Authors: Margaret Fenton
The bar was to the left, a metal
staircase to the right. As we walked past the bar, I asked Grant if he wanted a
drink. He declined. The bartender was frantically busy, hands flying as he
mixed cocktails and popped open bottles. His head was shaved and on his neck was
a large tattoo. It took me a while to discern that it was some sort of bird
with flames around its feet. A phoenix.
The staircase led to a balcony that
overlooked the dance floor. I nudged Grant and pointed to it. He nodded. We
eased our way up the crowded stairs slowly and found a spot to lean on the rail
and watch the action. On benches along the wall behind us a few couples were
making out.
“Here we are,” Grant shouted. “What are
we looking for?”
“We’re just looking.” Truth was, I had
no idea what I was looking for. Someone dealing drugs, I guess. Although I had
no idea whether they’d do it openly in such a public place. Or someone I could
talk to about it, maybe. Come to think of it, this was really a bad idea. I was
just about to suggest that we go when someone behind me yanked my arm.
“I thought that was you, but I couldn’t
believe it.” Russell. My cubicle-mate was dressed in a vintage, flowered
button-down and tight jeans. Behind him was Heinrich, his current boyfriend.
Heinrich was a big blond from Germany, a graduate student in chemistry at the
university. Heinrich kissed me on both cheeks in the European fashion. “Hey,
Russ. Hey, Heinrich.”
“ ’Allo, Claire.” Heinrich said in
his thick accent.
“What are you doing here?” Russell
asked.
“Just hanging out. This is Grant.” I
gestured toward him. He nodded to the guys and went back to studying the wall
of electronics. Russell leaned in so he could talk with me without being
overheard. Not that you could overhear much with the music blaring. “He’s your
date?”
“Yes,” I said in his ear.
“He’s kinda cute in a really nerdy sorta
way.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Really, what are you doing here?”
“I told you, hanging out.” The music
switched to a song by the Black Eyed Peas. The lights strobed faster, like
colored lightning.
“Bullshit. This isn’t your scene.” He
scoffed, “Or his.”
Russell knew me too well. “It’s about
the case.”
“Saw the article. You talked to Mac
yet?”
“Yesterday. He and Pope brought me in.”
“Ugh. On Sunday? And?”
“They almost fired me.” I summarized the
meeting for him.
“Thank God they didn’t.”
“Yeah. Anyway, remember the guy Ashley
was with when we got Michael? Flash?”
“Yeah, sorta.”
“He said this is where a lot of people
get GHB.”
He laughed. “So you thought you’d come
down here and see if you could score some?”
I was annoyed at him for laughing at me.
More annoyed that he was right. “Oh, shut up. I don’t know what else to do.
Something funny is going on and I’m grasping at straws.”
“Stay out of it, like they said.”
“No.” I sounded like a petulant child.
Marilyn Manson’s version of “Personal Jesus” began to thunder in my ears.
He put his arms around my waist and
said, “Okay, okay. In fact, a lot of people here are into the alphabet drugs.
X, G, Special K. You might want to talk to Lucas, the bartender. His brother
Donovan owns this joint. Not tonight, though. He’s busy.”
“Thanks.”
“Just don’t get fired. I’d miss you.”
We said good-byes all around and Grant
and I left. He was yawning on the way back to the van. “Sorry,” he said.
That got me started. After I yawned, I
said, “No, it’s okay. It’s late. Thanks for indulging my whim.” He really had
been remarkably easygoing on this little adventure.
The crowd at Fuel had grown even bigger.
Grant opened the van’s door for me, as he had before. The atomic clock on his
dashboard said ten-fifteen. He cranked the engine and we started back to my
house.
“Are you going to tell me why we went to
Kaleidoscope?”
So I did. All of it. About my history
with Ashley and Flash, how my tires were knifed, and how Ashley’d gone to
treatment with Nona and done so well, and about the GHB in the juice and her
pleading guilty and the mysterious Jimmy. And Dee and Al and his founded
allegations and gambling and drinking. I had to leave most of the names out,
but it felt good to lay it all out there, even if it was a bit jumbled.
He was a good listener. Giving the case
some thought, he said, “You’re right. Something doesn’t seem logical. Not if
she was really doing well.”
“That’s what I think.”
Grant pulled into my driveway and killed
the engine. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think I’d like to kiss you.” He
reached a hand to the side of my face and gently brought mine to his. His kiss
was soft, tentative. An invitation.
And to my surprise, the geek was a good
kisser. Something inside me melted, and just as I was going to ask him to come
in, he stopped.
“What?” I asked.
“There’s a man sitting on your — porch.
Chapter Thirteen
Sure enough, I could see the silhouette of
a man sitting on the top step, backlit by the porch light, a small, flat
package beside him. He had short, spiky hair.
“Son of a bitch,” I said into Grant’s
clean-smelling neck.
“Boyfriend?” His tone was concerned.
“No.”
“Ex-boyfriend?” His tone more hopeful.
I laughed. “No. That’s the damn reporter
who’s been writing all the articles about me.”
“Want me to take care of him?”
That also made me laugh. The vision of
all-arms-and-legs Grant wildly taking swings at Kirk the Jerk. “No, thanks,
I’ll handle it.”
“I should go. I gotta work early.”
“Yeah, me too.” I gave him one final
peck on the cheek and eased out of the van. “Thanks for everything. I had a
great time.” I realized after I said it that it wasn’t a lie.
“I’ll call you.”
I shut the door and watched as he backed
out of the driveway, then turned to Kirk, who was now standing at the base of
the steps in cargo shorts that showed off his muscular legs. A T-shirt with
tight bands edging the sleeves did the same for his arms. A cellophane-wrapped
mix of flowers was in his hand.
“Hi,” he said, goofy grin in place.
“What are you doing here? How’d you find
out where I live?”
“I’m an investigative reporter. I have
sources.”
I pulled my keys out and strode past him
to the front door. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to know if you’d seen the
article Sunday, so I thought I’d drop by.”
“I saw it.” I unlocked the door.
“I brought you flowers. Can I come in?”
A few neighbors were still outside,
lighting fireworks and shooting bottle rockets in the street. I didn’t want to
get into it with him in public, but I didn’t necessarily want him in the house,
either. I deliberated.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to put
these in water.”
I shrugged, and he followed me inside.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
I stomped through the living room into
the kitchen, opened the fridge and got a bottle of Ultra. Kirk followed,
watching as I twisted the cap off and lobbed it into the trash can. I took a
big swig.
“Sure, I’d love a beer, thanks for
asking. You’re welcome for the flowers, too. Got a vase?”
I nodded and fetched one out of the
cabinet over the refrigerator. As I filled it with water, Kirk helped himself
to a beer. I unwrapped the flowers and plunked them into the vase. Some of the
petals fell off the daisies.
Kirk watched from across the kitchen,
then asked, “What’s with you?”
I slammed my beer down on the counter.
“That fucking article of yours almost got me fired.”
He stopped midsip, his eyes wide.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
“My bosses think your article made it
look like we were shifting the blame. Trying to take the heat off of DHS.”
“That’s not what I meant. You made some
good points at the courthouse. I was just bringing them out.”
“And you had to put my name in the damn
thing, didn’t you? I’m not allowed to talk to you, but there’s my goddamn name
in the paper.”
He looked confused. “I thought you’d be
happy with it. You know, someone telling your side of the story.”
“They sure as hell didn’t see it that
way.”
“I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to Dr. Pope
again.”
“No! Christ, what part of
I am not
allowed to talk to you
don’t you understand!”
He set his beer down and was next to me
in two strides. His cologne was musky and sweet. He grabbed me by the shoulders
and pushed me against the stove. The knobs that controlled the burners pressed
into my lower back. His kiss was rough. Grant’s had been an invitation, Kirk’s
was a demand. My hands lingered on his chest a moment, then I pushed him away.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve wanted to do that since I met
you.”
“Get out.”
“Go out with me.”
“Ha! Sure, that’s going to happen. I
thought I made myself clear.”
“Come on.”
“Kirk, you’re going to cost me my job.
My career. Just drop it, please.”
He studied me for a moment, hurt blue
eyes so intense I couldn’t stand it, so I looked away. He picked up his bottle
and toasted me. “Thanks for the beer.” He took the drink with him, slamming the
front door.
His five o’clock shadow had pinpricked
my chin, leaving a stinging sensation. I rubbed it but it didn’t go away. I
turned off the lights, locked the doors, and went to bed, listening to the
faint explosions from still-reveling patriots and feeling frustrated in more
ways than one.
Tuesday. Michael had been dead one week,
and today he’d be laid to rest. I wondered if there was ever going to be a
Tuesday in my future when I wouldn’t think about him. I searched through my
closet to find something appropriate to wear. Settling on a navy pantsuit and a
cream silk shell, I added some conservative jewelry and clipped my hair into a
large barrette at the nape of my neck.
A storm front was closing in and high,
gray clouds moved across the sky, pushed by waves of warm wind. I grabbed my
umbrella and briefcase and inched to work in the traffic.
It had been a busy weekend for my voice
mail. I spent a frantic two hours trying to arrange a placement in a mental
health facility for a kid, updating Mac, filling out forms, and returning
calls. I got as much done as possible, and at ten fifteen put it all aside and
drove to Harris and Sons Memorial Chapel. I was early, but I wanted to make
sure I had time to talk to Ashley before the Sheriff’s deputies whisked her
back to jail immediately after the service.
Harris and Sons was all about comfort. A
young valet was waiting to park my car as soon as I made the turn into the
drive. A long green canopy covered the L-shaped sidewalk all the way to the
front door. The funeral director met me in the lobby, shook my hand solemnly,
and showed me to a reception room where coffee and water service was set up. I
poured myself a cup of the bitter java. A framed picture of Michael sat on a table,
the familiar blue steps of St. Monica’s in the background. Nona must have taken
it.
Dee and Al arrived. She was in the same
mismatched outfit I’d noticed in court, hair again rolled into curls at the
ends. Al had traded his raunchy T-shirt for a more appropriate black shirt and
black jeans. After greeting me, Al left us standing near the door and went for
coffee.
“How’re you doing?” I asked Dee.
“Okay, I guess.”
“And Al?”
“All right.”
“How long have you been married to Al?”
“Just about two years.”
“Was he married before?”
“Yeah. Once. He has a daughter a little
younger than Ashley. Him and her never see each other.”
“How come?”
“Her momma, she done poisoned her mind
against him. Told her a bunch of lies about her daddy, so now she don’t want to
see him.”
Interesting. Al had out-and-out lied to
Dee about why he couldn’t see his daughter.
“How long did you and Al date before you
got married?”
“About a year. Why?”
“I was just trying to remember when I
first met him.”
“It was after Michael went to the first
foster parents. You arranged that visit for me.”
That’s right. Al and Dee had requested a
visit, which I set up at the agency. She’d introduced him as her boyfriend.
Michael was already in foster care, and the visit was supervised at the office,
which might explain why I never did the background check. It wouldn’t have
affected Michael’s safety. I made a mental note to tell Mac.