shopping malls because they proved that all of America had become a vast wasteland of brainwashed consumerism; and people showing up at his home without a fucking invitation—because he absolutely hated it!
Thomas opened the door with a snarl, only to be pushed aside by his sister, Pam, his two rowdy nephews, and an apologetic-looking Rollo, squinting in embarrassment over two overflowing grocery bags.
"When Mohammed couldn't move the mountain he decided to hit the road!" Pam called over her shoulder, heading into Thomas's kitchen.
"Or something to that effect," he muttered.
Pam had already returned for the bags clutched in Rollo's arms. She dropped them on the kitchen table, then promptly came back to the living room, where she stood before her brother, hands on hips.
"This music depresses the crap out of me."
"It's supposed to. It's Tom Waits— Hey, do you mind?"
Pam had already switched off his CD player and returned to her position in front of him, her feet in a wide don't-mess-with-me older-sister stance.
He might have been six inches taller and a good eighty pounds heavier than Pam, but she was still two years older, still the person who had been there for him when their mother skipped town all those years ago. And that would always matter between them.
Pam lifted her chin up to Thomas, and he glared down at a pair of gray eyes he knew were nearly identical to his own. She sniffed. "We're having chicken Parmesan, linguine, salad, and garlic bread. Hope you haven't already eaten." Then she turned back toward the kitchen.
"Would it matter if I had, General Mussolini?" he called after her. "Besides, it's five-thirty! Who eats at five-thirty?" Then he muttered curse words under his breath as the boys hung on his legs.
Pam busily unpacked the groceries, keeping her back to her brother. "You've been avoiding us like we had the Hanta virus or something, and I won't put up with it anymore." She turned and shook the box of pasta at him. "With Dad gone we're the only family you have, and I won't stand for your 'I want to be alone' crap." Pam was now going through his kitchen cabinets. "Do you have any oregano?"
Thomas looked at Rollo and growled. His brother-in-law shrugged, then whispered, "The good news is that I scored a couple Robustos."
"Yeah? So what? I can't smoke in the house anymore because of the allergic mutant rat-face—remember?"
"Oh. Right. But we can go out on the back porch, can't we?"
Pam called out from the kitchen. "Where do you keep your food processor?"
"Sorry, don't have one," Thomas said brightly. "But if I'd known you were coming I would've run right out and purchased the finest model available."
She ignored his sarcasm. "Blender then?"
"In the pantry. Bottom left shelf. But I don't know if it still has all its parts. It hasn't been used since—" Thomas caught himself before he said "since Nina left me."
"Ewww, gross!" Jack stood in the middle of the living room bent at the waist, staring under the coffee table with excited blue eyes and pink cheeks. "Uncle T! Uncle T! There's something in here and it's chewing on your underwear! You gotta see this!"
Hairy made a break from his hiding place and ran as fast as his spindly legs could carry him through the living room, the boxer shorts flapping in the wind from between clenched teeth. The dog shot through the dining room and into the kitchen, where he skidded to a halt at Pam's feet, trembling.
The boys were right behind him.
Uh-oh. I'm going to die now.
"Can I touch it? Can I pick it up?" Petey's face was shining with wonder. "Daddy told me you had an ugly dog but this is really super ugly, Uncle T! Where did you find it?"
Pam reached down to save the dog, frowning, then stared at her brother in disbelief. "Thomas?"
Oh, dear God. The maxi pad. Pam would never let him forget that as long as he lived.
"Give him to me." Thomas grabbed Hairy, whipped off the urine defense system, and opened the back door, tossing the dog outside. "Why don't you guys go play with Hairy?"
Thomas watched Jack and Petey chase the dog, screaming and laughing. Hairy suddenly stopped, sat perfectly still, and dropped the boxer shorts on the grass in surrender.
"Do you think they'll kill him?" Pam asked Rollo in an earnest whisper. "I just keep thinking of that stuffed bunny they ripped to shreds."
"They'll do all right. Look! They're playing toss with him!"
While Pam and Rollo were distracted, Thomas slyly shoved the sweat sock and maxi pad under the kitchen sink, hoping Pam would forget what she saw. Then he came up behind them and watched the boys and Hairy romp around the small fenced yard.
But Pam didn't forget, and a moment later she crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back against the counter, and studied her brother.
"What?"
She smiled sweetly. "Your dog wears a menstrual pad and chews on your underwear—these are very unusual things, Thomas."
He rolled his eyes, then an idea occurred to him. "Hey!" he said brightly. "You want it?"
"Ohhh, nooo—I couldn't do that," she said, her smile widening. "It's obvious you two were meant for each other."
The kids and Hairy played while Thomas threw together a salad and put water on to boil, Rollo smeared butter and garlic on the loaf of Italian bread, and Pam did whatever she was doing to the chicken breasts.
His sister had selected Sibelius's Symphony No. 2 in D from his extensive classical collection. And as he hummed along, Thomas had to admit the Phelps Brigade's invasion hadn't turned out all that bad. Had it really been six months since they'd all sat down for a meal together?
Was it true that they'd not done this since Nina was out of the picture? Thomas caught Rollo looking his way, and figured the insightful Dr. Phelps was probably thinking the same damn thing—and was probably worrying about him again.
He wished Pam and Rollo would stop worrying about him. He was fine. Just fine.
The back door flew open then, and the boys and Hairy tromped through the kitchen looking like old pals.
"Hairy's pretty cool, Uncle T," Petey said.
Thomas grunted noncommittally.
Then Pam turned on the blender.
And all hell broke loose.
* * *
"Stop it, Thomas! You're torturing the poor thing!"
"I'm not torturing anybody, Pam! I'm simply interviewing a witness."
"Oh, God help us," she said, throwing down the dish-towel and stomping back to the oven.
The bad man. The bad man.
The blender! Oh, how I hate the sound of the blender! It went on and on and on!
"Okay, little buddy. You did good. We're done."
Thomas grabbed a Beggin' Strip from the pantry and tore it into a dozen small pieces and held it behind his back. He lowered himself to his knees.
Pam, Rollo, and the boys watched in silence.
"We're going to use our relaxation exercises," Thomas explained in a soft voice, looking up at the crowd. "Give us a little room, okay?"
They stepped back.
"Emma says the object is distraction—when Hairy pays attention t
o me and the dog treat, he momentarily forgets what he was so upset about and he begins to calm down." Thomas took one bit of treat and held it up to his right eye. "Look," he said in a high sing-song. "Come."
Hairy tentatively came out from under the kitchen table, where he'd spent the last ten minutes the victim of Thomas's experimentation: Whenever Thomas turned on the blender, Hairy's ears flattened against his head, his tail curled between his legs, and he began shaking, howling, yipping, and peeing.
Then, as soon as Thomas turned it off, Hairy trembled, but unwound his body and became quiet.
"Come on, pal, you can do it. That's a good boy."
Hairy ventured forward and made eye contact with Thomas as he followed the path of the treat.
"Good boy, Hairy."
The dog took the treat and sat quietly in front of his kneeling master.
"Why are you on your knees?" Pam whispered, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that had fallen over the room.
"Emma said that I'm so big and Hairy is so little that bending over him would be too intimidating. This way I'm closer to his level." Thomas brought another treat beside his eye. "Look. Oh, good boy, Hairy!"
Thomas repeated the exercise until he ran out of treats and enthusiastically called Hairy to him. The dog jumped into his arms and burrowed his snout into the crook of his master's neck. Thomas stroked him.
"It's all right, ace," he cooed. "I'm sorry I had to do that, but you did good work. I think you've helped me figure something out."
Thomas looked back up at the silent group.
"Emma says that dogs always do things for a reason." He stood up, grunting with stiffness, and removed a small vial of pills from the kitchen cabinet. He took a pinch of mozzarella from the counter and stuck the pill inside, then gave it to Hairy to eat.
"Emma prescribed Xanax for when he gets a panic attack—and this was the worst one yet—and he'd been doing so much better." He looked at his sister, Rollo, and the boys and noted they were staring at him with a combination of confusion and wonder.
"It's a long story, but I think Hairy witnessed a homicide and I just realized the dog isn't as stupid as I'd assumed. I think he may be able to help with the case."
Nobody's expression changed. "I know it sounds strange, and I can't go into the details, but I think Emma might be able to help me with this." Thomas felt himself smile. "I can't wait to tell her about it."
He placed Hairy on the kitchen floor and watched him follow Jack and Petey into the living room.
"Emma's going to love this," he mumbled to himself, just as he turned to see Pam and Rollo giving him open-mouthed stares.
"Exactly when did you perfect the Siegfried and Roy routine?" Pam asked, her brows pulled into a deep frown. "And who the hell is this Emma person and when exactly did you fall in love with her?"
Just then the doorbell rang, and before he could stop it from happening, that Mrs. Quatrocci woman was inside his home, handing Pam some kind of crispy dessert thing and being invited to stay for dinner.
Rollo pulled Thomas into the living room and looked at his friend, perplexed.
"Since when are you friendly with your neighbors?" he asked. "I thought you had a strict 'no human contact' thing going on."
"I do. At least I did."
Thomas's eyes fell hard on Hairy, who looked up from the slate foyer floor, trembling. Then Thomas headed up the stairs, mumbling, "I got to call some vet in Annapolis about Hairy. If anyone else shows up, don't answer the door."
* * *
Emma had been nursing her white wine for an hour, trying to look interested. Trying to stay focused. Trying to stay in the present moment.
On the bright side, Emma had to admit she'd been pleasantly surprised by Digital Phone Man—no, Jason, Jason, Jason, she reminded herself.
Jason was charming and gentlemanly. He'd opened the driver's side door for her in the parking lot and then held out the chair for her at the table.
He was smart—he'd started his own software design company, taken it public, and was now a millionaire.
He was interesting—he had just returned from a safari in Kenya and Tanzania and was building his own vacation cabin in the Garrett County mountains.
He was handsome enough and he had a decent sense of humor, even making light of his traffic court experience.
"With my new wireless headset and voice-activated dialing, I'm going to be the Han Solo of I-695."
So, all these things considered, why did Emma find that she was bored out of her skull?
Oh, damn, damn, damn! The only thing wrong with this man sitting across the table from her was that he wasn't Thomas Tobin. Now how completely insane was that?
"So, I was wondering if you'd like to take a romantic walk along a bed of broken glass, or maybe take a swim with me in the groundwater at the Aberdeen Proving Ground?"
Emma snapped out of her fog, thinking for sure she'd just heard something strange from Digital Phone Man, but she didn't know exactly what because she hadn't been listening to a word he'd said—not one single word the whole night.
"Excuse me?"
He smiled tightly at her. "Forget it."
"Oh."
He laughed, set down his wineglass, and gazed at her across the candlelit table. He really was a nice-looking man.
"You know," he said, "I've never been out with a blowup doll before."
Emma was startled by the hurt in his voice and tensed in her chair. "I'm so sorry," she said, letting out a huge sigh of relief, exasperation, and frustration all tangled up together. "I haven't been good company this evening. I've been distracted and I apologize. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Oh, really?" Jason broke into a wide grin. "Then maybe I can help you out—you've been thinking about some man the whole night."
He reached for his wallet. "All I want to know is why you agreed to this in the first place if you're in love with some guy? Marcus was right—you're very pretty and sweet and I probably would have enjoyed this if you'd actually brought your brain along. What do you say we call it a night?"
Jason DuPont told Emma to head on home by herself and he'd get a taxi straight from the restaurant. He kissed her cheek at the hostess stand, and she felt like a complete witch.
She apologized again, hearing herself say something about the timing, and thanked him again for the drink. Then she drove home like a bat out of hell.
She was in the door by seven, and Beckett jumped off the couch in surprise. "Hey! What—"
"I'm gonna change and play my drums!" she called, bolting up the stairs to her bedroom.
Beckett stood in the foyer with his fists on his hips, the TV Guide dangling from one hand. "That bad, huh? Wait! Where did you put my earplugs? And keep it to a dull pounding, would you? It's a school night and Leelee's got to concentrate on her homework!"
"Like that's possible around here!" a faint voice called out from behind a closed bedroom door.
* * *
It was just after eight when Thomas knocked politely on the wide, polished oak door of a pretty old house set far off the road. He hadn't spent much time in Carroll County, but the red-brick house reminded him of his grandparents' place on the Eastern Shore—the same kind of early twentieth century no-nonsense construction with lots of wood trim, wide doorways, and square angles.
A mostly bald older man opened the door and smiled at him from behind the screen. Emma's father—he could tell it immediately. The lined face was dominated by a broad, sincere smile that offered welcome, even to a stranger, and the eyes were a soft blue.
At the man's feet was a big three-legged dog with rheumy eyes, sniffing the air in excitement. He probably smelled Hairy, who was trying to hide behind Thomas's ankles.
"Yes, son? Are you here to save my soul? If you are, I should warn you that you're a few decades late, but come on in and have a seat."
Thomas found himself entering a big open foyer with oak floors, a gleaming set of wide stairs, and homey wallpaper. "I'm sor
ry, but do you mind if I bring in my dog? I can keep him in my arms."
The old man was beginning to gesture him through a broad set of pocket doors but turned—and stopped dead. He stared at Hairy, his face showing a range of reactions, from mirth to disbelief.
"Lord Almighty, son. That little thing looks like it fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down."
Thomas couldn't help but laugh. "Yes, sir. I think that's exactly what happened."
Beckett shook his head and pointed to a couch facing the fireplace. "Why not? Bring him in. I don't think Ray's going to eat him."
Thomas sat. The blind dog hobbled over and plopped down by his feet, sniffing and licking at Hairy. The mutant trembled a bit but seemed to take the attention better than Thomas would have expected.
Thomas watched Emma's father ease himself into a comfortable wing chair and look him up and down. "So? Get to the point, son. You don't dress like any Mormon I've ever seen, so what are you selling?"
"Selling? Uh—"
"I'll be real honest with you." Beckett leaned forward conspiratorially and smacked Thomas's knee with the TV Guide. "I'm willing to listen, but unless it gives me back all my hair and makes my willy do the rumba, I ain't buying."
* * *
Chapter 8
Turn the Beat Around
« ^ »
"I'm not selling anything, sir. My name is Thomas Tobin and I'm a special investigator with the Maryland State Police." He showed the old man his identification and reached across the coffee table to hand him a business card.
"Beckett Jenkins—retired farmer," Emma's father said with a grave nod. "What in the world brings you out here?"
"Well, I'd like to see Emma—uh, Dr. Jenkins. I'm working on a homicide investigation that might benefit from her expertise. Is she home?"
"Emma?" Beckett shook his head and laughed. "How's a vet going to help in a homicide case?"
"It's a long story, sir." Thomas looked around the high-ceilinged room, dominated by a huge fireplace with a wide oak mantel and matching bookcases on either side. The room was warm and beautiful in an unadorned way—kind of like Emma herself.
Just then Thomas realized the floor beneath his feet was vibrating, and he heard some kind of deep thumping sound, which appeared to be coming up through the heating vents. Then he heard what he swore was Emma, yelling.
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