Temper

by Alex C. Hughes

  Elmer crossed his arms. He wasn’t happy, that much was very clear. But he didn’t say anything.

  “I have to admit, I’m confused, though. How does Collins’ death or threat of death benefit the union? Won’t a new owner likely invalidate all your agreements anyway?”

  A strange look passed across the man’s face, and then he shook his head. “I—neither I nor the union needs to threaten Mr. Collins. We’ve gone on strike twice in the last three years, and both times have come to a decent deal. The last time in particular, we got a much better deal than we deserved, which is why the guys keep electing me. We don’t need any more concessions than we’ve already gotten—and trust me, keeping Collins alive is to everyone’s benefit, and we know that. Where did you hear about these death threats?”

  I frowned. This was not at all where I’d thought this conversation would go. After far too long a pause, I finally said: “A source who seemed reliable at the time. Someone who’s also alleging safety violations at the factory.”

  He whistled. “Safety violations, huh? Really. He give you information on what’s exactly been compromised? I don’t mean to be a pain here, lady, but these are the lives and livelihoods of union members here, and we don’t take that sort of thing lightly. I’ll want to look into it myself.”

  “Something about substandard materials and safety gear.”

  He sat back on the desk. “Some of the equipment in the place is old, I’ll give you that. We’ve got open tanks, we’ve got recycled parts. But the anti-grav belts are good, and the old safety gear works just fine. No point in upgrading if it’s working.”

  “You sure?” I asked. “My guy is implying the product isn’t up to snuff.”

  “The product’s just fine. Who did you say you got your information from again?”

  I shook my head. “I can see I’m going to have to do some more digging.”

  “No kidding, you’re going to have to do more digging. What kind of reporter comes over to the union without getting her facts straight anyway?”

  Now I was irritated. I leaned forward in my chair. “Why did you get a better deal than you deserved?”

  His mouth clamped shut then.

  “Why?” I demanded, feeling by instinct that there was something there.

  “We have a good sense of timing, let’s leave it at that,” he said. “I don’t mean to be an asshole here, lady, but if you aren’t going to give me anything useful I can work with, all’s the union’s got to say is ‘no comment.’ Oh, and how forcefully we object to allegations that the products we make aren’t one hundred percent reliable, or that we’re anything but careful with the safety, and respectful to the owner. You can take that to your paper and print it. I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

  I was frustrated. Honestly, I was angry. He should have just handed me whatever paperwork and information I’d asked for—but that would have been in the days when I carried a badge and a gun. Right now, without threatening him with permits or jail time or something, I was stuck. I didn’t like being stuck.

  “You gonna leave now?” Elmer asked me.

  “You going to tell me the truth?” I asked, out of desperation. It was the kind of thing Adam would say, and get answers from.

  Didn’t work for me, though. Two minutes later, I found myself out on the sidewalk looking at two large men, obviously steelworkers, men with muscle and no shyness about using it. I thought about bringing out the hand-to-hand—I’d enjoy slamming their faces into the concrete. But there were two of them, they out-massed me at least twice over, and sensei said picking a fight was a bad idea for anyone, but particularly a bad idea for me.

  So I walked away.

  I got myself a coffee at a small shop not too far away, watched the street traffic in the sky lanes drift by, sipped the coffee and ate a half-price, half-stale red velvet cupcake I didn’t need while my heart calmed and my body settled out of fight mode. I was okay, I told myself. I was. Even if this latest foray into knocking on doors hadn’t worked out. PI work was harder than it looked.

  As I watched the traffic fly by, though, I worried over the conversations I’d had today like a dog with a bone. Something wasn’t adding up. Why had the union gotten a deal they didn’t deserve if the materials weren’t substandard? And if they were, either Elmer was a hell of a better liar than I was giving him credit for, or there was something deeper going on.

  And if it was deeper, of all Collins’ enemies, who exactly was involved?

  More than ever, I was starting to think there was an idealist in this mix. Nobody thus far had seemed to care—but somebody had cared enough to blackmail Collins. I needed to call my contact at the paper back.

  I looked at my watch. Crap. Too late for today.

  I showed up at Tyler’s condominium with a sack full of groceries and a flutter in my stomach. He met me at the door shirtless—which wasn’t quite a come-on, since Tyler would live shirtless if he could—but I looked all the same. He was a handsome man, tall with close-cropped hair and angular features covered by a dark and velvety complexion that made me want to touch, broad arms from a decade lifting weights, and just enough hint of abs to be interesting on a truly nice upper body. He liked food too much to have a six-pack, and I liked cooking too much to mind.

  “Hey,” he said, with that crooked smile that was so endearing.

  “Hey,” I said back, stomach fluttering again. I lifted the sack of groceries. “Butternut squash and goat cheese pasta work for you? I can throw in some basil and sausage.” It was a “cheat” meal, too simple according to my proper Italian grandmother to count as cooking, but for a weeknight, visiting Tyler, less than an hour of cooking was about right.

  His smile grew wider, and he moved out of the way. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  I moved into the small condo, claiming my space in the kitchen, finding bowls and pans companionably enough. He’d moved some things around since I’d been here last. I noticed that he’d set out a thin stack of files on the small kitchen table. Good, we’d look over the information after dinner, and I’d get his help on the case—and maybe actually get some progress going. He’d better help. I hoped he’d help.

  “Anything I can do to help with dinner?” he asked, just a hint of awkwardness about him.

  I laughed. “Sit yourself down and talk to me while I cook, okay?” Tyler could really cook (if I supervised and explained well enough) but today, I just wanted to do it myself.

  I started the water boiling and prepped the squash and sausages before throwing them in the oven to roast. My hands settled into the rhythm of cooking smoothly, like the katas of judo, a dance with a purpose, and a focus I needed more of in my life. Here, in the quiet of the moment, I settled into the motions, the rhythm, of making a good meal.

  Tyler sat on the bar stool behind the small counter of his kitchen, watching me.

  “What are you staring at?” I asked him, knife in hand pausing.

  “You.”

  But it wasn’t a friendly stare. It wasn’t…sadly, it wasn’t even sexual. Instead, the look made the hairs on the back of my neck go up. “Seriously, Tyler, I’m here, I’m cooking for you. You’re sitting there with your shirt off even, and you’re not in any kind of mood. Either spit it out or I’m going home.” I’d grab the files on my way out, so help me God.

  He paused. “Isa. You know what they’re saying about you in the department.”

  I scowled. I couldn’t—I didn’t know what to say.

  “You have a temper,” he said. “You always have. If you killed that guy, I wish you would tell me.”

  Now I was angry, angry like a tidal wave of emotion. I clunked the knife down before I did something stupid with it and crossed my arms. So he did know, damn it. “I guess everybody fucking knows now that they fired me. Why does everybody assume I killed him? I didn’t, okay? I didn’t. And I’ll prove I didn’t if it takes the rest of my life. Sure, I beat him up a little, but when I left, he was fine. A shiner, a
few bruises at most. And he was there, selling illegal band memorabilia! And harassing people! Specifically, me. He started it. You know how the city cracks down on all of that. He was fine when I left, fine.” Anger roiled within me, hot and needing release.

  “You’re… You were suspended. IA upheld the results. You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you were completely—”

  “I expect you to be on my side! You know me, Tyler. Why in hell invite me to your place if you’re going to pull this shit?” My chest was expanding too much, my breath too big, my blood up. I wanted a fight, but I wouldn’t hit Tyler. Not right now, not even if I wanted to.

  “I’ve known you for a while,” Tyler said, tenser on that stool than he had been, making an effort to keep his voice even. “But I can’t say I know you now. You’ve always been truthful. I believe that you believe you didn’t do it. But you have a temper, Isa, and Internal Affairs doesn’t convict without cause.”

  “I can’t believe you’re smearing me with that brush.”

  “I’m not smearing you with anything. I’m a cop. I have to look at the evidence I have.”

  “That’s not fair,” I protested, but I couldn’t say I’d feel any differently in his shoes. It hurt, though. It hurt a lot.

  He sighed and let out a deep breath. “If you say you didn’t do it, I believe you. I do.”

  I looked up. “Really?”

  “Yeah. It doesn’t sound like you, anyway. If you were going to kill a guy, it would be over something a lot bigger than illegal band t-shirts.” He sighed, rubbed his neck. “Well. You should have called me, Isa. A lot earlier than this. I could have helped you, maybe.”

  I shook my head. “You’re not my boyfriend anymore.”

  He laughed, an unexpected explosion of sound. “I was your boyfriend for about thirty seconds, four years ago. We were always more friends with benefits, Isa. As I recall, that’s how you wanted it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s exactly the point. And you didn’t call me this time either, did you. Not until you needed something for a case. What the hell kind of cases do you have these days anyway?”

  I scowled at him, turning the heat on the pasta water lower. “Adam and I opened a private investigation firm. It’s a job.”

  “Good for you. No, really, I mean it. Good for you.” He smiled then, and it was forced, but maybe he did mean it.

  I took a breath. This was Tyler. Of all the ex-partners and exes I had in the department—and there had been a few, after Peter, when I couldn’t stand to be alone and couldn’t stand to be with anybody either—Tyler was the one who’d actually cared enough to check up on me at least. “Why’d you let me come over and cook if you knew?” I asked him.

  “You and this Adam guy serious?” he asked me, a trace of calculation in his eyes.

  “NO!” I said, way too quickly. I looked away, went and got a potholder to check the squash and sausage. They weren’t cooking fast enough, but I stirred the sheet anyway. I closed the door and told the oven, “No. It’s nothing. We haven’t even slept together.”

  “Holy crap, you’re in love with the man,” Tyler said.

  I looked up; he seemed like somebody had just hit him in the head with a frying pan.

  “What?” I asked, so thrown off my game I couldn’t even respond. “He’s Adam. He has the drug thing. I can’t be in love with him, and anyway, there’s the firm.”

  Tyler blinked and then whistled. “You’re in deep. You don’t sleep with him, you open up that PI firm with him, and now you’re denying any kind of feelings? It’s bad, isn’t it.”

  “Don’t be like that,” I said, flustered.

  “You sleep with half the department, or you did. You’re telling me you worked with this telepath guy for years—I mean, literally years—and you never…?” He shook his head. “You don’t work like that, Isa.”

  “I do not sleep with half the department. Just you, and well…that’s not the point. Adam’s different.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Tyler’s voice was soft now, kind.

  I couldn’t stand it. “Look, do you want me to cook for you or not?” I could tell him about the psychic link that Adam had accidentally-on-purpose set up between us. I could tell him that sleeping with the man now would make it permanent, put Adam in my head all the time, and that keeping my distance was the only way to stay safe in my own brain…but maybe he was right. Maybe I was… I literally couldn’t think that, couldn’t deal with that. “It’s a free meal by a damn good cook, and up until this point, you might have gotten lucky out of the deal, too.”

  “Would I now?” Tyler asked me.

  “Up ’til this point, I said. You’re annoying the hell out of me now.” I checked on the squash one more time, found it to my liking, and drained the pasta. The hot pasta went in a bowl with the goat cheese, fluffed up into the world’s easiest two-second alfredo, and then the rest got added, tossed, and seasoned. I spooned up two bowls, grabbed a bottle of white wine from his small rack on the counter, and set the table.

  I settled down, waited while he joined and poured the wine, and said, “You going to share your information about Collins or what?”

  He took a bite of the meal, nodded when he liked it, and swallowed. “You going to tell me what this is really about?”

  “He’s a PI client, and I want to know what I’m getting into. And he’s lying about something. I mean, everybody is, but this guy really is.”

  Tyler nodded again, chewed, thought. “He’s…he’s a powerful guy. He’s got money to burn, and he collects enemies the way I collected baseball cards when I was a kid. What are you supposed to be doing for him?”

  “I’d be an idiot to tell you that.”

  He shrugged and ate some more of the food.

  “Well…”

  He waited a little longer.

  “It’s just…”

  He finished his bowl, took a swallow of the wine, and just looked at me.

  “Okay, well, you can’t tell anybody.”

  “Have I ever been the type to gossip around the department about other peoples’ business?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then if you’re going to tell me, tell me.”

  I took in a breath, ate some food, and tried to figure out the right thing to do. “He’s being blackmailed for what sounds like substandard materials, and it’s my job to find the blackmailer.”

  “And he doesn’t want to go to the police.” Tyler looked understandably cautious.

  “He hired me as a private investigator. I’d say it’s pretty safe to say he doesn’t want a lot of attention around this,” I said. “The thing is, nobody seems to care about the substandard materials. It smells funny. I’m looking for a crusader, somewhere, or at least somebody who cares, but I haven’t found one yet.”

  Tyler got up and got more of the food while I settled into eating my own bowl. Pretty good. Needed salt and maybe a tiny bit more ground pepper or oregano or parsley. Or capers. Or something. It needed something.

  “You’re a good cop. Your instincts will point you in the right direction, I bet. Maybe I can help with the details. Here’s what I pulled for you.” Tyler put two files down on the table in front of me. He put the now-full bowl of food from his other hand down at his own spot at the table and sat down.

  I opened up the first file. It had two pieces of paper. Two. And worse, it was the kind of generic information you could get from an in-depth look at the county records. I looked up. “Nice try. Where’s the rest?”

  He looked at me.

  “Seriously, where’s the rest?”

  “You’re not a cop anymore. You’ve been fired. I can’t give you much in writing.”

  I protested, but he cut me off.

  “That’s the facts, Isa. I can’t, in good conscience, give you much more than I’d give to any other civilian. In writing. That’s the rules.”

  “It’s not fair.” I heard myself sound like Jacob, my nephew, with th
at same whiney tone of voice. I sighed. “Life’s not fair, I guess.” His mother’s—my sister’s—standard response.

  “Ask me questions.”

  “You know of any journalists looking into Collins? Any cops? Anybody who’d blackmail him?”

  Tyler thought. “My case isn’t overlapping enough for anything like that. I don’t think it’s a cop you’re looking for. And I don’t think it’s a worker.” He paused.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  He seemed uncomfortable. “Let’s just say our investigation ended up doing a background check on most of the second shift. That was a year ago. We’ve moved on. There were questions at the time—”

  “What kind of questions?” I asked.

  “Well, the equipment’s old. Not the safest stuff in the world. The union doesn’t seem to care, so nothing is done.”

  I thought about that for a moment and ate more of the warm pasta. “Well, that doesn’t line up with the substandard materials charge.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Tyler took a breath. “Isa, I don’t like you working for this guy,” His quietness made me lean forward, made me pay attention.

  “What are you trying to tell me exactly?”

  “I just…” He ate some of the food, but more with the attitude of needing something to do than with visible enjoyment. “Look. He’s plenty powerful, and he’s got the money to pay you, but I wouldn’t work for him, and I wouldn’t let family work for him. I…from what I’ve seen just in passing, he plays hardball. He’s not interested in anything but himself and his own causes. And you get what I mean about hardball—he’ll break your leg if it gets him what he wants, break it and not think a thing of it while he steps over you on the way to get frozen yogurt. Real nice people there.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I said, almost feeling forced to defend my client. “I mean, sure, he’s full of it, but he’s not Fiske. He’s not some kind of criminal mastermind; he’s just a self-absorbed rich guy. And anyway, nobody deserves to be blackmailed.”

  Tyler looked at me and ate. Finally, he said, “It’s your life, Isa. I’m just telling you what I think.”