by Julie Hyzy
“How did you know we were coming to see you?” I asked Fitch even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“Harry Linka called,” he answered, confirming my suspicion. He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, arms crossed. “What’re you doing, bringing up old stuff from so many years ago? What’s it to you?”
Was he serious? “Anthony Paras was my dad,” I said in a tone that implied that was explanation enough.
“I remember Tony.” A shadow crossed his features. It could have been smoke, but I thought it was something more. “Your dad, God rest his soul, is at peace, right?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Let the dead have their rest. You let this go, okay, little girl?” As if to emphasize that it didn’t matter, he blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling.
I mirrored him, placing my elbows on the turquoise tabletop, crossing my arms and staring him straight in the eye. “I haven’t been called ‘little girl’ in a long time,” I said. “And I’m not so sure my dad is at peace. I don’t think you believe he is, either, do you?”
Fitch glanced away.
Ingrid, who’d stopped washing dishes and was patently listening in on the conversation, asked, “Is that the man who was murdered all those years ago?” then answered her own question with a hand to her throat. “It is. I remember now. Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” she said to me. “That was your dad, huh?”
“Ingrid.” Fitch’s voice was sharp.
She ignored him. “You must have been just a little thing back then.”
Ingrid wouldn’t have answers for me, but I knew Fitch would. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be nice to the woman. She was one of the first people to show any sympathy about my dad’s death. To everyone else, it had been so long ago that the story was better forgotten.
“I was,” I said. “I barely remember him.”
“Then why bother me?” Mickey asked.
I ignored the question, instead choosing to push my luck. I wasn’t going to give up until he kicked me out. “Why did you leave Pluto?” I asked.
He slid another glance toward his wife. One corner of her mouth curled downward and she turned back to the dishes. To us, he said, “Disability.”
Unlike Linka, Fitch here wasn’t confined to a wheelchair. Disabilities came in many different forms, however. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Pushing again, I asked, “What happened?”
Mickey worked his tongue along his teeth, as though attempting to dislodge an errant morsel from dinner. “Ticker problems,” he said, tapping his chest. “My doc told me I had to quit. If I didn’t I’d be dead in a couple of months.”
Behind Gav, Ingrid made a noise.
Fitch took another long drag of his cigarette, regarding me carefully.
“Was this before or after Harold Linka’s accident?” I asked.
“After,” he said. “Couple weeks later.”
I sat back a little, putting the pieces together. “That’s quite a coincidence,” I said. “Three executives out of work from Pluto in a little over a month’s time. My dad was murdered, Linka had his accident, and then you were released on disability.”
His brows gave a disinterested jerk upward. “Like you said, coincidence.”
I could feel tension emanate my way from Gav. “How’s your heart these days?” I asked Fitch. “Have you had any surgery or do you go for therapy….” I let the thought hang hoping he’d fill in the details.
“Nope. Nothing like that.” He stubbed his cigarette into the pile of gray ash next to him. “I’m the picture of health.” He gave a phlegmy cough. “’Course, my lungs would be better off if I gave these up.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ingrid’s head turn slightly. Fitch must have noticed the movement but he didn’t acknowledge her. He stared at me with baleful eyes. “Quitting Pluto was the only medicine I needed. Kinda like a miracle, huh?”
“I guess it was,” I said. “Where did you work after that?”
He lit up another cigarette and I could tell it was to slow the conversation. “Haven’t held a job since. Ingrid’s been a good wife all these years. Just like that old commercial, she not only brings home the bacon, she fries it up for me, too.”
My heart went out to the woman studiously washing dishes, her back to us. Probably so we couldn’t read the disappointment on her face. I thought about her husband’s artwork proudly displayed on bare walls and the meticulously placed doilies. This wasn’t a woman who sought pity.
“You don’t want to hear my sob stories,” Fitch said. “You came here to ask about your dad. You want to know who killed him.”
My heart leapt. “I do.”
“Sorry that you came all this way for nothing, then, because I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He smirked. “Can’t tell you what I don’t know. He was where he shouldn’t be, that’s all anyone knows for sure.”
“I don’t believe he was selling Pluto’s secrets to a rival corporation.”
Fitch shrugged, but didn’t respond.
“Do you?” I asked.
“I liked your dad,” he said. “He was fair. A decent guy. You don’t meet too many decent guys anymore.”
Ingrid had turned fully now. Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she said, “I remember how upset you were when that happened.” She gave me a sad look. “When your dad was killed, I mean.” To Fitch, she continued, “You were so upset back then. I never saw you like that before.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You scared me, Mickey. You kept saying that things were wrong, really wrong—”
Fitch cut her off. “You think? Yeah, things were wrong. A guy I knew had been killed in cold blood. Was I supposed to be happy about it?”
“It was more than that,” she said. “You know it was. Maybe if you talk about it—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he fairly shouted. “End of story.” To me, he said, “Get out of here. I’m done reminiscing for the night.”
This little interchange had been the biggest break I’d gotten yet. I wasn’t about to leave. Not until I got answers. Gav didn’t seem inclined to move, either. “Mr. Fitch, I’m not trying to get anyone into trouble.”
“Sure you’re not.” He sent a scathing look at his wife. “She’s talking out her backside. She doesn’t know anything that went on at that place.”
“But you do,” I said simply. “What happened to my dad? I know you know.”
He slammed both fists on the turquoise tabletop, making us all jump. “I do not know.” His lip curled showing his teeth but I got the sense his anger was directed inward, not at me. “Get out of my house. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
“But…”
“You heard me. Ingrid, get these people out of here. Don’t let them in again.” He pushed himself up to a standing position and shuffled to the far side of the refrigerator, toward a door I hadn’t previously noticed. He waved a hand up over the top of his head in a dismissive gesture. “You shouldn’t have let them in.”
The resigned look on her face let me know that not only was she used to him barking orders at her, she was used to complying. “I’m sorry,” she said, opening the plastic accordion door again. “I think you better go now.”
We filed out ahead of her, making our way quickly to the front door. She opened it for us as I fished in my purse. “Here,” I said impulsively. “This is my business card. If, for any reason, your husband changes his mind…”
She gave me a skeptical stare. “I don’t know that he will,” she said. “He’s pretty worked up.”
“My cell phone number is on there, too,” I said.
She looked down at the little card for the first time, her eyes jumping back to meet mine in sudden surprise. “You work at the White House?”
“I do.”
Ingrid’s demeanor had morphed from submissive to fearful. “Mickey’s not in any trouble, is he?” She gave Gav a quick scrutiny. “Are you an FBI agent? You aren’t planning to arrest him for anything, are you?�
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Gav’s voice was quiet but firm. “If he’s not guilty of anything, he has nothing to worry about, does he?”
CHAPTER 16
“GUESS WHAT I PICKED UP FOR YOU,” I SAID TO Gav Sunday morning as I dug through one of the many bags I’d lugged in and dropped onto his table.
He stood next to me, coffee cup in one hand, pawing through my grocery purchases with the other. “I thought I was making dinner tonight.”
I grinned. “You left your shopping list on the side of the refrigerator. I figured I’d pick up what you needed since I was going out anyway.”
“I would have gotten to it this afternoon,” he said, “but that was nice of you. What did you go out for?”
I’d tucked it behind my back. “You really want to know?”
He gave me that narrow-eyed amused look I loved so much. “Please,” he said, deadpan. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Ta-da!”
He held his coffee mug in both hands and nodded, decidedly unimpressed. “A shower curtain.”
“Told you that you needed a new one.”
After I pulled the fabric out from its plastic packaging, he fingered it. “I’m seeing a new theme in my life here.”
I gave him my best suspicious glare. “And that is?”
“Showers. They appear to play a major role in our relationship.”
“How so?”
“Let’s examine the evidence,” he said. “You admit that you, your mom, and nana discussed me while I was in the shower.” He pointed. “Your mom, nana, and I talked about you while you were in the shower. We all talked about your mom while she was in there.” He tapped his lips. “How did your nana escape this fate?”
“She sneaks away when no one is paying attention,” I said.
“Smart lady. All this and now you bring me a brand-new curtain for my apartment.” He held it up one-handed, allowing the red plaid fabric to tumble to his feet. “No balloons. Very masculine. But I can’t help thinking all this talk of showers is the universe’s way of telling me that I need to clean up my act.”
“You?” I asked with a laugh. “You’re the straightest arrow I’ve ever met.”
He put the coffee mug down on the table with a solid clunk. “You haven’t seen my dark side.”
I stepped closer, pressing the shower curtain between us as I tilted my face to look up at him. “Will I?”
A noise rumbled in his chest. “Let’s hope not.”
THAT EVENING, WE CLEARED OUR DINNER plates away. “This was wonderful,” I said for the third time.
Gav shook his head. “I’m but a lowly peon in the world of haute cuisine.” He pointed toward the countertop. “Take away my reliable America’s Test Kitchen Cookbook and I’m hopeless.”
“That’s an excellent book. I’ve used it plenty of times myself.”
“No way.”
“Way,” I said.
“I’m sure my technique could use some improvement.”
I gave him a look.
He turned red. “That came out wrong.”
“Everything was wonderful,” I said, now for the fourth time. Gav had made pan-seared chicken with basil and tomato relish, along with mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, salad, and mint ice cream for dessert. “Food doesn’t have to be haute cuisine to be delicious.”
“Tell me you weren’t critiquing every bite.”
I stopped in the middle of wiping down the table. “I wasn’t,” I said. “I don’t. You cooked for me. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
I could tell my words cheered him. “The green beans were a little too crunchy,” he said.
“The green beans were fine.”
I rinsed dishes then loaded them into the dishwasher while he put the dining room table back in order. “How’s Mrs. Wentworth doing these days?” Gav asked.
“I saw her a couple of days ago. We had less than five minutes to talk, but she asked about you right off.” I laughed, remembering the encounter. “She told me to make sure you knew she said hello and wanted to know when—” I caught myself.
He pushed the second chair in and came up behind me. “Wanted to know when…what?”
I kept loading, pretending I hadn’t noticed any blip in the conversation. “When she was going to see you again.”
Gav didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me. We both knew I was lying. “Ollie.”
I looked up.
“That wasn’t what she was asking, was it?”
I talked fast. “You know Mrs. Wentworth, she’s so nosy. I mean, back when you and I weren’t even seeing each other yet she kept asking when you were going to make your move.”
Mrs. Wentworth and her longtime beau, Stan, had recently gotten engaged and all she wanted to talk about were her impending nuptials and my chances for getting engaged, too. Flaming heat engulfed my face and it wasn’t from the steam rising up as hot water poured from the spigot. “She’s just being Mrs. Wentworth.”
“I understand,” he said. Thankfully, he let the matter drop.
Later on, we were seated on his sofa, TV off, watching the stars come out in the summer sky. We were both at the couch’s far end, turned to face the windows. I leaned back against him, my legs stretched out, ankles crossed at the sofa’s other end.
“Back to work tomorrow for both of us,” I said.
He murmured what sounded like agreement.
“You’ve been quiet since dinner,” I pressed. Actually, he’d been quiet since our Mrs. Wentworth conversation, but I decided to dance around that. “What’s up?”
“Not much, just thinking,” he said. As he spoke, I could feel the words reverberate against my back. He had one arm slung up against the top of the sofa cushion, his hand on my shoulder. I liked being here. I liked being with him. I could be myself, always.
“About what?” I asked.
He hesitated long enough for me to know that he wouldn’t be completely forthcoming. I knew better than to expect a lie, but I was fairly sure whatever his answer, it wouldn’t be 100 percent truthful. “About our meeting with Michael Fitch yesterday. I’m sorry we didn’t get further on this before going back to work,” he said.
“We got a lot further than I expected.”
He made a noncommittal noise. “We are a lot further,” he said, “than I ever expected to be at this point.”
I turned. From the look in his eyes, he wasn’t talking about our investigation into my dad’s death. For once in my life, however, I chose not to pry. “Hey,” I said, dropping my feet to the floor. “I have an idea.”
I was eager to add lightness to what could become a heavy subject. Gav seemed to need that right now.
“Tell me.”
“Let’s go hang that new shower curtain.”
He gave me a look that said, “Really?” but heaved an amenable sigh. “Okay.”
Taking the bathroom’s tension rod down wasn’t a problem. I slid the hooks off one side and allowed the plastic balloon–decorated monstrosity to tumble to the floor. “I should have gotten new hooks,” I said when I looked more closely at the clear C-shaped gadgets. “Chrome would look good in here.”
Gav leaned against the edge of the cabinet vanity and pointed. “But mine won’t rust.”
“You’re right about that.”
He studied me with a look that made me curious. I wanted to ask what was on his mind because he was clearly troubled. Rather than force the issue, however, I started working, inserting the plastic Cs into the buttonholes sewn into the red curtain, then sliding them into the holes of the shower liner, and finally onto the tension rod. I’d gotten about halfway through the process, working silently, ever aware of Gav’s brooding presence.
I chanced a look up. He’d crossed his arms, still watching me.
“Ollie,” he said, his voice gravelly, low.
I stopped what I was doing. “What’s up?”
A stranger just happening by wouldn’t have been able to read the myriad of emotions tha
t worked themselves across his features the way I could. My stomach clenched in response.
“We need to talk,” he said. “About us.”
I wasn’t a teenager, or even a chipper twenty-year-old, so I wasn’t completely blindsided. I’d felt the weight of an impending “talk” all evening. My heart raced. I resumed popping hooks on the tension rod, adopting a cheerful tone. “Okay,” I said, “let’s talk.”
With my attention suddenly diverted from what my hands were doing, the hooks I’d been stringing began to slide off. I tipped the tension rod to keep the rest from toppling off the far end, losing my grip on the ones I hadn’t hooked up yet. Three clattered to the tile floor.
Gav didn’t seem to care about the mess I was making. “You have a career here in D.C.,” he said. “An important one.”
I picked up the hooks. “I do.”
The apartment fell silent. Bathroom walls closed in around us. He swallowed, looked away, then back at me. “I have a career that’s important to me, too. One that could take me away at any time. Far away.”
“I know that.”
“I told you I was passed over for an overseas assignment.”
“I’m really sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” He waved that away. “No permanent damage. They think all I need is time. That I just need to get you out of my system.”
“And?” I asked, steeling myself. “Do you?”
“No.”
We stared at each other, he with his arms across his chest, me with the tension rod in my hands. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked.
He squinted at me, an expression I recognized. Whatever he was about to say would hurt.
Going for the preemptive strike, I guessed, “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
He opened his mouth to answer but I cut him off.
“There’s a position that’s opened up, right? You’re taking it.”
Once I’d opened the floodgates, I couldn’t stop my babbling.
“Soon. It’s soon, isn’t it? You’ve gotten word that something is coming down. Tomorrow?” I glanced down at the half-put-together project in my hands. It seemed such a useless, petty endeavor. I glared up at him. “You don’t even want this new shower curtain, do you?”