Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "Yeah, I don't know about that." It was kind of hard to take romantic advice from a man who was miserable in his marriage and still carrying a torch for someone else. And the cowboy Texas drawl didn't help his credibility as Dear Abby, either.

  "Suit yourself," the lieutenant said with a shrug. "But if I were you, I'd ask her to dinner before it's too late."

  "I did," Muldoon told him. "She said no. She said she was tired"

  "Tired isn't no. Tired is tired. Ask her again, for Christ's sake. Ask her to lunch if you don't want to ask her to dinner again. Ask her to have a drink. Ask her out on your boat. Don't just sit around with your thumb up your butt. Ask her fucking something. Or else she's right. You are a dickhead."

  "Gee, thanks, Lieutenant."

  "Anytime."

  Mary Lou couldn't find her car keys. She was going to have to go pick up Haley in about half an hour, and she couldn't do it without her keys.

  To make matters worse, it wasn't going to be too long before it got dark, and once it did, then she'd really have trouble finding them.

  She was on her hands and knees in the Robinsons' garden, praying that any spiders and snakes she encountered would be of the nontoxic variety. She tried not to start crying again as she searched mostly by feel among the thick pink and yellow flowers.

  "May I help you?" a musically accented voice asked.

  Oh, Lord.

  She couldn't bring herself to turn and look up into the face of the man standing beside her. The leather sandals and long, almost elegant dark-skinned toes were all she could bear to focus on.

  It was the Robinsons' yard guy. She'd seen him in the neighborhood often enough over the past month or so—a tall, reed-thin, dark-haired, dark-skinned, foreign-looking man. He came every week to cut the Robinsons' lawn and tend their flower beds—one of which she was currently kneeling in, trying desperately not to crush. He was relatively new, but he kept the Robinsons' yard looking so good he'd already landed contracts with some of the other neighbors as well.

  Despite the fact that he looked as if he might spend his free time organizing an al-Qaeda terrorist cell.

  "I, uh, lost my car keys," she said. Mercy, what a stupid, foolish thing to have to admit. As if she'd been doing cartwheels here in this flower bed and they'd fallen out of her pocket.

  "I threw them over here," she went ahead and admitted, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, "so I wouldn't be tempted to drive to the Ladybug Lounge and get shit-faced drunk, all right? So, no, unless you have X-ray vision and can see where my keys landed, you probably can't help me. But thank you so very much for asking."

  The sandals walked away, thank God for small favors.

  But then the sandals came back. And she saw that the yard guy was carrying one of those metal detectors that people used on the beach to find lost jewelry and coins. "Please, allow me."

  Mary Lou extracted herself from the garden, moving back to sit on the lawn. As she brushed dirt from her knees, he turned on the doohickey, and about four seconds later, he turned it back off, then reached carefully down among the pink flowers and pulled out her keys.

  Thank God.

  Instead of handing them to her, he sat down, cross-legged, beside her.

  "Are you absolutely sure you want these back?" he said in a slightly British English-as-a-second-language accent.

  With him sitting next to her, Mary Lou could look at him— really look at his face and into his eyes. When he'd first started working next door, she'd complained to her sister about it. It wasn't that she was prejudiced against foreigners. She was the first to admit he made the Robinsons' yard look great. But really, after 9/11, who wanted strange Arabs prowling around their neighborhood?

  He was older than she'd thought from watching him from her kitchen window as he'd worked next door. Up close, she could see lines around his eyes and mouth. He wore a full beard that, although it was neatly trimmed, made his already dark face seem even darker.

  From a distance, he'd always appeared to be scowling, but she saw now that that wasn't true. His craggy features and thick eyebrows only made it seem as if he were perpetually angry. In fact, up close, she saw that his default expression was a gentle smile.

  And right now she saw nothing but kindness in his dark brown eyes.

  He held her keys loosely in his big, work-hardened hand. She could have reached out, taken them, thanked him, and walked away and that would have been that.

  But then he said, "I've seen you at some of the local meetings. I also go almost every night."

  The lawn guy went to Alcoholics Anonymous, too. She stared at him.

  "You're often there with your baby," he continued. "She is so beautiful, always smiling. You must be so very proud."

  "I am," Mary Lou said.

  He nodded. "I don't think you really want to go to the Ladybug Lounge today, do you?"

  She started to cry. It was absurd—she was sure she'd cried herself out, over on her driveway and then inside the house as well. She'd sat in her kitchen, expressing her breast milk like some kind of human cow as she'd cried and cried and cried. But here she was, melting down again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  The lawn guy just sat there. He didn't reach for her, but he didn't run away, either. He just sat quietly beside her and let her cry.

  "I'm sorry," she finally managed to say.

  "Your sponsor is not home to talk to?"

  "No."

  He nodded. "Too bad. But that was very good thinking," he told her. "Throwing away your keys. Very smart."

  Mary Lou looked up at him, wiping her eyes. "You think so?"

  He gave her an even wider but no less gentle smile. "I know it to be so. You're here and you're still sober, and maybe that very bad moment has passed."

  She wasn't so sure about that. This entire night was going to suck—picturing Sam with Alyssa... Oh, Lord, don't think about that.

  "How long have you been sober?" she asked him. "I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

  "Just over four years."

  "Wow."

  "And you?"

  "Eighteen months," she told him.

  He gave her another of those smiles. "That's excellent."

  "Not as good as you. Dear Lord, four years..."

  Out on the street, a car slowly drove past. It wasn't one of the neighbors—at least not one she recognized. What they would think, seeing them sitting here like this, she couldn't imagine.

  "The trick lies in not thinking about it as one large block of time," he told her. "It's impossible for anyone to not drink for four whole years. But to choose not to drink for today? That's still difficult, but not quite as impossible. I should have answered your question by saying I have chosen to be sober today for four years' worth of days in a row."

  "I thought Arabs weren't allowed to drink," Mary Lou said.

  "Muslims have laws in which drinking alcohol is forbidden, yes," he corrected her. "But many still do. Christians aren't supposed to take the Lord's name in vain, is that not true? Jews shouldn't eat ham or pork. And Catholics have certain rules about procreation that they tend to ignore. Just as with every religion, there are those Muslims who follow the exact rule of the law, and those who practice less strenuously— to varying degrees. I myself grew up in a household where my parents and their friends chose to embrace the ways of the West and to serve and drink alcohol. And yet we observed Ramadan and practiced our faith in other ways."

  "Where are you from?" she asked.

  He smiled. "Anaheim."

  "I meant—"

  "Saudi Arabia," he said. "My parents had an opportunity to leave when I was sixteen. We moved first to Beverly Hills, and then to Anaheim." He smiled at her again. "Where are you from?"

  Nowhere. "We moved around a lot when I was a kid," she told him. "Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana. If the town had a bar, we lived there. See, I'm a second-generation drunk. I come by it naturally."

  "But you don't drag your daughter from t
own to town, bar to bar," he pointed out.

  "Yeah, I just want to."

  "But you don't," he said again, in his gentle voice.

  Mary Lou hugged her knees tightly to her chest. "My husband's girlfriend's in town. I'm pretty sure he's going to see her tonight."

  The lawn guy was silent, and Mary Lou glanced at him. He was watching her, his expression finally somber, his eyes sad. "And this is why you wish to punish yourself... ?"

  "No," she said. "This is why I wish to get shit-faced drunk—so I don't have to think about him fucking her."

  He blinked at her foul language, but that was the extent of his reaction. He was just too goddamn relentlessly serene, and for a moment, Mary Lou hated him for that. She hated everything, everyone.

  Except Haley.

  "Maybe you need to ask yourself why you stay with him when his actions make you want to drink," he said.

  "I love him," Mary Lou said, but the words sounded hollow to her.

  "Ah. Maybe you should confront him, then, tell him you don't want him to see this woman anymore."

  "I have." She couldn't believe she was telling the Robinsons' lawn guy some of her deepest, most miserable, most pathetic secrets. "He just denies it. He says he hasn't seen her since we got married."

  "Maybe he is telling the truth."

  "She's in town. I saw her. And he called to say he wouldn't be home tonight. I don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out."

  He was silent then.

  "Just so you know, I wasn't looking for the keys so I could go drink," she told him. "I wanted to find them before it gets dark because I need them. But I wasn't going to the Ladybug, I swear. I was going to take a shower, and then go pick up my daughter from day care. That's why I need the keys. To fetch her back home."

  "And maybe tonight you'll use those keys to drive yourself to an AA meeting?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Definitely."

  "That's very good."

  "You wouldn't happen to know any that last all night, would you?"

  He sat for a moment, just looking at her with those dark as midnight, bottomless-pit eyes, as if he were trying to make up his mind. He finally reached into his pocket, took out a worn leather wallet, and pulled out a slightly bent business card.

  "This is my home phone number," he told her as he handed it to her with her keys. "I'm at home every night after nine-thirty. If you need someone to talk to, even if it's late..."

  YARD WORK, the plain white card said in a simple font. IHBRAHAM RAHMAN. It was followed by his phone number.

  "I'm not sure—" Mary Lou stopped. If my husband would approve, was what she'd been about to say. But that was a lie. Sam wouldn't give a shit if she took this man's card and called him up every night of the week.

  "Thank you," she said instead.

  Chapter 6

  THERE WAS A telephone in the bathroom, so Joan didn't have to get out of the tub when it rang. She knew who was calling, though, because she'd already received her nightly update from her boss, Myra, who was acting as Brooke Bryant's current "handler."

  Brooke's visit to Houston was going as well as could be expected—whatever that meant. There was something going on that Joan hadn't been told. Which made her job just that much harder to do.

  Myra reported that they'd be in San Diego on schedule. "Oh, and find Brooke an escort for the admiral's party— the one being held at the hotel," she'd commanded. "Find her someone loaded with medals. A captain or a commodore or—"

  "Or a Navy SEAL?" Joan had asked.

  "Yes! Even better, make him a war hero."

  "I think they probably all are at this point," Joan had told her.

  She now waited three rings before she picked up the phone. "Hello."

  "Hi, Joan, it's Mike. Muldoon," he added, as if she got dozens of phone calls all of the time from dozens of different Mikes.

  She'd been expecting his call. A man didn't work his ass off to become a Navy SEAL by lying down and accepting failure. Even if said failure was as insignificant as an inability to be an acceptable liaison to the White House public relations assistant in charge of publicity ops for the president's unconventional daughter.

  "Okay, Muldoon. Let's hear it," she said. "Make it good, expend a little emotional energy, maybe even shed a few tears, and I won't call your CO in the morning."

  He laughed with what sounded a lot like relief. Had he really been worried? "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet, Junior. You've got at least fourteen hoops to leap through before you can start thanking me." She stuck her toe up to the faucet to catch a drip, waiting to see how Junior would go over this time around.

  He didn't even acknowledge it. "I am sorry," he said. "It wasn't my intention this afternoon to frighten you."

  "Oh, boo, hiss," Joan said. "You sound completely insincere. Try again. Maybe with a little wobble in your voice. 'Oh, Joan,' " she demonstrated. " 'Please, please forgive me for being such an incredible, unbelievable asshole today. If you don't forgive me, why, I'm going to crumple into a little heap right here in the lobby of the Team Sixteen building and cry my little heart out.' "

  He laughed. "I can't say that because I happen to be calling you from home. But I am really sorry," he said. He didn't sound quite as young over the phone. "You were right—you were absolutely right. I was showing off. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to, urn..."

  Joan waited, dying to hear this, remembering his voice in her ear. You feel pretty perfect to me. He hadn't sounded too young then, either.

  He took a deep breath. "Well, I wanted to—"

  But then she didn't want to hear it. She couldn't stand to hear it. There was no way on God's green earth she could have a clandestine fling with a twenty-five-year-old Navy SEAL— even after her job here was over and she officially went on vacation. She couldn't do it. She would look too pathetic. Because it was too pathetic.

  Sure, she would enjoy it immensely while it was happening, but she'd look back upon it with great embarrassment. After it was over, it would become a total cringe-fest. Especially since said twenty-five-year-old Navy SEAL had been specifically assigned to keep her entertained. She would forever wonder if she had been just a job or a true adventure.

  And so would the rest of the world.

  So instead of hearing what exactly he wanted, she cut him off. "You know, I've been thinking about why I freaked out this afternoon, and the truth is, I wouldn't have been so upset if I didn't like you so much. If I didn't already really value your friendship" she clarified quickly. "I wasn't lying when I said that it felt like you were my long lost little brother. You're a great kid, Mike," she enunciated carefully, heavy on the K and D so he'd be sure to understand, "and I want very much for us to continue to be friends."

  Silence. Joan closed her eyes tightly, praying that he wouldn't push the issue. Praying that maybe she had been wrong about the news flash he'd sent her up on that cargo net. She was sure that he had been hitting on her, despite his denial. He couldn't have sent a more clear message if he'd used semaphore flags.

  But, please God, maybe she was wrong.

  He finally spoke. "Then you'll meet me for lunch tomorrow? I'm going to be busy right up until about 1130, but what do you say we meet at Bellitani's at noon? It's an Italian place right on the water here in Coronado."

  Lunch was good. Lunch was decidedly the most non-romantic meal of the day. Joan turned on the water, letting more hot into the tub as she refused to be disappointed.

  Well, okay. Honesty time. A very tiny part of her was disappointed. But it was the same small part that had been disappointed that time she went to Niagara Falls and didn't give in to the urge to jump over the fence and into the water churning below.

  "Great," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Great," Muldoon echoed. "Oh, and Joan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Next time you call me Junior, I'm telling Mom."

  "That was Joanie on the phone, calling from Coronado— Vince stopped
short at the door to their bedroom.

  Charlie was fast asleep, curled up on their bed, surrounded by a packet of old letters tied up with ribbon and a small pile of cloth-covered books.

  Letters from James.

  And her journals.

  The first time he'd seen that notebook with the roses on the cover was decades ago, as she hurriedly cleared her things from her bedroom to make room for him there.

  That was after he'd done a nosedive onto the Persian rug that covered the worn floorboards of Senator Howard's office. It had been day four of waiting for five short minutes of the man's nonexistent time.

  Vince had protested as stridently as possible as Charlotte brought him home with her in a taxi, which perhaps wasn't very strident considering he was shaking with fever and unable to stand on his own two feet. Aside from going to a hospital, the last thing he'd wanted to do was to remove her from her own bedroom, in her own home.

  "Our spare room is very small," she informed him as she helped him slowly climb the steps to the front porch of her apartment. It was a two- or three-family house—he couldn't tell how many apartments it held just by looking—and although the entire place needed paint, it was neat as a pin. "We can't possibly take care of you in there—not much fits besides the bed."

  The spare room was sized to hold a baby's cradle, he'd later found out. It was a room Charlie and her husband James had never gotten around to using, thinking they had all the time in the world to start a family.

  "Mother!" she shouted as she maneuvered him around the screen and pushed open the door to the house. He looked up to see a gold star hanging in the front window. Someone in this house had lost a son in the war. "Edna! I need help!"

  A woman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Oh, dear Lord!" She rushed toward them.

  "I just need to sleep," Vince said, as Charlotte and her mother-in-law half carried, half pushed him up the stairs of their house. "I don't want to trouble you any further. Please, you've already been more than kind bringing me here."