by Brian Thiem
He wandered through the streets, watching people on their way to restaurants and bars. Friday night and no one seemed to have a care in the world. He stopped in front of Crogan’s. He had dinner with Alyssa there on one of their first dates. People his age and younger sat at the bar on the other side of the window. Well-dressed, professional-looking people, talking, laughing, and drinking. He wondered what it would be like to sit at the bar and have a few drinks and conversation with normal people—people who didn’t know he was a cop—letting all his problems dissolve in a tumbler of bourbon. It had been more than two years since he’d had a drink. He’d come to grips with the fact that he was an alcoholic, that he would always be an alcoholic. At the end, he was either drinking, recovering from drinking, or obsessing over his next drink. He knew what would happen if he drank again. But at that moment, he didn’t care.
Amber sat down, leaned against his leg, and looked up at him with her dark-brown eyes. He couldn’t exactly tie her leash to a parking meter outside while he went in and got drunk. He reached down and scratched her behind her ear. The thought of having a drink vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Come on, Amber,” he said, starting the two-mile walk home.
Chapter 28
It was 7:00 PM Saturday when Walt parked the Mercedes by the side entrance of the mansion. They’d just attended an AA meeting in Concord, where Sinclair heard exactly what he needed to hear. There were more tattoos and fewer teeth on the people at this meeting than he was used to, but the message of recovery was every bit as strong. The speaker, a large, gruff white man who had done time for manslaughter, said he learned he had a choice whether to live in the problem or in the solution and could either sit on his own self-constructed pity pot the rest of his life or take action to improve his situation.
Sinclair had been sitting on his pity pot for too long. Last night, he sat by the pool smoking cigars and thinking until midnight. He couldn’t sleep and was outside with his morning coffee and another cigar when the sun rose at ten to six. He found a book that looked interesting in the mansion’s library, but after twenty pages, he couldn’t remember what he’d read. He flipped through the hundreds of TV channels but couldn’t find anything that held his attention for more than ten minutes. Around noon, he called everyone who had left messages for him, apologizing for not calling earlier and thanking them for their concern.
Calling Alyssa was tough. He explained that he needed to be alone, but she didn’t seem to understand. He told her he wouldn’t be good company because he was too distracted by his thoughts. She said she didn’t care. But he wouldn’t change his mind. He cancelled their dinner date and said he’d call when he was better. He didn’t want to lose her but was already feeling smothered by this relationship that wasn’t even a relationship yet.
Amber was his constant companion. As Sinclair sat in his recliner, surfing through the various sports channels, she lay on the dog bed Walt had brought over yesterday. Every thirty minutes or so, she’d get up, walk across the room, and rest her chin on his knee. After he patted her on the head, she went back and lay down on her bed in the corner of the room. By midafternoon, he was done. He’d felt sorry for himself long enough. He couldn’t change the past. On Monday, he would call the legal defense firm the OPOA contracted with and let the lawyers deal with his situation.
He changed his clothes and took off on a run. When he finished one lap of his three-mile route through the residential streets of Piedmont, he figured he hadn’t punished his body enough, so he did a second lap. He followed it with reps of push-ups, sit-ups, and burpees. After a shower and change of clothes, he told Walt he was ready for a meeting.
After they returned from the meeting, Sinclair got out of the car and followed Walt inside the main house. When he smelled Betty’s roast chicken, he was glad he had accepted Walt’s invitation to join the two of them for dinner. He stepped into the kitchen, and Amber bounded over to greet them.
When he looked up from petting Amber, Alyssa was standing next to Betty in front of the long kitchen counter. She removed an apron to reveal an orange print halter sundress that gave her tanned skin a golden glow. Her long brown hair covered most of her bare back. “Hi, Matt.”
His first thought was, What the fuck are you doing here? Instead, he said, “I guess you were also invited to dinner.”
She stood on her tiptoes, and he leaned down to kiss her, feeling his own hesitation as their lips touched briefly.
“Since you cancelled your dinner date with Alyssa tonight, I figured we’d invite her to join me and Walt,” Betty said.
“And then on the way back from the meeting, you agreed to join us,” Walt said to Sinclair.
Neither Walt nor Betty tried to hide their conspiratorial grins.
“Alyssa came over just after you boys left and helped with the cooking,” Betty said. “She sure knows her way around a kitchen.”
“I grew up in a big Italian family.” She shrugged. “Girls learn to cook out of necessity.”
They ate at one end of the long table in the formal dining room. Walt poured water into crystal goblets and offered Alyssa wine, which she declined. Roast chicken, wild rice stuffing, green beans, and homemade rolls. It was the first time Walt and Betty had seen Alyssa since around the holidays, when she’d left for Italy. The conversation centered on her adventures attending to the medical needs of the masses of African and Middle Eastern refugees who had fled the chaos of their former countries. Sinclair enjoyed watching her face light up as she talked about the miraculous improvements made by some of the small children who were near death from disease, malnutrition, and dehydration when they first came off the crowded boats. It seemed like any joy or sense of satisfaction he’d felt from his job was eons ago. Everyone knew better than to ask him about his work.
After dinner, he tried to help clear the dishes. “No you don’t,” Betty said. “Walt and I will clean up.”
Walt pushed back his chair. “There’s a peach pie cooling on the counter that I understand Alyssa helped make.”
“Take it over to your house,” Betty said as she stacked the plates together and collected the silverware. “Go, you two. Scoot.”
It was barely light enough to make their way down the flagstone path and across the verdant back lawn without turning on the lights. He cradled the pie with one hand and held Alyssa’s hand with the other. They made their way around the pool in silence. The last time Alyssa was at his place was when she watched over him after he was released from the hospital following the explosion. To say he wasn’t thinking about sex at the time would be a lie—he was a man, and as long as he was breathing, he thought about sex. But splitting headaches came and went for a week, and every muscle in his body ached. She never offered, and he never made a move. And then she left for Italy.
His plans fell apart with Phil’s murder. Tonight, he had planned a romantic dinner, after which he would invite her to his place. But there was nothing romantic about the evening so far. He could only imagine what Betty said to Alyssa about his emotional condition when she invited her to dinner.
Sinclair liked women. When he was with a woman, she felt like she was the most important person in the room, because in Sinclair’s mind, she was. But tonight, Alyssa had company in his head with the murder and his suspension. She had to notice his distraction. No woman wanted to be with a man who wasn’t emotionally present, and Alyssa had told him too many times how she wanted their first time to be perfect. Besides, he wasn’t about to risk rejection tonight on top of everything else. They’d have their pie and talk for a while. Then he’d walk her back to her car and get a good-night kiss.
They walked around the pool and through the French doors that led into the main room of the guesthouse. He set the pie on the kitchen counter. “Can I make you some tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Maybe later.” She kicked off her shoes and sat on the sofa. “Betty’s adorable. Reminds me of my mother.”
“She’s sweet and tough at the same time,” S
inclair said. Alyssa knew of Walt’s past as a psychologist and his time in prison, but Betty seldom talked about herself. “She divorced him when everything he had done came to light and raised their two sons alone. Ten years later, she saw the man Walt had become after he got sober and they remarried.”
“I wish the kind of love they have for each other could be bottled.” She sighed.
Sinclair sat on the end of the sofa, trying to figure out if he was supposed to respond, if she was trying to lead him into a conversation about love. The cool night air drifted into the room through the open French doors. Low-voltage landscaping lights popped on outside, as they did at dusk every night, accenting trees and shrubs and lighting the footpaths.
“I hope you didn’t mind me showing up.” She pulled her legs under herself and turned to face him. “I was a willing pawn in Betty’s plot to drag you out of your isolation.”
“I’m used to going off alone and licking my wounds when I’m hurt.”
“And I’m used to surrounding injured friends or family members with people and nursing them back to health.”
“I should feel fortunate to have friends in my life who care about me.”
She slid toward him and kissed him. “I remember how hard it was for you to let me take care of you after you were hurt in that bomb explosion.”
“I wasn’t the best patient?”
She kissed him again, this time longer. “What’s it like being so tough that you never need anyone?”
“Ask John Wayne. Bet he’d say it comes natural to us tough guys.”
She laughed and touched his cheek. She put her hands around his neck and pulled him into her, kissing him again. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her bare back. Lean, yet soft and smooth. Her tongue entered his mouth, exploring, while her hand snaked under his shirt and rested on his chest.
Suddenly she stopped and pulled away. “Can I use your restroom?”
He nodded. She bounced up and disappeared into the powder room. So that was it. That was as far as she planned to go. She’ll use the bathroom and ask him to walk her to her car. He cut himself a large slice of pie and returned to the couch.
She came out of the bathroom, shook her head, and smiled. “Do you like it?”
“I figured you didn’t want any, so . . .”
“Can I have a bite?”
He handed her the plate. She cut a piece of the crust with his fork, speared a peach slice, and put it in her mouth. “Not bad.”
She set the plate on the coffee table, climbed onto his lap, and kissed him on the mouth. She ran her fingers along his neck and into his hair as their lips met again in a longer kiss. She shifted her position until she was facing him and straddling his thighs. She reached behind her head and untied the halter-top, letting the front of her dress fall away.
“Looks like you’re missing a bra,” he joked, running his hand across her small, firm breasts.
She giggled and squirmed deeper into his lap. “Yeah, I think I’m missing my underwear too.”
“I thought you were waiting for the perfect time and all that.”
“Oh, Matt, shut up and kiss me.”
Chapter 29
Sinclair had been sitting in the upholstered wing chair since the sun’s first rays filtered through the bedroom curtains, alternating between surfing the net on his laptop, drinking coffee, and watching Alyssa sleep. Her dark hair was splayed across the pillow, and her face resonated with tranquility and peace. She was curled on her side, facing the window. When he was still lying in bed watching daybreak approach, she was spooned against him. That’s when his mind began racing.
Because she had resisted sleeping with him for so long, he had begun to think maybe she didn’t like sex. Nothing could have been further from the truth. On the couch, they acted like two horny teenagers in the back seat of a car. For a moment, Sinclair had tried to slow things down to savor the moment, but they’d soon reached the point of no return. Afterward, he looked down at her, propped up on his elbows as if his weight would crush her. She laughed. A deep belly laugh that was so genuine and uninhibited that he felt alive for the first time in months. He carried her to the bed, and she lay in his arms as they talked about their first date ten years ago and all the what-ifs that didn’t happen because they both needed to travel separate paths to bring them together at that moment. His worries about being distracted didn’t materialize. He was fully present with Alyssa, with no regrets about the past or worries about the future.
As he watched her sleeping in the early morning light, he still couldn’t figure out how a woman could have a body so strong from her fitness regimen yet so soft, how her figure could be so athletic yet so feminine. They had made love twice more that night, each time more slowly, getting to know each other’s bodies, needs, and desires. It was past two when they finally drifted off, and although he only got four hours of sleep, it was the deepest and most restful sleep he’d had in ages.
Her eyes blinked open. “So this wasn’t a dream.” She smiled.
“If so, I don’t ever want to wake up.”
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I was restless and didn’t want to wake you,” he said. “Besides, I like watching you sleep.”
“That’s sweet. What’ve you got there?” She nodded toward his coffee cup.
“I’ll get you a cup. How do you take it?”
“You don’t have soy milk, do you?”
Sinclair laughed. “Afraid not. Regular milk or powdered creamer.”
“Milk will work. What time is it anyway?”
“Eight twenty-one,” he said, reading from the bedside clock.
She threw the covers off and jumped up. “Okay if I use your shower?” She didn’t wait for an answer before scurrying across the room and into the bathroom.
Sinclair made a fresh pot of coffee, fixed a cup with milk, and placed it on the bathroom sink. He tried not to stare at her through the frosted shower door, her face under the shower spray. He got a clean towel and a new toothbrush out of the closet, placed them on the sink, and returned to his chair in the bedroom.
A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom wearing just a black thong and strapless bra. “Sorry to rush off, but I promised I’d take my great aunt to mass this morning.” She stepped into her dress and tied the strap around her neck. “I know, I said I wanted to lie around in bed with you all day, but—”
“I was the one who cancelled our date last night.”
“Even if we had our date, I wasn’t planning on this happening yet.” She kissed his neck. “But I’m glad it did.”
“You never mentioned you were a churchgoer.”
She took a sip of coffee. “My family is, and my aunt loves to show off her nieces to her friends at church, so my sisters and I occasionally indulge her.”
“You can go like that?”
“I guess you haven’t been to Catholic Church in a while. People wear shorts and flip-flops in the summer. I didn’t want to wash your scent off me so soon, but I doubt my aunt would approve of me coming to church smelling of sinful premarital sex.”
“She’d probably have to go to confession for being related to such a sinner.” Sinclair placed his hands on her hips and kissed her. “I see you found the toothbrush I left for you.”
“Yeah, is it okay to leave it here?”
“Do you mean, ‘Will you have an anxiety attack knowing a girl left something at your place?’”
“Something like that.”
“I’m good,” he said, kissing her again. “You can leave your thong behind too.”
She slapped his shoulder playfully. “After church, there’s some kind of family get-together. You can come over if you want.”
“I think I’ll pass, but can I call you later?”
“You better.”
He walked her to her car, kissed her again, and watched as she drove off in her red Miata. He ate a large slice of peach pie for breakfast and was just getting ready to
climb in the shower when his cell rang, showing the homicide number.
“Matt, this is Carl Maloney.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant. I see you’re working on a Sunday.”
“I met Jankowski, Sanchez, and Braddock here early this morning to see if there was anything we needed to do that couldn’t wait until Monday.”
“And?”
Maloney hesitated, obviously deciding whether he should reveal details of an investigation to a suspended officer. “Jankowski and Sanchez are heading out to Santa Rita,” Maloney said, referring to the main county jail. “They plan to interview a couple of informants and several Simbas who are in custody out there, and Braddock’s going to finish bringing your case log up to date.”
“I wish I was there to help.”
“You doing okay?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Hang in there,” Maloney said. “Cathy told me that you were listed on Phil’s emergency card to clean out his locker and personnel gave you his spare locker key.”
“Yeah, do you want me to bring the key to you?”
“The whole purpose of the emergency card is for a friend Phil designated to handle this. Cleaning out a locker doesn’t require police powers, so your suspension doesn’t prevent you from doing it, as long as you’re willing.”
“No problem. It’s not like I’m doing anything else.”
*
A half hour later, Sinclair sat on the wooden bench in front of Phil’s metal locker. He unlocked the padlock. Unlike when he was a uniformed officer and changed into his uniform before shift and back into his civvies at the end of shift every day, Sinclair no longer spent much time in the locker room. He used it a few times a week to shower and change after working out in the gym or to change into a fresh shirt after pulling an all-nighter on a murder case. Some plainclothes sergeants and command officers probably didn’t open their lockers for years.