Double Indemnity

by Maggie Kavanagh

  Yeah, he was a damn comedian.

  SAM HAD never been able to shake curiosity. As the days passed, the mainstream press continued to treat Emma’s death like an average break-in/homicide. Nathan had been released from custody with no charges, and it looked like maybe he was off the hook after all. Sam couldn’t help wondering whether Nathan had friends or family nearby to help him through.

  On the morning of the funeral, Sam dressed in the one shitty suit he owned and stationed himself in the back pew at the church. He’d never been a religious person, but he couldn’t deny the comfort of ceremony. The whole police department was there, even Petersen. People filed in dressed in black—mourners and onlookers full of morbid curiosity. Sam wondered which category he fell into.

  When the service began, he saw Nathan sitting toward the front, next to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to him. She couldn’t be anyone but his mother. Something eased inside Sam’s chest. Yet after the funeral ended, he went home feeling strangely vacant. He thought maybe he should write a blog entry, but he had nothing to say.

  RACHEL LET herself into his apartment in the middle of a Sox/Yankees game. She flopped down on the couch and propped her feet up on the square inch of the coffee table that remained uncluttered. “It smells like a shithole in here, Sam.”

  “I like to think of it as my own personal potpourri—beer and old Chinese food. It’s got a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  “Don’t forget the dirty socks. Jesus, how do you even bring guys back here?” She nudged a can out of the way with one of her pointy-toed shoes.

  “I don’t.” In fact, he hadn’t hooked up since Cowboy Boots—over a century earlier.

  “Right. Never show them where you live. I forgot.”

  “How could you forget my golden rule?” Sam flipped the channel. He hated commercials. And he’d finished all the beer in his fridge.

  Rachel cleared her throat. “Are you all right, Sam?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Yuri told me about what happened.”

  Shit. Yuri and his damned big mouth. “I’m fine.”

  “He says you knew her, the policewoman who was killed.”

  “Yeah, I knew her.”

  “It’s terrible. Jesus, to die so young.” She winced.

  Sam sagged back against the couch. Even so many years later, he hated being reminded of his parents when he didn’t expect it. He felt like a deep-sea creature suddenly yanked from the bottom of the ocean and exposed to air and light. Sam took a deep breath, but oxygen felt like poison.

  “Sorry, Sam. I didn’t—”

  He waved his hand. “It’s all right. Listen, what are you up to tonight? You feel like going out?”

  “Can’t. Alex and I have a date.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t want to interfere with the beaver brigade.”

  She punched him. “Don’t be an asshole. I better go, though, or I’ll be late. I wanted to stop by and see if you needed anything.”

  “I told you, I’m good. I don’t need anything except more beer, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  “That’s the last thing you need, Sam. Hey—” She punched him again, hard, and he grunted.

  “What the fuck, Rach?”

  “I’m worried about you. Yuri’s worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. I thought you were going to write something about Feldman? What happened with that?”

  “There’s no story. And I don’t feel like it.”

  “How many have you had tonight?”

  “Sorry. I can’t hear you over the sound of this annoying whining in my ear.”

  The door slammed behind her. Sam flung the remote onto the coffee table, upsetting the precarious balance of trash he’d worked so hard to cultivate. He was fine.

  Chapter 5

  EVEN IN relation to all the dumb things Sam had done in his life, standing outside the Walkers’ home late on a Friday night ranked as one of the stupidest. When he’d gotten in his truck and started driving, he hadn’t planned a destination. It just sort of happened.

  Darkened windows gazed back at him, blank and vacant, but the Mercedes was parked in the drive. Sam rang the doorbell again. Once the chime faded, only the sound of crickets in the fields beyond the house remained.

  It occurred to him the killer had stood right here, had maybe even rung the doorbell as he did for the second time. And Emma had come to the door to greet the stranger, unsuspecting, vulnerable, and at ease in her own home. His gut twisted, chased by the doubt in the back of his mind that perhaps it hadn’t been a stranger, after all. So why had he come?

  Try as he might, he couldn’t forget Nathan’s devastated expression at the police station. Maybe Sam was a sucker for lost causes.

  He paused, finger hovering over the doorbell a third time. Maybe Nathan had cut out of town after all and left his car behind. Or maybe….

  The pool glowed a luminescent blue-green. Empty deck chairs lined the perimeter, giving the surroundings a lonely, expectant feel, waiting for a party that would never happen. Empty except for one. In the far corner by the herb garden, Nathan sat with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He didn’t say anything, and when Sam came closer, he realized how unfocused Nathan’s gaze was. Made sense given the half-drunk fifth of Jack clutched against his chest. He looked up at Sam and lifted the bottle in salute.

  “Want some?”

  Sam eased the bottle away and took a small sip, just enough to feel the burn, before he set it down on an adjacent table. Nathan didn’t seem to notice. He fumbled in his front shirt pocket for a pack of smokes and lit a new one off the back of the other. “I quit, you know. A few years back. Emma didn’t like it. It’s like riding a horse, though.” He inhaled deeply and shuddered, suppressing a cough. “Well, maybe not exactly. You smoke?”

  “Nah, I never smoked, not even in college. Did pretty much everything else.”

  Nathan let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob and leaned his head back against the chair. He took a drag of the cigarette. “I don’t know what the fuck to do.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” God, how many times had Sam heard the same lame comment himself? It was the kind of phrase people used when they didn’t know what else to say, exactly his position now. Nathan’s dark eyes flicked to his.

  “You know, outside of my family, you’re the first person who’s said that to me? This whole town thinks I did it.” He shook his head and stretched his arm to reach for the bottle. Sam had half a mind to take it from him and pour it out, but he’d dealt with the kind of grief that rattled your bones so hard nothing could put you back together. Still, he winced a little when Nathan drank so deeply he choked on the liquor. He was a man intent on drinking himself into oblivion. It was strange seeing it from the outside, for a change.

  “Gimme some more of that.” Sam dragged over a chair and tucked the bottle behind him when he sat—an old trick Rachel had pulled on him more than once.

  Nathan didn’t complain. He looked Sam over, his gaze watchful despite his near stupor, as though observation were an ingrained reflex. The attention made Sam mildly warm.

  After another beat, Nathan butted out the cigarette and struggled to stand.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sam stood as quickly as he’d sat down, and in good time too. Nathan almost dropped like a sack of rocks before Sam got his arm around his waist. For a moment, Nathan sagged against Sam, resting his weight against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam realized the full extent of Nathan’s height. This close, he seemed to tower over Sam’s five-foot-nine frame. His warm muscles flexed underneath his thin cotton shirt, and his hot, alcoholic breath tickled Sam’s ear almost like an invitation. Sam couldn’t help responding despite the inappropriateness of the situation. Drinking and tragedy always made him think about sex.

  “Maybe we should get you inside.”

  “I can walk.” Nathan didn’t try to push himsel
f away, however. If anything, he seemed to press even closer to Sam.

  “All right. Well, show me your stuff, then.”

  Somehow they managed to negotiate the chairs and Nathan’s discarded shoes without any major incident as they skirted the edge of the pool on their way toward the house. The crickets, singing their chorus into the night, were louder in the tall grass beyond the yard. Sam remembered a lesson from grade school about what made the sound. There’d been controversy in his class over whether crickets rubbed their legs or their wings together. The teacher had held up a jar of crickets and instructed the children that male crickets made chirping sounds with their wings, which served as both a mating call to females and a warning to other males. Later, one of the boys who’d been embarrassed to be wrong ripped off all of the crickets’ wings. This, of course, only proved the teacher right. They couldn’t sing anymore.

  As they entered the house, Sam disentangled himself from Nathan’s grip to search for a light switch. The living room flooded into view. From the looks of it, Nathan had been sleeping on the couch. A messily bunched blanket and a pillow decorated one side of it, and the cushions were slightly askew.

  “Is this where you’re crashing?”

  Nathan blinked slowly. “All of her stuff is upstairs.”

  “I got you.”

  For lack of anything else to do, Sam shook out the blanket and fluffed the pillow, feeling self-conscious all the while. Aside from the observation out by the pool, Nathan had yet to ask him what the hell he was doing there.

  “Here,” Sam said, gesturing to the pseudobed he’d created. “Why don’t you come and lie down?”

  “I would, if I’d be able to sleep. Unfortunately….” Nathan swayed on his feet. “I can’t.”

  “The amount you drank, I’ll bet you pass out in five seconds flat.”

  “Whoever killed Emma is still out there. I can’t sleep until I find who did it.” His eyes gleamed and sharpened. Sam noticed a black handgun on the coffee table, in reaching distance of the couch. Nathan picked it up and a chill ran up Sam’s spine.

  “Well, you’re not going to find anyone drunk as a skunk. Better sleep it off, Nathan, and save it for the cops.”

  “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

  Sam threw up his hands. “Whoa. I’m only saying you’re no use to anyone like this, certainly not to Emma. If you want to help the investigation, this isn’t the way to do it.” He gestured toward the gun.

  The fight seemed to go out of Nathan again. “I don’t think I can stay in this house tonight. I need to get out of here.”

  “Do you want to sleep at my place?” The words escaped Sam’s mouth before he could stop them. Nathan stared at him dumbly. “I mean, it’s not much, certainly not anything comparable to what you’re used to. I’ve only got the one bed and it sags in the middle. But you’re more than welcome to take it, and I’ll sleep on the couch. That is, if you want.” Sam ran a hand through his hair and stared at his feet. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

  “No, no, I… yeah.”

  Sam stood awkwardly in the hall and waited while Nathan gathered a few things, like they were going to a slumber party. He should have kept his mouth shut. He never thought Nathan would actually say yes, and now he had to play host to a grieving man in an apartment full of takeout containers and dirty laundry. His sheets were probably ripe enough to get up and walk away on their own.

  “My truck’s out here.” Sam led the way after Nathan locked the door. He carried a small bag and had managed to get a pair of shoes on his feet and tie them. He left the gun on the entryway table. Maybe the random invitation had sobered him up.

  Nathan climbed into the passenger’s seat and nearly fell back out trying to close the door. Maybe not.

  “It’s about a twenty-minute drive. You need me to pull over, let me know.”

  “I’ll be fine.” The haughtiness in his tone made Sam smile to himself as he started the engine. His truck rumbled loudly to life. The muffler and exhaust needed replacing, but Sam hadn’t gotten around to it. He’d probably need a new car altogether before the winter set in. Fat chance given the state of his finances.

  By the time they reached Sam’s neighborhood, Nathan had nodded off. He startled awake when Sam shook his arm.

  “Here we are,” Sam said. “Home, sweet home.”

  Sam got out of the truck and helped Nathan up the four flights of stairs. If Nathan leaned a little too hard on Sam or got a little too close, Sam didn’t say anything about it. He had left the TV on, so some sitcom laugh track greeted them as they entered. It was hot and loud inside the apartment. The asshole upstairs was having a party.

  Sam’s hand-me-down couch, a floral eyesore courtesy of his grandparents’ retirement to Florida, seemed to catch Nathan by surprise. He blinked and looked around, and Sam’s stomach squirmed with shame. How could he expect a guy like Nathan to be comfortable here?

  “It’s nice.”

  “It’s terrible, but it’s home.” Sam gestured for Nathan to follow. “I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

  He made use of Nathan’s delayed reaction time to tidy up the floor and kick some dirty clothes under the bed. Fuck. No wonder he never brought guys back here. The place really was a shithole. He vowed to be more diligent in his cleaning enterprises and turned on the light. Nathan watched him from the doorway.

  “Sorry it’s kind of a mess. I don’t usually have guys over. Or girls. Er, anyone, really.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate your hospitality, and to be honest, I’d rather sleep in a pit of vipers than at home.”

  “Indiana Jones fan, huh? I guess this is one step up from vipers.”

  “At least two, I’d say.”

  They smiled at one another for a moment, but then Nathan’s face shuttered. “Thanks again, Sam.”

  Taking it as his cue, Sam headed for the door. “It’s no problem. I know what it’s like not to be able to sleep.”

  He didn’t stay for further explanations. The last thing Nathan needed to hear was Sam’s own sob story. One of the worst memories Sam had of the time right after the accident was people sharing the tragedies in their own lives to make him feel better. As if hearing how much the world sucked could ever do that.

  Sam punched one of the overly fluffy couch pillows and settled down with the TV still on. It always helped him fall asleep.

  The next morning he awoke with a crick in his neck to the sounds of someone trying to be quiet in the kitchen and mostly failing. He found Nathan, still wearing his clothes from the previous night, knocking back a couple of painkillers with a pint glass chaser of water.

  “How’re you feeling?” Sam asked.

  “Like hell.” He grimaced. “It’s a good thing you came over when you did, or I’d probably be face down in the pool by now.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t. It would have been a pain in the ass to drag you out.”

  Nathan gave him a half smile and refilled his glass from the tap. He drained it in a few long pulls, looking lean and graceful with his head tilted back. After he’d finished and wiped his mouth with his hand, he set the glass on the counter. “Why did you come over last night?”

  Sam grasped for a rationale that wouldn’t sound creepy or stalkerish, but he had nothing. “I thought you might need a friend.”

  “Emma always liked you, you know.”

  “I liked her too.”

  “She thought you might have a crush on me.”

  “What?”

  Nathan’s face paled. Sam’s first instinct, to reach out and steady him, took him by surprise. He had no idea if such a touch would be wanted. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  “I realize I said liked. It will never be like again. The present tense is gone. She’s gone.”

  “Shit, Nathan.”

  Sam had a small table and chair set in the kitchen, which he normally used to store mail and newspapers, but he figured it could also serve its real purpose. He cleaned it off,
piled the papers in a stack on the floor, and set about brewing coffee, aware of Nathan’s eyes on his back. The guy seemed tied together with string, and Sam figured he better tread with caution.

  “How do you like your coffee? Cream and sugar?” He peered into the fridge.

  “Black is fine.”

  “Perfect, because I don’t have either.” His cupboards were bare, and he didn’t have much to offer by way of breakfast save bread and butter barely hanging on to its expiration date. He made toast for both of them and set plates down on the table along with the coffee. Nathan eyed the meager spread with a strange expression. He picked up a piece and stared as if toast were a new thing.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Sorry it’s not much. Haven’t had much time to shop or cook lately.” Not that he’d cook even if he had the time, but Nathan didn’t need to know. The comment seemed to be enough to break Nathan out of his quiet, though. He nodded.

  “You work a lot.”

  “Yep, twenty-four seven, feels like.”

  “Emma was similar. Always at work. Working at home when she was off. She wanted to make detective.”

  Silence descended as Nathan sipped his coffee, and Sam took the opportunity to study him. The pronounced dark circles suggested he hadn’t slept well again, and his skin had the unnatural pallor of a hard night of drinking. But the expression in his eyes—dull and resigned—bothered Sam the most.

  “What do you do for work?” Sam asked.

  “I guess you could say I’m a consultant.” He punctuated the words with an efficient bite of toast. “I don’t think I’ll be going back to work any time soon.”

  “Sometimes I find it’s a good distraction.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t think I want to be distracted. I have to find who did this.”

  “You don’t trust the police to find out?”

  Nathan pursed his lips. It seemed like he wanted to say something but was weighing his options. “I don’t trust anyone.”