by Jaime Maddox
Simon melted into the buttery soft couch and continued to channel surf, but the television was filled with movies and reruns, and no news at all. After a few minutes, Angelica handed him a list of phone numbers for the closest hospitals and then turned her attention back to her laptop while Billy studied the paper before him.
“Where have you been for four days?” she casually asked, her eyes never leaving the screen in front of her.
Aiming the remote at the giant television, Simon pressed a button and the house grew silent. He knew it would remain that way until he spoke. Angelica would wait him out, make him squirm and sweat, waiting to find out if he was forgiven. He wished he could tell her the truth, but he didn’t want to hurt her, and he knew it would. And never was he sorrier that he hadn’t been here with Angelica than he was now. If he had, none of this shit with Billy would have happened. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing else I can say.”
“Did you have an obligation?” she asked.
“I did.”
“You should have told me.”
“Soon, baby. This is all going to change.”
She didn’t acknowledge the unspoken promise in his words. “Why’d you shoot Billy?” she asked as she looked up from the computer a minute later.
Angelica had never met Billy; she was part of Simon’s other life. His dealers, his couriers, his friends on the streets—they were his tough life. He had other people, too—family, coworkers, and associates—in what he considered the good life. Angelica, she was real life. She knew she was the only woman, the only person with whom he’d ever connected. With her, Simon felt truly alive, truly real, and he considered this place, with her, to be his home. They’d bought this house together, and he spent much of his time there, eating at the glass table they’d picked out together, cuddling on this couch, wearing out the mattress in the bedroom.
“He’s a fuckin’ snitch. He got out of jail early for givin’ up names.” This was a lie, but Angelica didn’t need to know that. The truth would have pissed her off. Simon hadn’t planned to kill Billy, but when he met him at the bar, something he said had caught Simon’s attention.
“Katie told me she ran into you down at the beach. You workin’ on your suntan?” he’d asked. Simon had known at that moment he had to kill Katie. And to diminish suspicion, he’d make it look like Billy was the target. Normally, he was patient and calculating. He took his time and decided the best course of action only after weighing all his options. Tonight, he hadn’t done that, and he hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.
Billy had also told Simon that Katie had just received the last of her inheritance. He knew Katie had gotten money in the past, and Billy had squandered every penny of it. Simon figured he’d take the money while he was there, as a sort of bonus for his troubles. All that money would be a nice addition to the nest egg he’d been accumulating, the money that would keep Angelica and him living in style for the rest of their lives. For the past two years, they’d been quietly smuggling money into the islands, using a chartered boat to haul the loot and taking along her young niece and nephew to lend the appearance of family and help avoid suspicion. It’d been Angelica’s idea to move the money—which he’d been stockpiling in a bank safe in his home—to an account where it could earn interest. In a few years, he’d have enough money transferred so he could live comfortably forever. He’d disappear to the islands and live a good life with the woman he loved.
He didn’t really need Katie’s money, but he wanted it anyway. Years earlier he’d heard Billy bragging about all the money Katie had coming, and Simon figured that was the only reason Billy kept her around. He’d never given much thought to stealing it, though, because with the drugs she was doing back then, Simon didn’t think she’d live long enough to see it.
But Katie had surprised him, cleaning up and getting a respectable job. And Billy had, too. He seemed to be like the proverbial cat with nine lives, avoiding shootings and police raids, often escaping out the back door as the police were coming in the front. And then it occurred to Simon that perhaps Billy really was a snitch. Simon wondered now about the many near misses Billy had over the years, thinking perhaps his luck had more to do with police information than the hands of fate. It all made sense when he looked at it from that perspective. He’d have to be more careful and review his staff of distributors, start looking for problems.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about him anymore, Si. KYW says a man’s dead in a North Philadelphia shooting. Police are looking for Kathleen Finan. Ha! They think she’d have the guts to shoot somebody?” Angelica laughed.
Simon didn’t share her lighthearted attitude. “She might have the guts to talk to the police. I need to silence her. Do they know where she is? Where are they looking for her?”
Scanning the article again before looking at him, she raised her blue eyes to meet his dark ones. “It doesn’t say specifically, just that they’re looking for her. But I can tell you where she is, without question.” Her eyes held many emotions—passion, hatred, anger—as she waited for him to ask.
“Oh, yeah? How would you know?”
He studied her beautiful face and she finally offered a teasing smile, just one corner of her mouth lifting. “I just do.”
“Okay, so where the fuck is she?” Simon was tired, he was stressed, and he was in no mood to play games, no matter how beautiful she was.
“Si, don’t go getting’ pissy with me. I’m only trying to help you.”
He looked at her again, but her eyes were now on the computer screen. He really liked her courage. She didn’t take any of his attitude and didn’t back down from him. Angelica had bigger balls than most men.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Angelica met his gaze. Staring at him silently for a moment to prove her continued dissatisfaction, she finally shared her thoughts. “If you find Katie’s kids, you’ll find Katie. Children and Youth Services will take them to the ER for a check-up. Once they see everything’s okay, they’ll send them to some foster home. Katie doesn’t have any family to take care of them, does she?”
“No, she was an orphan. That’s how she got all the money—from a car crash, I think. She didn’t have any family to take her in, so she ended up with Billy.”
“Well, then, let’s find the kids.”
Leaning back in his chair, Simon began to laugh. Once again, she amazed him. He’d been sitting there, thinking of all the friends she might have run to, frustrated that he didn’t know as much about Katie as he should have. Since she was the significant other of a man who worked for him, he should have been keeping a closer eye on her. But Katie was just plain boring. She didn’t do anything illegal anymore, and her pathetic little life revolved around those two brats she was raising. “I knew there was a reason I stay with you.”
The odds were better if he moved quickly, so Simon picked up the phone and began dialing from the list of numbers Angelica had given to him. “This is Mr. Obama, like the president,” he said to the woman who answered the phone in the ER. He spoke carefully, enunciating each word, a far cry from the language he used on the streets. “I’m with Children and Youth Services. Have those children from the shooting scene arrived yet?”
He waited while she checked. A minute later she was back on the line, telling him they weren’t there. The response was the same at two other hospitals, but on the fourth attempt he hit the jackpot. A very helpful woman told him the children had been brought in by the police and had already been evaluated by the doctor on duty. When he arrived they would be awaiting him in treatment room thirteen.
“Lucky thirteen!” Simon said. He grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen and deposited the pile of clothes into it, everything from his shirt to his shoes. He couldn’t take a chance that a single drop of Billy’s blood had splattered onto him. Then he turned on the shower and climbed in, thinking of a plan.
Chapter Seven
Unrest
Nic couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted and h
er eyes felt like sand, but as she lay in the darkness of her room, her mind wouldn’t stop racing. She was nervous about the next day and irritated about her fight with Louis.
When Rae had finally left their apartment, Nic exploded, venting all of her fury at Louis. “Why did you ask me to dinner if you planned to spend the night talking to her?” she’d demanded.
“I wouldn’t have spent the night talking to her if you hadn’t spent the night sulking!”
“How could you forget the tickets?”
“I didn’t forget them! They were sold out.”
“How could you go to the Ritz without me?”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? We’re not married, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. At least I thought we were.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“What the fuck does it sound like?”
Nic took a deep breath and tried to let go of her anger. She was hurt, and she wanted Louis to know that. “Why did you have to invite her? This was supposed to be a special night for us. We haven’t seen each other in months.”
He was still angry, though. “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea. As far as I’m concerned, she’s much too nice for you. But she’s been bugging me to introduce you ever since she saw your picture, and I didn’t have a good excuse not to. I guess I should have just told her that you’re a royal bitch and she’d be better off staying away from you.”
Now Nic was mad again. Louis had drawn blood. “Maybe you should have!”
“I’m going to bed!” he said before he stormed off.
When she went into his room to offer an apology half an hour later she could hear the regular rhythm of his breaths and knew he was asleep. She closed the door behind her, returned to her own room. After studying the ceiling for half an hour she still couldn’t sleep. She decided to work. It was always a good distraction.
This conference on emergency medicine held at the convention center featured examples of real-life drama, and Nic was presenting a case she’d managed. After thoroughly researching the topic and spending months following up on her patient, she knew the presentation inside and out. She’d prepared slides and a handout and practiced her delivery dozens of times. She’d presented cases many times before, during her residency. But this was different. She was a real doctor now, and all those other real doctors who’d paid hundreds of dollars to attend this conference expected her to know her topic. A well-received presentation would mean future invitations to present. If she screwed up, it would be the end of her speaking career and she’d look the fool in front of the men and women who’d trained her. She couldn’t let that happen.
Sitting up, she switched on the lamp and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light. She pulled her notes from her briefcase, glanced at them, then stood and began to pace, speaking in a muted voice so she wouldn’t awaken Louis in the next room. She talked to her dresser, her lamp, her artwork, and they all listened attentively.
The patient she discussed was a woman in her mid-fifties who came into the ER in the middle of the day with pain in her wrist from a fall. Upon further questioning, she explained how her left leg had grown painful and numb after an extended time sitting at her desk. When she stood to walk it off, the leg seemed to collapse. She was uninjured except for her wrist, and her leg pain had completely resolved. When pressed for additional information, the woman admitted she’d been having problems with her leg for about a year. The symptoms of sciatica had been steadily getting worse, but she hadn’t seen a doctor. Nothing could be done; she’d researched it on the Internet.
In addition to the broken wrist, Nic had discovered a golf-ball size mass in the left thigh, just below the buttock. The mass was firm, fixed in place, and not tender to touch. The strength and pulses in the foot and leg were fine. Subsequent outpatient testing proved the mass to be a malignant sarcoma, and after the patient had surgery to remove the tumor, her sciatica symptoms immediately improved.
Nic would proceed to talk about the sciatica and leg pain and weakness, throwing in interesting facts to keep the audience stimulated. She’d discuss the disease processes that caused it, the signs and symptoms, exam findings, lab tests, and finally the treatment. She’d wrap it up with the good news that her patient had made a full recovery. Nic would ask for audience input throughout her talk but also leave time for a questions and answers at the end. It was an interesting case study, and she hoped that alone would hold her peers’ interest.
As she put her paperwork away and shut off the light, her mind wandered to Rae. Nic didn’t often encounter women who stood up to her, but Rae had. If she didn’t dislike her so much, she might have considered going out with her. That’s what tonight had been all about, after all. She’d been paraded out and inspected to see if she was dating material. She could kill Louis. No, she thought. Forget it. Move on.
Grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the hidden compartment in her computer case, Nic headed for the balcony. Her bedroom had its own, a private but smaller version of the one off the living room. She took a seat in the lone chair, a deep, cushioned wicker rocker that swallowed her whole. Leaning back, she rested her feet against the matching table and wondered, not for the first time, what was wrong with her. Why wasn’t she happy?
She wasn’t unhappy. She’d read all about mood disorders and knew all the signs and symptoms of diseases such as depression and adjustment disorder, and she could never justify the use of an antidepressant medication in her particular case. She didn’t have a loss of appetite, no change in sleep pattern (with the exclusion of this strange night), no loss of interest in sex (although she had a paucity of available partners at the moment), no loss of interest in the things she liked to do. No, it wasn’t depression.
So what was it? Her job was stressful, but probably no better or worse than most people’s. It had been her good fortune to be adopted by a family with plenty of money, and she had no worries there. Did she need to get laid?
She didn’t think so. She’d never had anyone special in her life—ever, really, so she was used to being single. Her relationships tended to end quickly and badly, because she had no patience for other people’s drama. Her vision didn’t include the spectrum of color; things tended to be clear-cut: black or white. Choosing between extremes was much easier than separating shades of gray. Right or wrong, good or bad, attractive or unattractive. That’s the way her mind seemed to compartmentalize. Either she liked someone or she didn’t, and if she did, she wanted to spend time with them. If not, forget it.
While this way of thinking made much of life simple—it didn’t work well in relationships, where compromise was key. Nic knew she was a failure in that department. She accepted it, and it didn’t even bother her anymore. The idea that she’d probably spend much of her life alone, with occasional flings to spice up the flavor of her days, had occurred to her, and she was okay with it. She could do flings. She could enjoy a few weeks or a few months of dinners and movies followed by nights of passion. What she couldn’t do was become comfortable with someone in her space, and that was what a relationship was, wasn’t it? Allowing another human being into the most intimate recesses of your life. Into your thoughts and plans, into your home and your car, into everything that was neat and orderly, creating a big mess.
The ease with which others accepted the trivial infractions of privacy mystified Nic. It really bothered her that her girlfriend wore her socks, the ones with the black trim around the cuff, because she like to wear those with her black running shorts, and she couldn’t if her girlfriend had worn them and left them in the pile of laundry. Her favorite mug was just that—hers. How frustrating to reach into a cabinet for something and not find it in the place it had always been—to find dirty dishes in the sink and a wet towel on the floor. All of these things overshadowed the joy of the dinners and the movies and the sex. So, inevitably, the relationship would end, and Nic would find herself alone again, but content in her neat and ordered universe. And she really, rea
lly was okay there. Wasn’t she?
The thought of a relationship caused her to once again to envision Rae. What had Rae meant when she’d answered “fifty” to Nic’s question about Jordan? She picked up her smokes, walked back into the bedroom, and slipped beneath her thick, soft comforter. Grabbing her smartphone from its charger on the nightstand, Nic connected to her search engine and typed. “How many countries are there in the world?”
“Wow,” she said aloud. No one agreed, it seemed, whether to count Taiwan. She didn’t care to read why. But if you did, the number was a hundred and ninety-six. Could Rae have seriously been talking about the world? Was it possible she’d been to a hundred and forty-five (or a hundred and forty-six) countries? “I’ll never know,” she said as she powered down the device and put it back in its place.
Her thoughts turned again to Louis. Why had he behaved like such a jerk with Rae? Or was he right—was she the jerk? It didn’t matter. They’d been friends for too long for something like this to come between them. She needed to make this right or she’d never sleep.
Not bothering to be quiet, she slipped out of her own bed, crossed the hallway, and entered his room. She rolled onto the bed beside him. “Louis, wake up.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, fully awake as if just called to a code at work.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you and forgive you for being unfaithful to me.”
“What time is it?”
“After midnight.”
“I accept your apology. Now go to sleep. I have surgery in like two hours, and I need to be awake for it.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
Pulling the pillow over his head, he rolled away from her and groaned. Nic smiled and curled into her own little ball on the other side of the bed, asleep in minutes.