PJ found that having Thomas attend Jamison Academy had a side benefit. There was an active and supportive group of parents who looked out for each other’s kids, called simply Parents Care. She’d thrown herself into it, because she liked the way others were concerned not only about academic success but the whole well-being of their kids. Mick was in some of Thomas’s classes, and his mother Lilly Kane was a divorcée like PJ. The two women had gravitated together. The boys often spent the night at each other’s houses, and usually Winston made it a trio. It was like having a co-mom, a tremendous relief for PJ, who had once had to ask her boss to recommend a babysitter.
“Okay by me,” Thomas said, around bites of granola bar. “She makes eggs and bacon for breakfast.”
“Do you make all of your decisions based in what kind of food is available?”
“Pretty much, yeah, unless there’s girls involved. Mom, when are you and Schultz going to get married?”
So much for discussing the school week.
Schultz wanted to get married, and she wasn’t ready for it. He’d surprised her with a ring, and when she didn’t immediately say yes, Schultz assumed that she thought he wasn’t good enough for her. As he put it, “Good enough to fuck, but not good enough to commit to.” They’d talked it over, but she couldn’t get him to see her reasoning.
She still hadn’t left behind the pain of her divorce. It didn’t help that her ex-husband Steven married a woman two decades younger than PJ before the ink was dry on the divorce decree. A few months later, Steven and Carla had a baby. PJ had wanted another baby, but Steven kept putting her off. Apparently, Carla was more suitable to carry the offspring of his loins.
That hurt.
Schultz had gone through major changes, too. His separation after thirty years of marriage had come as a shock to him, and was followed by divorce and his wife’s remarriage within a couple of months—nowhere near Steven’s record, but still a blow. And then the biggest blow of all, the murder of his only son.
PJ felt they needed time to work through those life-altering things on their own. From years of experience as a psychologist, she knew that decisions made right now might be rebound ones, to be regretted later. Schultz didn’t worry about that. He just wanted to move on to happier times together.
She loved him. She loved his dedication, his caring for the victims and their families, his search for justice, his desire for her. Schultz had a hot core, even if the surface was chilly at times. He was a great father to Thomas, and that meant a lot to her. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Just not yet.
If they got married, she couldn’t be his boss. That meant either he left CHIP or she did. It was wrong already, just having the relationship that they did. She was probably breaking regulations every time they made love.
“It’s complicated,” she ventured, her eyes not meeting her son’s.
“C’mon, Mom, that’s bull. Do you love him or not?”
I just came home to take a shower and change clothes.
“Yes. I mean, I think so.”
“So you should get married and we should move in with him. His house is bigger, and it’s got this neat room on the third floor. I could live up there. You guys would have more privacy, too. I know you’re having sex.”
You do? What, I glow or something?
“Thomas, that’s none of your business.”
“In a way it is my business, Mom. Haven’t you always told me that sex is for committed relationships, for marriage?”
Cornered.
“Yes, I strongly feel that way.”
“So that’s the rule for me, but not for you?” he said.
Redirect.
“Don’t you have packing to do if you’re spending the night at Mick’s?”
The front doorbell rang. It was Lilly, to pick up Thomas and the cat and take them to her house. PJ had been saved by the bell. She enticed Megabite into the cat carrying case with a couple of treats, while Lilly talked silly baby talk to the cat. Megabite was a regular visitor at Lilly’s house too, where there was company in the form of a couple of burly male cats, Peanut and Butter, brothers rescued from a shelter. Megabite had them wrapped around her paw, and Lilly too.
Thomas grabbed a duffle bag, dashed around collecting books and clothing, and was out the door into the winter night. He turned around on the front porch and smiled. It was the smile of someone older, of her son as the man he was on the verge of being. The smile of his gentle soul. She felt a surge of love that brought tears to her eyes.
I’d die for him. I’d kill for him.
“Love you, Mom. I studied for the math test.”
A few minutes later, PJ went out to her car to retrieve a stack of notes. With the house to herself, she was going to work until her eyes wouldn’t stay open, catch a few hours of sleep, and be back in the office before 6 a.m.
When she opened the door of her car, the dome light illuminated the interior. She froze. On the passenger seat was a box wrapped like a gift, complete with a red bow.
It looked so cheery sitting there. It might also blow her to smithereens.
Her hand still on the door handle, she hoped she hadn’t done something already to trigger a bomb. Her heart beat against her ribcage like a bird fluttering its wings. Air slipped gently in and out her open lips, and she didn’t dare blink. She pulled her hand away from the handle and stepped back, planting her right foot firmly, then drawing her left level with it. She moved backward across her yard that way, like dancing with an invisible partner. Her eyes were glued on the package she could see through the open car door. Ten steps back she stopped and took a deep breath.
Her hand moved to her pocket and retrieved her cellphone. She used it to call 911 and describe the situation, and then to call Schultz. Then, as calmly as she could, she walked down her driveway to the curb. No one was on the sidewalk, and there were no cars on the street that she didn’t recognize as belonging to people who lived nearby. Her breath rose in frozen puffs as she waited. The house was between her and the car—was that enough protection, if the box was a bomb? What about her neighbors? There was nothing to do but wait.
A patrol car got there first, followed a couple of minutes later by a first responder from the bomb squad, who called for a removal unit. Schultz arrived like a bowling ball, knocking aside like pins anyone who got in his way until he reached PJ.
It took the squad only a few minutes to determine that the box wasn’t going to explode. PJ was vastly relieved, and at the same time, a little embarrassed. Her street was lit up with flashing lights and men with protective suits were trampling her perennial beds and holding mirrors under her car, checking for bombs attached to the underside. The box was removed and sent off to be examined in the evidence lab. At Schultz’s insistence, PJ’s home was in the process of being swept for bombs.
PJ waved to Mr. and Mrs. Bickwallace across the street, standing at their front picture window looking like Grant Wood’s American Gothic in pajamas.
Chapter 11
THE AIR INSIDE THE car is getting cold. Soon I’ll be able to see my breath in here. I don’t want to run the heater, though, because an idling car on the street draws attention like a screaming kid in a five star restaurant. I’ll have to tough it out.
Time glides by on ice skates, the measured swoosh-swoosh of blade cutting ice matching the heartbeat I hear in my ears. Marilee is entertaining her gentleman friend and I’m out here almost seeing my breath while she heats up the sheets. For some people, the twisted ones, that would be reason enough to kill her. I have higher standards, though. Higher standards and, increasingly, class.
Marilee’s photo is on the seat next to me lying on the sheet of plastic I have thoughtfully covered the seat with, the photo I took when I was auditioning her for the part. I can’t see it now because of the darkness, but I’ve memorized it. Brown hair the shade of oak leaves clinging to the tree in the middle of winter, average features except for an undersized chin. Twinkle wrinkles—the
ones at the corners of her eyes when she screws up her face—should be covered with makeup, but in this photo are plain to see. She doesn’t have smile lines, indicating that she probably doesn’t smile much. Unremarkable body, but her tits haven’t given in to gravity yet. They are her best assets, certainly better than those bovine eyes.
The door to Marilee’s cramped frame bungalow opens and disgorges Polyester Guy. P.G. embraces her on the threshold and plants a sloppy one on her lips. I can almost hear the saliva churning from here. There’s something about the way he walks, the easy, confident step of a man who’s comfortable in his body, maybe a former athlete. Could be—the shoulders are still there, and a butt that would look better in a pair of tight jeans than the shapeless pants he’s wearing. I’m pretty sure he looks better with his clothes off than on, and that’s not something you can say about everybody.
She blows him a kiss, and P. G. departs in his Caddy of questionable vintage that resembles an ocean liner. I think he missed appealing to hot chicks with his ride by about thirty years.
I wait longer to make sure everything’s quiet. Marilee’s home is fairly narrow and deep, like a domino turned up on its side. The space between her home and the next is deeply shadowed. With my black, skin-tight, Lycra jersey and tights, I’ll disappear when I get in there. An evil wallflower, that’s me.
I’m not wearing underwear under my outfit. Makes me feel a little wicked. I tried underwear, marching around my house like a little soldier, trying out my new uniform. Got chafed. Now I trust the breathability of the fabric to keep me comfortable. That’s something Marilee won’t have for long. Breathe-ability.
The car windows fog up on the inside, and I rub a small circle clean so I can see the door and a little way down in each direction on the sidewalk. Clear.
I snap on three pairs of latex gloves and pull a ski mask over my head, and move stealthily to the house. There’s an unpleasant smell in the air, garbage cans, some of them open, in front of each house. Tomorrow’s pick-up day. Even muted by the cold, the blend of rotten meat, decaying vegetables, and probably somebody’s dead hamster is enough to send a tremor of revulsion through me.
Mentally I go through my inventory, like in the barn. This time, I’m counting on surprise. A. knife, that’s all I have. The bare-ass minimum.
The shadowed space between the houses is a mouth that swallows me. I slide down the gullet and squeeze myself out into the cluttered rear yard. Understandably, I feel turd-like, but a quick shake and the feeling’s gone.
Marilee is one of those people who prefers a cold bedroom, colder than the rest of her house. I already knew that, of course. I’ve been here before. Her bedroom window is open an inch, inviting in death’s unwarmed breath. As I listen at the window, the ground is unyielding beneath my feet, setting a standard for me. I must not yield, or my goals will never be achieved. The shower’s running. She’s scrubbing away the traces left by P.G. I hope she uses mouthwash, too.
My fingers fit under the open window, and it slides up easily, a break for me. At this point, I’d like to say that I vaulted through the window with the grace of Catwoman, but the truth is I hauled myself up and tumbled into a heap on her scuffed wood floor. I return the window to its original position.
The bathroom door’s open, and I can see steam condensed on the mirror. The smell of sex hangs in the air. It’s too bad there’s a glass shower door instead of a curtain. The urge to rend a shower curtain with a butcher knife, hear the screams, and watch the blood swirl down the drain is nearly overwhelming.
Chapter 12
WELCOME TO GEMSWORDCHAT, VYZER_lok!
Now talking in the Mage’s Secret Chamber. Enjoy your stay.
gronz_eye has entered the room
gronz_eye has left the room
Chapter 13
THE NEXT DAY FRANK Simmons was arrested for the murder of his brother-in-law, on the basis of the bloody knife found in his home.
PJ was still trying to fit that into her idea of a two-person murder team when she got news of the contents of the box in her car. It was another album of nude pictures, close-ups of small areas. A foreplay album. Arlan’s distinctive U-shaped scar was present. A butterfly tattoo looked just like the one Schultz mentioned Fredericka had. Their fingerprints had been found on every page, and two of the pages were stuck together with Arlan’s semen.
Who left the foreplay album for PJ to find? Apparently it had been spirited out of Fredericka’s home the night that the woman had a feeling her place had been broken into. Someone obviously wanted to bring the love affair to light. So how did Frank Simmons figure into all of this? Was Fredericka playing around with him, too? She drew a diagram on a pad of paper, with arrows to indicate who might have been sleeping with whom. There were more arrows than in Cupid’s quiver.
“Let’s go to Millie’s,” Schultz said. He’d knocked on PJ’s office door and opened it before she could respond. “I’ll spring for a meal. ’Course, I might expect something in return.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows rapidly. PJ’s imagination responded to the suggestion of something in return and felt a rush of warmth below her belly.
The first time they made love, she’d wondered whether her over-forty body with padding on the hips still held any interest for a man. PJ had lost confidence since the divorce. When she’d expressed her fears, Leo told her she was beautiful. He’d been worried about the same thing, since he didn’t have the corrugated abdomen and muscular chest he’d had as a young cop. She told him he was beautiful, too, and she meant it. He was a great lover, playful, tender, and passionate, sometimes all three at once.
“I could use a break,” she said. “I have a lot more to do here, though. I’ll have to come back and work into the evening.”
“Hell, me too. Detectives don’t get regular sleeping hours, Doc. Regular loving hours, either.” He tilted his head to point toward the hallway. “Coming?”
PJ pushed open the door of Millie’s Diner and breathed in deeply. The scents of coffee brewing, sweet rolls baking, burgers frying, and onions sautéing entered her nose and went straight to the pleasure center of her brain. A smile spread over her face, and the wrinkles between her brows flattened out, leaving her with a smooth, untroubled forehead, at least for now.
It was dinnertime and most of the tables were occupied, but there were several spots open at the counter. S
he strode across the black-and-white linoleum and headed for her usual stool. The stools had round padded tops and chrome legs. She gave the top of hers a twirl to lower it enough that her feet wouldn’t dangle. Schultz took her coat and his, and hung them on a peg that was already used. There weren’t any empties, because Millie refused to put up more than ten of them. He settled into his usual spot, leaving one stool between them, the one that had uneven legs and rocked slightly. The one that the regulars avoided.
The windows that spanned the front of the diner were steamed up from the contrast between the indoor temperature, which hovered somewhere between bake and broil, and an outdoor temperature that had slipped below freezing. Millie’s clientele had seen the large expanse of window glass as ripe for finger-drawn graffiti. Limericks, phone numbers, sketches inspired more by hormones than an artist’s muse, and several hearts with initials graced the space. In a few places, Millie had obliterated freedom of expression with a towel.
A three-foot aluminum Christmas tree occupied a section of the floor underneath the pay phone, between two doors with “Women” and “Others” neatly lettered on in white paint. A spotlight with a rotating filter stood next to the tree, lighting it alternately with red and green. Above each door, a few Christmas cards were tacked to the frame. A sprig of plastic poinsettia in a small vase on each table completed the seasonal decorations.
Schultz spotted the proprietor, a woman in her sixties, and waved her over. “You can take our order anytime,” he said. “We’ve been here fifteen minutes already.”
Millie snorted, made a U-turn, and headed away from them.
“Hey, service here,” Schultz said.
Millie made the rounds of the tables, chatting and refreshing coffee cups, taking her time. Finally she headed their way with a pot of coffee in one hand and her order tablet in the other. Schultz and PJ turned over the coffee cups in front of them, and a stream of coffee filled each. Not a drop spilled as Millie switched from one cup to the other. There was only one type of coffee—hot and strong. No vanilla crème, no hazelnut latte.
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