by Elaine Viets
We spotted Eduardo at the host stand and raised our glasses in thanks. He smiled and waved.
Chris ordered coffee for both of us. It went well with the creamy custard in caramel sauce. Over dessert, Chris told me funny stories from his time as a patrolman in St. Louis.
‘So I arrested this guy in an iffy neighborhood. Caught him red-handed, taking a fistful of cash out of a broken cash register in front of gas station.
‘He told me he was taking a walk – alone at three a.m., mind you, in an area where I wouldn’t go without my weapon – and he saw “someone” had broken the big plate glass window on the gas station.
‘“Must have used a rock,” he said. “In fact, I think they used that rock right there.” He pointed to the rock next to the broken cash register.’
‘Helpful,’ I said, ‘but how did he get the cash register open if it was offline?’
‘You can open them with a credit card,’ Chris said. ‘There’s even a YouTube video to show you how. It takes a little practice, but I suspected this guy had had plenty of it.
‘Our man said he walked inside the gas station to make sure everything was OK. And he had no idea how the one hundred bucks cash – the exact amount the owner kept in the cash register – got into his pocket, and the little bits of glass on his clothes must have come from the window.
‘I asked where he lived and he gave me his address. It was a rooming house two streets over. I asked his name, and he told me it was James Bond.’
‘As in Double-O-Seven? Was he wearing a tux?’
‘Nope, gray sweatpants and a T-shirt that read, Buy Me Another Beer. You’re still ugly.’
‘Charming.’
‘I asked Mr Bond his real name, and he said Tom Smith.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ My laugh turned into a snort.
‘I’m not making this up. I asked Mr Smith if he had a middle name and he said, “Laird.” And then he spelled it – L-A-I-R-D. He said his grandmother was Scots–Irish.’
‘She must be so proud,’ I said.
‘Anyway, I took him in for a talk at the station, and checked his name in the computer for wants and warrants. He had warrants under both names – Tom Laird Smith and James Bond – for first and second-degree burglary. He was wanted even under his alias!’
We both laughed, and that’s when I heard the sound of chairs scraping across the tile. The servers were mopping the floor.
‘Looks like we’ve closed down another place,’ Chris said.
‘This is becoming a habit,’ I said.
‘A good one, I hope,’ he said, and took my hand.
TWENTY-THREE
My dinner with Chris had passed so quickly I wasn’t even aware it was over until the servers started closing the restaurant. When the server brought our check, I insisted on paying. We argued at first – in a friendly fashion. Finally, he said, ‘OK, you can pay – on one condition. I insist on cooking dinner for you at my place.’
‘Deal,’ I said. My voice shook a little, though I wasn’t sure why.
He smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry you’ll have to wait two weeks, though. Mike is going on vacation and we’re short-handed until he gets back.’
I felt an odd pang at that news.
We walked hand-in-hand through the empty restaurant and deserted bar to his car. The only sounds were the splashing fountain and my heels clicking on the tiles. Don’t ask me what we talked about walking through the restaurant or on the ride home. I just know we were at my house way too fast.
The full moon turned my old stone house and spring garden into a silver fantasy. Chris walked me to my door, and we stood on my front porch. Suddenly, we were both silent. Awkwardly silent. Then he lifted my chin and kissed me. Slowly at first, a little tentatively. His lips were soft and dry and he tasted of coffee and flan. His kiss became hard, and I wrapped my arms around him. Then we were leaning against my house, the cold stone pressing against my back. I’m not sure how long the kiss lasted, but finally I came up for air. I was panting slightly and suddenly afraid.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘For a lovely evening.’ I pulled myself out of his warm embrace, ran inside and shut the door.
‘Angela, wait!’ he cried. ‘Please! Let’s talk. We can sit out here on the porch if you want. Please!’
I couldn’t resist that final plea. I carefully opened the door and stepped outside.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘You look so wary, like you expect to be hurt. Did I do something wrong? Did you have a bad time? Am I a bad kisser?’
I sat down on the porch swing and patted the seat next to me. He sat, but not too close.
‘No, you’re good,’ I said, then took a deep breath and started. ‘I enjoyed our evening. It was a wonderful break from my work, which has been very intense lately.’
‘I understand.’
‘You do, far more than most people,’ I told him. ‘You have a good sense of humor, and I like that. You’re a terrific storyteller – very entertaining.’
I looked at him. The moonlight had bleached away the small signs of aging around his eyes, and he looked young. And oh, so attractive.
‘As you know, my husband Donegan died two years ago. So I’m a … widow.’ I hated that word. It sounded like death itself. As soon as I mentioned it, I felt draped in suffocating layers of black, like a Victorian woman in mourning.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You must have loved him very much.’
‘I did. His death was unexpected – Donegan had a heart attack while teaching and by the time I got to the hospital, he was … he was … gone.’
‘That must have been tragic,’ he said. ‘You didn’t even get to tell him goodbye.’
‘I didn’t. I barely remember the funeral, I was in such a daze.’
I had one memory, which I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. It was after the prayers were said over the open grave. The coffin had been lowered but not yet covered up. Someone handed me a red rose to toss on top of Donegan’s coffin. Throughout our courtship and marriage, Donegan had given me red roses. I watched the rose fall. I heard it land on the coffin lid and I felt my heart break.
‘Angela?’ Chris asked. ‘Where did you go?’
I shrugged and shook my head. I could feel the tears welling up, and I didn’t want to cry.
‘You were there, weren’t you? Back at the funeral?’
I nodded, grateful I didn’t have to answer.
‘Angela, I lost my wife, too. Not the way you lost your husband, so maybe I have no right to compare my pain to yours, but she’s gone, too. Forever. I’d loved Carrie since high school and I thought we had a good marriage. Sure, I knew I wasn’t at home as often as I should have been, but her father was a cop, so I thought she understood what the job required and knew how to take being alone.
‘Turns out she didn’t. She told me over and over that she needed me to be home more often, but I didn’t listen. Or maybe I should say, I listened, but I didn’t hear what she was saying. Then Carrie was in a car accident and the dispatcher couldn’t reach me. I didn’t find out what happened until I got home at ten that night, and a neighbor ran over to tell me. Carrie had broken her leg and was in the hospital.
‘I drove to the hospital with lights and siren and when I got there, she was in surgery. The doctor had to insert a pin in the bone. It was a difficult surgery, and when she came out of it, she never forgave me for not being there with her. Apologizing didn’t work. Carrie said she’d had enough. When she left the hospital, she went home to her mother’s house and filed for divorce. I didn’t want the divorce, but Carrie insisted. When the divorce was official, she moved to Hawaii, and I haven’t seen her since. After her mother died, she had no reason to come back here.’ Even by the dim porch light, I could see the sadness shading his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Chris. You must have really loved her. What does she do for a living?’
‘She’s a decorator. You won’t believe how she fixed up our house – it was just a pla
in old two-bedroom ranch. The inside was a showcase, but the kind of showcase you can live in. Carrie had a real flair for color. She’d show me how she was going to put two colors together and I’d think – well, that will never work. But it did. She had endless patience with clients. Some of those women would agonize over two shades of eggshell paint as if they were two doors with a live tiger hiding behind the wrong choice.
‘Carrie liked rooms with lots of light, plants, and bright colors. She waited every year for summer. I guess it’s no surprise she ended up in Hawaii.’
As Chris talked about his ex-wife’s talents, he grew more enthusiastic, and I felt uneasy. Was I jealous of a woman forty-one hundred miles away? Ridiculous. Finally, he stopped.
‘After the divorce, I could retire – I’d put in my twenty years – so I did. I’m not interested in riding a desk. I had the retirement party, opened my presents, then went home and crawled into the bottle for about six months, thinking about my ex and what I did wrong. I got tired of the pity party, and decided I needed to go back to work. A friend told me the Forest PD was looking for patrol officers.
‘What I like about this job is it’s never boring. And I was bored – bored to death.’
‘So bored you went back to a dangerous job? You could get shot on a routine stop.’
‘See, that’s why I like to talk to someone who understands the job. I can’t tell you how often someone tells me that I was lucky to retire “so young.” They don’t understand the job stress, or what it’s like to work in ice storms, or work twenty-four hours without sleep and then come back in after two hours of sleep.
‘I missed the risk and the adrenaline boost. I never know what’s going to happen next, and I like that. I see people at their best and worst. Like when I went with you to inform Mrs Scott, that surgeon’s wife, her husband was dead.’
‘That was definitely a low point,’ I said.
He reached for my hand. ‘That wasn’t entirely a low point. I got to have coffee with you. And tonight we had dinner. I loved talking with you, Angela. You’re beautiful, bright, and funny – and a good listener.’
He kissed my hand gently, and said, ‘I know you love your husband, and you always will. But I hope you will have room in your heart for me, too.’
I was touched by his sweet, old-fashioned gesture. ‘I enjoyed your company, too. Please be patient with me. It’s not easy to start dating again.’
‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘You’re worth it. And you’re still on for dinner – even if it’s in two weeks?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and pulled him close for a long, sweet kiss.
TWENTY-FOUR
I woke up early the next morning, and felt like I was floating. I hadn’t been this light-hearted in years. My date with Chris had been a good one. I remembered his coffee-scented kisses, soft but hard, urgent and insistent. I didn’t feel like those kisses had betrayed Donegan. He was still with me, still in my heart, but he was a benign presence now, not a disapproving one.
After coffee and toast, I took a half-hour walk around the Du Pres estate on a perfect spring morning. The sun seemed to shine brighter, and I saw new life and color everywhere. By the time I got back to my white stone house with the gingerbread porch, it was only eight o’clock.
I changed out of my jeans into my black death investigator pantsuit and flat lace-up shoes, then pulled my long hair into a serviceable ponytail. Yep, that’s what women who worked in some branch of law enforcement wore, not the sexy high heels and short skirts you see on TV. When we could be spending our day crawling on the floor of some filthy flophouse, a short skirt won’t work. If we have to run, heels will hobble us. And long, flowing tresses get in our face.
I was on call for work today and hoped I didn’t get any horrible death scenes. In fact, I prayed the whole population of Chouteau Forest would be extra careful and healthy and stay alive.
My work cell phone rang. Please don’t be a gruesome investigation, I thought. I checked the number and got the answer to my prayers – or so I thought.
It was my boss, the chief medical examiner, Evarts Evans. What was he doing in the office so early? He was usually on the golf course at this hour, buttering up some bigwig.
When I answered the phone, the professionally affable ME sounded abrupt and angry. ‘Mrs Richman!’ he said. It was a demand.
Uh, oh. Normally, he called me Angela.
‘Yes, sir?’ My voice was trembling.
‘I need to see you in my office immediately, if not sooner.’
‘Of course. I’m on call today, sir.’
‘You will be if you still have your job when I finish talking to you!’
Now he was shouting. Evarts never shouted.
‘I’m on my way, sir.’
‘I expect you in this office in ten minutes, do you understand?’
I did. I also understood there would be no time to stop by Katie’s office to find out what was going on. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut with a combat boot.
I made it to the medical examiner’s office in the back of Sisters of Sorrow Hospital in nine minutes, all the while thinking about my recent cases. Who’d complained about me? It had to be someone powerful. Was it Mrs Scott, wife of the plastic surgeon who’d been caught dead with his squeeze? Did Jace and I demonstrate insufficient deference when we broke the news? I didn’t think she could be a problem.
I noticed some flowers blooming by the road, and suddenly my hands felt itchy. Where did that come from?
Oh, right. Briggs Bellerive. When Jace and I went to his mansion for the search warrant, Briggs gave me a big bouquet of flowers that had seriously creeped me out. But that visit was in the line of duty, wasn’t it?
Not with Briggs’s talent for twisting the truth. Did that slippery snake complain? If so, Jace and I had made a powerful enemy indeed.
I didn’t have any more time to worry. I’d arrived at the hospital. The lot was unexpectedly crowded, and the only parking spot was between two funeral home pick-up vans. The shiny black unmarked vans with the dignified silver scrolls on the side seemed like an omen. My career was between dead and deader, and I didn’t know why. I’d find out in a minute.
I quickly punched the code into the door to the ME’s office and ran down the hall.
Evarts was alone in his massive office. His door was closed, another bad sign. I knocked tentatively and was admitted with a low growl. The ME’s office was furnished like an expensive men’s club, with a forest green carpet, leather wing chairs, and Edwardian fox-hunting prints by the English artist George Wright.
Once, when I complained to Katie about the prints, she said, ‘Well, what was he supposed to hang on the walls? Autopsy photos?’
The door to his luxurious bathroom (the one that had claimed my office space) was shut. Then I saw the worst sign of all: his practice putter was propped against the wall in his office putting green. He was too upset to golf.
I took a deep breath and entered. Evarts was behind his massive desk, a copy of the president’s Resolute desk in the Oval Office. It was dustless and empty, except for one slim file folder. As I hiked across that vast green carpet, I saw my name on that folder.
Evarts’s milk-mild face was red with suppressed anger. He glared at me with a laser gaze, as if he could bore holes in me. I know all the ‘how to succeed’ books say to wait until the boss speaks first, but I couldn’t. I was too scared.
‘You called, sir?’ My voice was a terrified squeak.
He didn’t ask me to sit down in one of the leather chairs across from his desk, so I hung onto the back of one to steady myself.
‘Mrs Richman,’ he said, in a voice that was like an arctic wind. ‘I’ve received a formal complaint you are interfering in a police investigation. Two formal complaints, in fact.’
This time I kept silent. I didn’t know what to say.
He opened my file folder and frowned at it. ‘Detective Raymond Greiman says you are acting as an unauthorized partner to Detective
Jace Budewitz, interfering with Detective Greiman’s investigation into the disappearance of Rosanna McKim, Mr Briggs Bellerive’s housekeeper.’
Evarts’s words were cold, slow and deliberate. I could almost see Greiman in the room, wearing his TV-ready blue shirt and Hugo Boss suit, smirking at me. My anger burst through my caution.
‘What investigation? He’s not doing anything!’
As soon as those words shot out of my mouth, I regretted them.
‘Detective Greiman says there’s no need for further investigation of this case. It would be a waste of department resources. This young woman is what we used to call “loose.”’ Evarts was the poster boy for mansplaining. I wanted to slap his smug face.
Evarts must have seen my face because he held up his hand and said, ‘I know I may sound politically incorrect, but the missing young lady has had multiple sexual partners and she could have run off with any one of them.’
‘Says who? Who’s saying Rosanna’s had sex with a lot of men?’
‘Detective Greiman, of course.’
Greiman, the man who hopped into bed with any badge bunny who gave him a second look, had the nerve to brand a woman as ‘loose.’ At least I didn’t say that.
‘Does Detective Greiman have personal knowledge of Rosanna’s sexual behavior?’
‘Of course not!’ The old boy puffed up like the toad he was. ‘That’s outrageous. Detective Greiman is a decorated officer.’
‘Then where did he get the information about Rosanna’s sex life?’
‘From her employer, Mr Briggs Bellerive.’ He said the name reverently. ‘She was his live-in housekeeper for seven months.’
‘And what if I told you Rosanna said Briggs had been sexually harassing her and she was looking for another job? A safer job, away from an employer she described as an octopus. That means he had his hands all over her.’ I wasn’t above some ‘womansplaining.’
Evarts started sputtering like an old car, but I kept talking.
‘Rosanna also said that Briggs went out one or two nights a week and brought home young women. Some of them were underage pick-ups, and most were grubby and bedraggled. He took them up to his bedroom and Rosanna could hear them screaming throughout the house – with pain, not pleasure.’