Extracurricular Activities

by Maggie Barbieri

  I sat on the bed and was pulling on my shoes when I heard the doorbell ring. I stood and confronted myself in the mirror. Channeling my inner Max, I gave myself one last look and tried to get excited about going out with a handsome, single man, but again, all I could come up with was a feeling of guilt. With a side order of guilt. Would you like some guilt with your guilt?

  Jack had a bouquet of flowers at his side when I opened the front door. And yes, he was as gorgeous as I remembered him. What was wrong with this guy? Why hadn’t some intrepid female Ranger fan found and lassoed him? I had never asked if he was the Chewbacca costume–wearing brother, but it didn’t matter. He was a catch, and I couldn’t figure out why, at close to forty years old, he hadn’t been caught. He had a big smile on his face and seemed genuinely happy to see me. I opened the door wide and let him in. We embraced awkwardly and I was grateful to have the excuse to get the flowers in water to break the hug.

  Jack followed me into the kitchen. “How have you been? Have things settled down?”

  I found a vase in one of the cabinets and put it in the sink to fill it with water. I didn’t want to go into the more sordid aspects of my life, like how a chubby mobster followed me around and made vague threats to me, so I just shrugged and smiled. “Sort of.”

  “Kevin said that the wedding was nice.”

  I kind of had a feeling that Jack knew more about me and my situation than he was letting on. I’m sure Kevin had filled him in on the whole thing. “It was lovely,” I said noncommittally.

  When it was clear that he wasn’t getting any more out of me, he turned to the subject of dinner. “Where would you like to go for dinner? You’re more familiar with Westchester than I am so whatever you suggest is fine.”

  It was early so I suggested that we go to a popular waterfront restaurant by the train station. When we got there, only a few tables were taken, so Jack asked for one that had a river view. After we settled in and ordered drinks, we sat and made small talk. After a few minutes of conversation ranging from “who’s the next Ranger on the trading bloc?” to “how about those Devils?” Jack became a bit more candid.

  “I have to be honest with you.”

  Uh-oh. I hate honesty on the second date. I took a sip of my perfectly prepared martini and braced for the worst. I knew it. He was the Chewbacca costume brother.

  “Kevin told me that you wouldn’t go out with me again unless I just dropped in. I normally wouldn’t do that…but…” He stopped, looking at me sheepishly.

  So he did know more than he had let on. “It’s fine, Jack. I’m happy to see you.” And that was the truth. I just knew in my heart that what we had couldn’t go any further with the relationship despite my single status, his good looks, and my burgeoning attraction to him. However, if I let my hormones do the talking, all of that was bull crap and I would be making out with him by dessert. A little making out wouldn’t be so bad, right?

  Jack opened his menu. “What’s good here?” He perused the offerings.

  “The Crawford appetizer is wonderful.”

  He looked up from his menu. “The what?”

  Damn. Damn, damn, double damn. I looked down at the menu. “The crawfish. The crawfish appetizer. It’s great. Pretty much everything is great.” I studied the list and gave some thought to the stuffed flounder.

  “I presume you’ll be having the rabbit?” he asked, a smile on his lips. He continued looking at the menu.

  “Now, why would you say that?”

  “I know a thing or two about French Canadians. And if I know one thing, they love their roadkill.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “They do, do they?”

  “Oh, yeah. The roadkillier the better.”

  “‘Killier’ isn’t a word.”

  “Oh, yes it is. See Ulysses, page four hundred and three.”

  “I’ve read Ulysses several times and I don’t remember the word ‘killier’ being in there.”

  “You’ve memorized the whole book?” he asked, daring me.

  I shook my head. “Of course not. But I would have remembered a word like that. It’s not in there.”

  He put his menu down. “Wanna bet?” He held out a pinkie. “Loser has to take the winner to dinner.”

  From his perspective, that was a win-win, but I didn’t mention that. “You’re on.” I linked pinkies with him and pulled lightly.

  He took a sip of his drink. “Messier and I used to eat at some pretty wild places when we traveled.”

  I dropped my menu. “Mark Messier?”

  He nodded casually, resuming his study of the menu.

  “The Messiah? The Captain?” Mark Messier was my favorite Ranger and the man responsible for the Rangers winning the Stanley Cup—the Holy Grail of hockey—after a forty-odd-year drought. Any insult I could have taken by his suggesting that all French Canadians ate roadkill was mitigated by his mention, and apparent friendship, with Mark Messier. And if Mark Messier ate roadkill, well, then by God, I would eat roadkill, too.

  He looked up, giving me a sly look. “Impressed?”

  “Just a bit,” I stammered.

  “Next time he’s in town, I’ll make sure we get together.”

  My heart almost stopped beating. Now he was playing hardball. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Sure. We go way back.”

  Okay, I admit, he was a bit cocky. But he also had a jocularity and casualness that suggested the personality of a border collie. Border cocky?

  He closed his menu. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you. Kevin always reminds me that I’m not as funny as I think I am.”

  And self-aware. The package just kept getting better and better.

  I reached across the table and touched his arm. “No offense taken. If I had to be completely honest with you, I would have to admit that I ate my fair share of wild game on summer vacations in Quebec. I just didn’t think I’d ever have to admit that to anyone.”

  We ended up having a great time and I wondered more than a few times how I had ended up in a situation whereby I had two men interested in me at the same time. This was Max’s domain and I didn’t even have her around to counsel me. We arrived back at my house in his car, and I turned to tell him what a great time I had. He surprised me by leaning in and planting a long, lingering kiss on my lips.

  “Make sure you look up page four hundred and three in Ulysses,” he whispered, his arms around me in a snug embrace.

  “You know as well as I do that I’m not going to find the word ‘killier’ in there,” I whispered back.

  He smiled before kissing me again. “So where do you want to go to dinner next time?” he asked, admitting defeat.

  I pulled back a little bit, which took every ounce of strength and will that I had. “Jack, listen. Things are a little complicated right now…I kind of have someone in my life—” My protestations were cut off by a very long and very involved kiss that incorporated tongues, lips, necks, and a few other body parts. My God, I thought. I’ve just gone to second base on the second date. Perish the thought of what might happen after a third, and heavens, a fourth date.

  “How about we do this?” he asked, pulling away, his face still close to mine. “Why don’t we give this a try while you’re waiting for that other thing to sort itself out?”

  Completely flustered, I swallowed hard and pulled back. “I have to take out my garbage. Tomorrow’s garbage day.”

  He looked at me, confused. “Is that a yes?”

  That was my way of saying no, but I didn’t know how to convey that without sounding like I was rejecting him. “We’ll see.” I regretted saying the words the minute they were out of my mouth.

  Jack’s face brightened at my noncommittal response and he gave me another kiss. “Good night,” he said.

  I let myself out of the car and stood in the driveway, watching him drive away. I couldn’t have fouled that date up more if I had tried. What did this guy see in me? What did any guy see in me? I looked up at the sky, now dark, and wond
ered about the laws of attraction.

  I turned to go up the driveway and was startled to see Terri standing on her driveway. “Hi, Alison.”

  “Hi, Terri.” I didn’t know how long she had been standing there but I had an inkling that she had been watching my make-out session with Jack. I smoothed my hair down self-consciously.

  “Nice car,” she said, referring to Jack’s very new, very expensive BMW. She started toward me. “A friend of yours dropped by while you were out.”

  I turned toward her. “Who?”

  “She didn’t tell me who she was. She said that you knew her husband.” Terri raised an eyebrow while conveying that piece of information. I wanted to remind her that I know plenty of women’s husbands, but the difference is, I don’t sleep with them. “And she left this.” She handed me a slim, cream-colored envelope. She waited, expecting me to open it, but I thanked her, turned, and continued up the driveway. Why in God’s name did that woman think that we had anything to talk about? And, more importantly, why was she always standing on her driveway?

  I went into the house through the front door and sat on the stairs in the hallway. I looked at the envelope, which had my name printed on the front in a beautiful, handwritten script. The note inside was short: “Alison, I hope you enjoyed the biscotti. Gianna.”

  I dropped the note on the floor as if it had caught fire. So, she knew about Peter’s visit. If that was the case, she probably knew about him driving me to Grand Central that morning. Although the note held a seemingly innocuous message, it was clear to me that Gianna wanted me to know that she knew what Peter was up to.

  And, I inferred, she was not happy.

  Chapter 16

  The next day I had two hours to kill, so I drove to the Fiftieth Precinct.

  I was still processing everything that had happened over the weekend: the wedding, my ride with Peter, my date with Jack, the note from Gianna. My conclusion was that I needed to stay far away from anyone named Miceli or McManus.

  Even though I knew I had to see Crawford to fill him in on what had transpired after the wedding, I still had myself worked up about my date with Jack. I tried to adopt a casual posture and expression so that when I did see Crawford, “I made out with a guy in his car last night!” didn’t slip from my lips or broadcast itself from my rosy cheeks.

  Crawford, on top of being great looking, kind, and responsible, is also extremely perceptive. His bullshit detector is more finely honed than that of just about anybody I’ve ever known. Nothing gets past him. Not revealing the previous night’s actions was going to prove extremely taxing to me, I was sure.

  Before I left for the precinct, though, I had taught my two morning classes, including the Modern Lit class. There was no sign of Ms. Podowsky and there hadn’t been since I had run into her at the bookstore. I wondered if she had dropped the class. But for now, I had more pressing matters to attend to so I didn’t drop by the registrar’s office to find out.

  I pulled my car up to the front of the building into one of those diagonal spots that I always had trouble backing out of. I figured if Crawford was there, he could help me back out without smashing into anything, such as a person.

  I had never been to the precinct before and I was more than a little curious about where Crawford worked. I had been in another precinct earlier that year and it was horrendous; I couldn’t imagine going to work in a place like that every day. The Fiftieth was a little bit better—a teensy bit, maybe?—and I took heart that he worked there instead of in a more dicey neighborhood.

  It was an atypical fall day in New York when I arrived at the precinct, located a mile or so south of St. Thomas. Usually, the weather is slightly warm, sometimes with a chill in the air, and sunny. Today, the weather matched the precinct building to a tee—gray, dull, and dark. I went through the heavy metal doors and into the main area of the precinct.

  I walked to the switchboard area where a very attractive female officer was manning the phones. Crawford had described his colleagues as fat, smelly, and definitely unattractive; Officer Gorman (as her name tag identified her) did not fall into any of those categories. And when she stood to greet me, I could see that not only was she not fat, she was built like a brick shithouse. And I don’t even know what that means.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “Can I help you?” Gorgeous and friendly. Great.

  “Is Detective Crawford here?” I asked.

  She smiled again, still friendly, but this time with a slight curl to her lips and an arch to one eyebrow. “Sure. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  I gave her my name and waited while she plugged a couple of numbers into the phone. “Detective Crawford? Ms. Bergeron to see you?” She waited a minute to hear his answer before hanging up, and then motioned that I should go up a flight of stairs to the squad room. I got a few feet away from the desk and heard her whisper, “You got it, Hot Pants.”

  Detective Hot Pants was Max’s name for Crawford before she really knew him. I realized now that she had probably told Fred, and this little tidbit had made its way into the precinct vernacular. I wasn’t sure having a gorgeous fellow cop of Crawford’s knowing the name made me feel all that comfortable, but I tried to let it go.

  Before I walked away, a ruddy-faced man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and equally short tie stopped next to me; he had been eavesdropping on Gorman’s phone call to Crawford, announcing my presence. He gave me the once-over, lingering a moment too long on my legs. Gorman took notice and cleared her throat.

  “Can I help you, Moran?” she asked.

  “Is this the lovely Dr. Bergeron?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  I was surprised that he knew who I was since we had never met. I took it and allowed him to hold it a little longer than he should have. “Yes.”

  He bowed at the waist. “Arthur Moran. I saw you on television.”

  Good Lord. And they say the ratings for NHL games are at an all-time low. You’d never know that, judging by how many people had seen me on television.

  He pulled me a few feet away from Gorman and dropped his voice. “I’ve been working with your boyfriend on your ex-husband’s case.” He let go of my hand and pulled up to his full five feet seven inches, pulling at the waistband of his Sansabelt pants.

  “Thank you, Detective Moran. I appreciate your hard work on this. I’m sure Ray’s family does, too.”

  “I’m very sorry about the circumstances of his death,” he said. “You know,” he said, pulling me close so that he could whisper in my ear, “this has Miceli written all over it.” He drew back and raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Really?” I said. Since Crawford wasn’t giving me any information, I decided that pumping Moran for information was the next best thing. “Do you think it was Peter Miceli or one of his men?”

  “Oh, Miceli doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore. Got to be one of his foot soldiers. Someone who’s trying to get ‘made.’” He gave me a knowing look. “Let’s just say your ex was a little indiscreet and that did not serve him well.”

  I gave him a knowing look back. “Gotcha.”

  He kept going. “And, having a pregnant daughter who’s still technically a teenager would make the most sensible father crazy.”

  So they did know. This was like taking candy from a baby. “I agree. So, will you keep working it until you locate the Miceli henchman or will it close?”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “This guy is in the weeds, so unless we can come up with something, that’s a dead end.”

  That was unfortunate, but I wasn’t surprised. I figured it was harder to locate a professional killer than someone who killed in a fit of passion or by accident. “So, my neighbors really aren’t suspects?”

  Moran laughed, a throaty chortle. “Nah. They never were. Crawford had focused on them for a while, but I told him he was wasting his time. Concannon is sick of using man hours for the case because he doesn’t think we’ll find the Miceli who did it.”

  “What about
the other women that Ray had relationships with?”

  He laughed. “We’re still working through that list.” The way he said it let me know that list was using up the most manpower.

  He paused and shook his head. “Crawford’s still working the Miceli angle. Hard. Man, he’s thick,” he said, pointing to his head with one finger. “Once he makes his mind up…oh, hey, Crawford!” he said.

  I turned to see Crawford ambling down the steps from the squad room upstairs. There was a little hitch in his step when he realized that I had been talking to Moran and his mouth turned down into a frown. “Alison.” His greeting was flat, not that I really expected him to feel me up in the lobby of the precinct. In that split second, I imagined that he knew all about my second date with Jack, even though intellectually, I knew that couldn’t be true. I tried not to look too guilty as he approached and I flashed my best smile at him. I was happy that I had worn my slutty pumps and a skirt that fell just above my knees for him. Moran had noticed, but it didn’t look like Crawford did; he focused on his colleague. “Moran. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  Moran moved off; he wasn’t that clueless. Crawford looked like he was going to wipe up the floor with him.

  Crawford said hello to Gorman and then turned to me. “You weren’t doing what I think you were doing, were you?”

  I smiled innocently. “Just a chat with a new friend,” I said.

  He threw a look in the direction of Gorman who had busied herself counting paper clips. “She heard the whole thing.” He took my elbow and steered me out of the precinct. We stood on the street, him staring down at me with a hard look on his face. “Is it that you think we’re not doing enough to close this case?” he asked.