Hot Flash (8 page)

“I'll be there tomorrow, Reece. I promise. I'll call you when I get on the road.”

She clicked off without even a grunt of acknowledgment. It seemed her regular modus operandi of late.

I rang her back, but it went straight to her voice mail. I left a message. “Reecey, I love you. Whatever it is, we'll work it out. I'll call you tomorrow when I get on the road.” I hung up and called back again just in case, but it went to voice mail again.

When I returned to the table, Calvin stood and pulled out my chair for me, a gesture I thought long retired from all existing etiquette teachings. On second thought, it probably
was
gone from existing etiquette teachings. Calvin was old school.

“You good, babe?” he asked, scooting his chair in. When he was done, he reached out and covered my hand with his. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“No. I mean, it's my sister.” I sighed. “I'm going to visit her for a few days. There are . . . issues.”

“Can I help?”

“Believe me, you are helping right now.”

A pretty salad of persimmon, pear, and avocado followed the entrée. Calvin explained that while Americans tend to eat salad before the entrée, it was customary in many European countries to eat it after.

The best part was the wine, Four Bears Sauvignon Blanc 2010, that accompanied the appetizer and the Byron Pinot Noir 1996 that complemented the entrée. It was the effect of the wine I'd say that would not let me leave our getting-to-know-each-other conversation alone.

“Calvin, this is lovely. Thank you.”

“Muriel, I would love to spoil you for the rest of your life.” He leaned in. “I get the most pleasure out of pleasing you, seeing that smile of yours light up your beautiful face. And best of all, that ugly face you make when you come.”

“Ugly face! I make an ugly face, huh? So you're saying you have a problem with the way I look when I'm—”

We laughed. I probably could have been embarrassed or insulted or something in one of those corners. Instead it felt right, a quirk of mine that only he knew about and loved.

Over dessert, pot de crème, or custard, that was orgasmic, Calvin talked about his singing days and how he'd almost recorded an album and made it to overnight stardom. He and his band were famous in Europe, Japan, and Korea in the sixties and seventies. It was then that they were offered a record deal by a label out of London. At the same time, he received word that his mother was ill and he rushed back to America—Philadelphia, to be exact. He took care of his mother for ten years before she passed away, and here he'd stayed.

Something signaled me that Calvin was holding back. I made a note to check him out more, then wiped it away thinking I was overreacting or worse, acting like a police officer.

We left the restaurant and drove down Sixteenth to Market Street to Fifteenth and around Penn Square. Calvin bypassed I-95 and drove the streets, the long way home. A sweet, comfortable silence settled between us. I gazed at him in adoration. Bright lights flashed. I screamed and then nothing.

C
HAPTER
7

T
he dark was peaceful. An ugly gurgle crept up and back down my throat, causing a fit of coughs and dragging the pain through every part of my body. A shadow propped up my head and offered me a sip of water. More darkness.

When I opened my eyes, the dark hung on, but the peaceful feeling became more like the garden of evil. Afraid to move any part of me, I tried to focus on my surroundings until my vision cleared on Travis and Laughton, both sleeping in chairs next to my bed. My head spun with the memory of my last moments with Calvin. Tears trickled down the side of my face, causing an itch I was helpless to scratch. Was Calvin alive? I lay in silent agony waiting for someone to notice.

Laughton stirred and came to me, then Travis, then darkness.

A soft, melodious voice pulled me back. “Muriel, wake up, Muriel. It's okay. You're just having a dream. Wake up, dear.” The nurse rubbed my arms with a cool cloth. “That's it, wake up. That must have been some dream you were having. I thought for sure you would leap out of this bed.” She lifted my head, put a pill on my tongue, and stuck a straw in my mouth. I sipped. I was afraid to move for fear of pain, but then I panicked. I lifted a finger and wiggled my toes to check.

“Everything works,” the nurse assured me. She was plump with a skinny face and wide eyes. “You've been in and out of consciousness going on five days now. Today is Wednesday. You were brought in Friday night.” She moved around the bed, tucking in my sheets and checking the bag of fluid hanging from a hook suspended above my head. A tube from the bag attached to an IV in the back of my left hand. I lifted my hand and spread my fingers to test the degree of pain. The nurse gently pressed my hand back down and pulled the covers up. She slid a thermometer in my mouth and took my blood pressure and pulse.

“You're going to be fine, young lady,” she said. “Your son, sister, and police friend visited every day. Your son and sister never left your side until I sent them home today. They'll be back in the morning.”

It took a minute before I gathered that “my sister” was Dulcey.

“You have questions, but they'll wait until the morning when the doctor comes. You rest now.” She scurried out.

Wake up, go to sleep
, was all I could think. Protest did not register. Once again, darkness ruled. I woke before dawn feeling like I had to use the bathroom, but was unable to move enough to escape the confines of the hospital bed. I pressed the button for the nurse, but no one responded. I cried, not so much feeling sorry for myself, but trying to remember what had happened and afraid that Calvin was dead. I pressed the button again. It seemed an eternity before a nurse came, by which time I recognized I had a catheter. I cried some more from the frustration of not knowing what was happening, if Calvin was alive or dead, if I had all my parts and they worked. Somehow the nurse's words of reassurance did not feel true.

The next morning, Dr. Lebowitz ran down my ailments, the worst of which was a severe concussion. I also had multiple cuts and bruises, a busted lip, three cracked ribs, and a broken toe. Complete recovery was certain in time. The doctor said a Jeep broadsided us on Calvin's side—a drunk driver ran a red light.

I managed a few more hours of sleep before the onslaught of voices humming, phones ringing, machines whirring, dishes clanging, and the groans and moans and wailing of patients woke me. My eyes were still sticky and my vision blurred when Laughton arrived.

“Tried to check out on me, huh?” he said. “You're damn lucky, M. Scared the hell outta me. Scared the hell outta everyone.”

“Travis,” I managed. My voice sounded foreign to me, thick and raspy.

“He damn near chewed his thumb off, but he's good. I've been keeping an eye on him. He should be coming around in a minute.”

“Calvin.”

Laughton did not answer.

“Calvin.”

“I'm not going to bullshit you, M.” He hesitated before continuing, “Calvin's in a coma. They still don't know if he's going to pull through.”

I closed my eyes against a jagged pain. Laughton pulled a tissue from the box on my side table and dabbed at the sides of my face. “He's a fighter, M. Got to be if he's in your sights.” He grunted and smiled, then got serious again. “He'll make it.”

His expression told me he wanted to say more, but I did not want to hear more. He tried to talk, but Travis and Dulcey rushed in and rescued me. After hugs and kisses and Travis assuring me that he knew I would come through because “Nothing and no one can defeat Moms.” Dulcey dismissed him to the cafeteria for coffee. Laughton went with him.

“Girl, you gave us all a scare,” Dulcey said. “Living without you is just not an option.” She bowed her head and mumbled, “Thank You, Lord.”

“Dulcey, Calvin . . .”

“The Lord has His hand on him, Muriel. You worry about getting on your own feet and outta here.”

“Nareece.”

“She disappeared again. John called me when you didn't show up this past weekend and his phone calls to you went unanswered. Baby girl took off. I've called her cell a thousand times, but she won't answer. John's been beatin' up my phone. I finally told him to call the police.”

Dulcey smoothed my covers and fixed the pillow under my head for more comfort—unattainable comfort. The throbbing was building in my head again. I closed my eyes.

“There's more, Muriel.” She pressed her fingers against my temples and moved them in a circular motion. The throbbing retreated. “Someone broke into your house over the weekend. When Travis got home, the place looked like a bomb had blasted through. The boy was petrified, especially since he couldn't get you on your cell. He's staying with me for now.”

“Mr. Kim.”

She worked her fingers to my widow's peak with the same circular motion. “I talked with Mr. Kim. He wasn't there. He visited his daughter in D.C. for the weekend and didn't get back 'til Monday. He's a good man. Said he'd keep an eye out 'til you got home.”

“Twins.”

“Honey, they're fine. John is taking good care of God's little angels. I told him you'd call soon as you're able.”

“Reecey.”

“I keep telling you, Reecey is stronger than you think.” Dulcey's voice deepened. “You think she'd be here or would have called me or something to find out if you're okay. Girl doesn't think about nobody but herself.” She hesitated before she spoke again, her manner more tender. “She'll figure it out. Besides, ain't nothing you can do now 'cept get yourself well.” She walked around the bed and cleared tissues and empty plastic cups from the table situated in front of me. Then she went for the matted hive my hair had become and started to work her magic. Twenty minutes later, she handed me a mirror and stepped back, waiting for my approval. I shared a strong likeness to Frankenstein, or rather, Frankenstein's mistress. I started to cry, which sent Dulcey hustling for tissues and dabbing at my cheeks to stop the flow.

“Honey, you're looking good now. You looked dead for sure when I first saw you. Made
me
want to scream.”

“Scream about what?” Travis said, reentering the room. Laughton was not with him.

“Where's Laughton?”

“We ate lunch and he took off. Said he'd be back. Scream about what?” he repeated.

“The way your mama looked when we first saw her.”

“That's only the half of it. I freaked out after going home to the place all jacked up and you didn't answer your cell. Laughton didn't answer his cell. If Auntie hadn't answered . . .” He sat forward in the chair beside the bed. “I don't know what I'da done—”

“No worry. God don't want me,” I said.

“Ma, Auntie Reece called my cell. She surprised me, because she never calls my phone. Said she's been trying to call you since you were supposed to go there this past weekend. She sounded off the hook.”

“You tell her about the accident?”

“I didn't know about the accident then. She hung up on me.”

“I'll call,” I said, to ease his anxiety. “New York?” All I could think was how Nareece must be crazed by now. In twenty years, a day had not passed without us talking. Now it had been five. And there was still the envelope to contend with. I squeezed my eyes closed, then opened them again and refocused on Travis.

Travis bounced around the room with big gestures and expressions, talking about the grandness of his New York trip. I must have dozed during the telling, because at one point when I peeped at him he smiled, flicked on the television, and settled back in a chair. Dulcey slouched in the chair on the opposite side of the bed from Travis. A peaceful, painless sleep found me.

C
HAPTER
8

T
ravis fumbled with the house keys. I held my breath, waiting for the shock of my house turned upside down. Instead, the faint smell of Clorox Clean Up and Pledge hit me before the familiar smell of home filtered through. A stack of mail on the couch end table was the only blemish in an otherwise spotless setting. Dulcey and Travis steered me to the couch, one on either side of me, and made me sit. Resistance was not an option. I sat back and eyed the spiderweb in the corner above my head.

Travis settled me on the couch. He put a pillow under my head and covered me with the navy afghan Nareece had crocheted for a Christmas gift one year, four, maybe five years ago. Times does get away.

I tried to relax and closed my eyes against the vision of Calvin still unconscious in the hospital. In all my years on the force, gunshot wounds, broken bones, cuts, nothing ever touched me. The cliché, “I always thought I'd die on the job,” came to mind. I never imagined it might be on a date.

A week after I arrived home, Nareece was still missing. Calvin was still in a coma, though in stable condition. And I was still stumbling around, too well to stay in bed and too unsteady to go outside. Periodically my brain dislodged, floated around, and knocked against my temple, making me hurl.

John had graduated from irritated with Nareece for putting him and the twins through another disappearing act to hysterical with thoughts of her dead in a ditch, a driveway, or a Dumpster. Her cell phone went right to voice mail.

Nareece had disappeared on several occasions before, causing John and me needless worry. For the first few incidents, I drove to Boston on search-and-rescue missions. She returned home fine, just after I arrived, unwilling to discuss her whereabouts. I returned to Philly both times angry that I'd made the trip. Now I hesitated to call homicide detective Gerard Bates of the Boston Police Department, but I'd promised John I would. I held some concern, too, since this was Reece's longest escapade ever. And there was the letter to consider.

Detective Bates and I had gone through the Philadelphia police academy together. We stayed friends through the years since his wife, Vicky, was a high school girlfriend of mine. I solicited his help the first time Nareece disappeared. Thing was, I didn't share with him Nareece's real identity. He thought she was just a good friend. Nobody knew Nareece's true identity but me and her, Dulcey, and Cap. That was the whole premise behind protective custody, even if it was not official—and that was also me rationalizing my actions.

“Muriel Mabley, I'll be daggone,” he said. “How are you doing, Ms. Mabley? You're still Ms., I presume.”

“Hey, Bates. Life is good,” I answered. “Time passes too fast, and yes, I'm still Ms.”

“Nineteen years, forty-one days, twenty-six hours, and, let's see, thirty minutes and twenty seconds to be exact, since I've been graced with your mesmerizing beauty.”

“You're pathetic, Bates. How are Vicky and the family?”

“Vicky left. She couldn't handle the job. The boys are young men.”

“Time does get away.”

“How about you and yours? Travis, right?”

“Travis is a young man now, too, first year in college. I'm still working forensics, firearms. Right now I'm recovering from a car accident.”

“On or off the job?”

“Off.”

“Damn. You're supposed to get hurt on the job so you can take a sweet retirement, and get out while you're still breathing.” We laughed.

“Tell me, why am I being blessed with your call?” he asked.

I hesitated. I decided Bates should remain outside the loop of people knowing Nareece's true identity—for now.

“I need another favor, Bates. My girlfriend disappeared again. This time it's been more than a week. She's never been gone this long. Her husband, you remember John, he filed a missing person's report and I hoped you could check into it a bit, see what's getting done, if anything, and maybe do some digging.”

“No need to be hoping, I got you.” He asked several questions to reconfirm Nareece's information. “I'll call when something surfaces,” he said.

“Thanks, Bates. As soon as I get on my feet good, I'll be up that way. I'll stop in.”

The doorbell rang as I hung up. I hobbled across the room and barely got the door open when Laughton ducked inside as though hiding from somebody. I had not seen or heard from him since I'd returned home from the hospital. Cap called, Parker called, even Cap's assistant, Connie, had called to check on me, but not Laughton.

“How you doin'?” he asked. “About time you got dressed and hit the streets, don't you think?” He chuckled.

I rolled my eyes and moved past him to resume my position on the couch. A silent prayer kept a guard over my mouth.

He stopped halfway across the floor and stood there like he was waiting for directions.

“Got a beer?”

“Don't I always keep a beer here for you?”

He went into the kitchen and returned with a Heineken, working the opener. The bottle top popped off to the floor. He stumbled forward, kicking the cap out of reach, lunged for it and missed, then grabbed the cap and flipped it onto the coffee table.

“Been sippin' something already, huh?”

He took a swig of beer, swished the suds around in his mouth, and finished with an “Ah.” I suppressed a laugh. Laughton took another swig, then sat on the coffee table facing me, knee-distance away.

“Look, M. I don't think your accident was an accident,” he said abruptly, ignoring my question about drinking.

“What do you mean? Why would you say that?”

“Trust me on this.”

“Now I have a problem, Laughton. You've been dodging me, working on things by yourself, holding back information—and that was all before my accident. Besides, the car came from Calvin's side. If someone wanted to hurt me, they would have struck my side or head-on.” He did not respond. “Maybe someone was trying to kill Calvin,” I thought out loud.

“Nothing is the way you think. What's happening behind the scenes is stuff you don't know about, that you don't need to get involved in.”

“I don't need to know? I'm your partner, for chrissakes. You're telling me the accident was not an accident at all, but that someone tried to kill me or Calvin or both of us, and I don't need to be involved?”

“I want you to watch your back until I figure this out.” He took another long swig of beer and set the bottle on the coffee table, then moved to the couch, next to me. “Calvin's still in a coma. Go to Boston like you planned. I promise when you get back, things will be straight.” He raised his hand and moved a strand of hair from my face to behind my ear.

I couldn't believe a tingle surged through me.

“
Hm, hm, hm
. You are a beautiful woman.”

A moment of silence, Laughton's arms around me, his hand on my leg, old ass embers trying to burn my butt. My leg twitched. This was not happening. No way.

I broke his hold, cleared my throat, and said, “What's happening in the Taylor case?” I regained my upright composure, grabbed the closest thing to me, his bottle of beer, and drank. The beer went down wrong and came up through my nose, choking me. Laughton bolted to the kitchen and returned with a towel. Repositioned and wiping spilled beer from my lap, I continued, “I mean, Cap confirmed Marcy Taylor was murdered. He also said Wade's execution pointed to a drug deal gone bad. Any leads there?”

“Not yet. The gun found at the scene didn't kill him.”

Travis and Kenyetta came in as Laughton finished his sentence. He jumped up and hunkered over to Travis like a sumo wrestler going for the kill. I braced myself as Kenyetta bounded over to me like a puppy excited to see her master. This time she gracefully swooped down on me and kissed my cheek. I had no idea why the child thought she had to kiss me every time she came in the house.

“What's going on with you, young man?” Laughton said, jabbing Travis in his gut. Travis countered with an uppercut to Laughton's jaw.

“Doin' good, Unc,” Travis said.

Unc, short for “uncle,” was what Travis had always called Laughton.

Laughton grabbed Travis's head and pushed down to connect it with his uplifted knee.

“Gettin' ready to bounce, headin' to the Big Apple for the weekend.” Travis grabbed Laughton around the knees and lifted him off the ground.

“Damn, boy.” Travis set him down and Laughton swatted his head. Laughter filled the room. “I guess you're grown enough to make the Big Apple.”

Travis came to the couch and kissed me, cuing Kenyetta to make a move downstairs.

“Better keep this lovely young lady close,” Laughton said, then crouched and made a move toward Kenyetta. She giggled and slid in behind Travis, who pulled her to his side and blocked Laughton's access.

“Not to worry, babe. I won't let this dirty ol' man near you,” he said and punched Laughton in the shoulder. Laughton followed Travis and Kenyetta to the basement stairs and closed the door after them.

“Muriel,” Laughton said, returning to the living room.

Muriel.
Laughton hadn't called me Muriel since the day we met. M and M; M; Partner; Knuckles (don't ask) . . . but never Muriel. I tensed and started to get up from the couch. Laughton blocked my effort. He stood over me, arms crossed. I settled back down.

“As long as we've been partners, we've shared everything, or so I thought,” he said.

I felt like he was my husband about to leave me for someone or something else.

“But, Muriel, I need to work this out and I need to do it alone.”

“I can't make you tell me what's going on. I can't make you let me help. What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?”

He uncrossed his arms and stretched them out toward me in a helpless gesture. “Stay home. Take some time off,” Laughton pleaded, still standing over me. He switched to a hard tone. “The captain gave you clearance for a few weeks of sick time. Take it,” he said, then he stormed to the door and out of the house.

Like I said before, I have never been married, never even been in a more serious relationship than with Laughton and now three months into things with Calvin, so I wasn't real clear about how a breakup could crush you. I imagine Laughton's leaving was as close as I wanted to get. I suppose Laughton
was
my husband in every way except sexually. That connection had ended almost from the sweet beginning.

I would have left the force to be with Laughton. But he said he didn't want the backlash of being blamed if I ever regretted leaving the force or if our passions ever cooled.

Now my body burned and sweat poured from every pore.

The house was quiet and dark when the phone woke me. I searched for it with one arm, not wanting to move from my position of facedown on the couch. The ringing stopped before I found the phone between the cushions of the couch. I checked the caller ID. The number was unfamiliar. It rang again. The same number showed.

“Muriel Mabley.”

No answer.

“Hello, who's calling, please?”

No answer.

I could hear rustling on the other end, like cellophane being crinkled. I sat up at attention.

“Nareece?”

The rustling noise gave way to soft, steady breathing.

“Nareece, if this is you, please answer me.”

Silence.

“Tell me you're all right. Think about the girls, and John.”

More rustling.

“Please, Reece. Talk to me.” The line disconnected. A few minutes later, the phone rang again.