She’d ended up having Thanksgiving dinner with the gay systems analyst from the apartment downstairs and eight of his friends, pretending she wasn’t listening through the ceiling for her phone to ring. After a few glasses of wine, she’d immersed herself in Charlie Parker and Jerry Mulligan, and joined the others in giving thanks for their good fortune at being together, for their sheer good luck at being alive, when so many of their friends had perished.
She had drunk too much and Walter had had to escort her back upstairs. At least she hadn’t had to drive home, she thought now.
Jess lowered her head into her hands, thinking of her car, vandalized beyond all recognition. A gift from her parents after her acceptance into Northwestern University, it had withstood law school, marriage, divorce, and four years with the state’s attorney’s office. Only it couldn’t withstand this last assault to its dignity. It couldn’t withstand Rick Ferguson.
Jess hadn’t immediately noticed the slashed tires, hadn’t absorbed the gutted upholstery, or the brake pedal ripped from the floor. It was days before she learned the full extent of the damage. A total write-off, of course. No point in trying to put the pieces back together again. Much too difficult. Much too expensive, even with insurance. She was already out over four hundred dollars.
They hadn’t found any prints, nothing to link Rick Ferguson to the murder of her car. So, he’d shown up in her courtroom that very day. So what? Nobody had seen him in the parking garage. Nobody bad seen him anywhere near her car. Nobody ever saw him anywhere. People disappeared; property was destroyed; Rick Ferguson went on smiling.
Jess picked up the phone and called the office of the medical examiner. “Good, you’re still there,” she said when she heard Hilary Waugh’s voice.
“Just getting ready to leave,” the woman told her. Jess understood that what she was really saying was, it’s late, let’s make this quick.
“I take it no one’s come in resembling Connie DeVuono,” Jess began, as if Connie DeVuono might still be alive, as if she had somehow wandered into the office of the chief medical examiner of her own accord.
“No one.”
“You got the dental records I sent over?”
“I got them. They’re here, ready and waiting.”
“That should speed things up. …”
“Yes, it should. I really have to get going now, Jess. I’m not feeling so hot. I think I might be coming down with something.”
“Welcome to the club,” Jess said, wishing Hilary Waugh a speedy recovery. She replaced the receiver, then immediately picked it up again, needing to hear a friendly voice. She hadn’t heard from her sister since before Thanksgiving. It wasn’t like Maureen not to call, no matter how busy she was. Jess hoped she was well, that she hadn’t been felled by the flu bug that seemed to be sweeping through the city.
“Hello.” The smile in Maureen’s voice was audible. Jess felt instantly reassured.
“How are you?” Jess asked.
“I’m fine,” Maureen answered, the smile quickly fading, leaving her voice cold, matter-of-fact. “Tyler’s got the sniffles, but the rest of us are okay. How are you?”
“I’m okay. How was Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Great. Barry’s mother’s a gourmet cook. But you’re not really interested in that.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “So, you’ve been busy, as usual?”
“Well, this is a real heater case I’m trying. …”
“Heater case?”
“Lots of publicity. I’m sure you’ve been reading about it.” Jess stopped when she remembered that Maureen didn’t read the front pages anymore.
“Actually, yes, I’ve been following it. I guess it’s quite a coup for you to have a case this big.”
“Only if I win it.”
There was silence.
“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” Jess ventured, suddenly aware that it had always been her sister who’d made sure they kept in frequent touch.
“I thought that was how you wanted it.”
“How I wanted it? Why would you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re always so busy. Too busy to meet Dad’s friend, anyway. Too busy to make dinner at Bistro One-ten. Too busy to keep your appointment with Stephanie Banack.”
“I kept my appointment.”
“Technically, yes, I guess you did. Look, Jess, I’m really not interested in pursuing this. I can appreciate that you’re busy. Believe me, I do understand something about what that’s like. But don’t try to tell me that you’re so busy you don’t have any time for your family. Don’t insult my intelligence that way. If you don’t want to be part of this family, that’s up to you. I guess I’m going to have to accept it.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be with you, Maureen. …”
“It’s that you don’t want to be with my husband.”
“We just don’t get along. It happens. It’s not the end of the world.”
“And Dad? How long are you going to keep shutting him out?”
“I’m not shutting him out.”
“No. Just the woman he loves.”
“Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?”
“I think Dad’s going to marry this woman, Jess.”
Another silence. “Did he say that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Well, I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
“Why do you have to worry about it at all?” Maureen demanded. “Why can’t you just be happy for him? Why can’t you at least pay him the courtesy of meeting her?”
Jess stared out the window into the encroaching night. It wasn’t quite six o’clock and already so dark. “I better go, let you get dinner ready.”
“Sure. It’s what I do best.”
“Maureen …”
“Bye, Jess. Keep in touch.”
The phone went dead before Jess had a chance to say good-bye. “Great. Just great.” Jess returned the phone to its carriage, thought of calling her father, decided against it. She could bear the sound of only so much disappointment.
What was she doing to her family? Why couldn’t she just reconcile herself to the fact that her brother-in-law was an ass, her sister was Total Woman, her father was in love? When had she grown so intolerant, so inflexible? Did everyone have to live their lives according to her dictates? Was she doing such a great job with her own life?
The door to her office opened. Greg Oliver stood on the other side. The pungently sweet odor of Aramis raced toward her desk.
Just what she needed, Jess thought, acknowledging his presence with a sigh that stretched to the tips of her toes.
“Why aren’t I surprised to find you here,” he stated rather than asked.
“Maybe because you heard me talking on the phone?”
“Was that you whining?”
Jess exhaled another deep breath of air. “That was me.”
“Sounds like you could use a drink.”
“I just need a good night’s sleep.”
“That too can be arranged.” He winked.
Jess rolled her eyes, stood up. “How’s the O’Malley trial coming along?”
“In the bag. Should be wrapped up by the end of the week. And the famous crossbow avenger?”
“Hopefully, it’ll be in the jury’s hands by Friday.”
“I heard they offered to make a deal.”
“Murder two, ten years in prison? Possibility of parole in four? Some deal.”
“You really think the jury’s decision will be any different?”
“I can dream,” Jess told him.
Greg Oliver’s sly grin curved toward a genuine smile. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t be silly, Jess. Your car is dead and buried; you’re never going to find a cab; you call for one now, you’ll be here another hour at least; and I’m offering you a ride to wherever you want to go: Vegas, Miami Beach, Graceland?”
Jess hesitated. She knew he was right—a cab would take forever to get here at this hour. And after her last excursion, she refused to take the El. She could call Don, even though she hadn’t heard from him since she’d turned down his offer to spend Thanksgiving with him and Mother Teresa. No, she couldn’t call Don. It wouldn’t be right. He was her ex-husband, not her chauffeur.
“All right,” Jess agreed. “But right home.”
“Whatever you say. I’m here to take the lady wherever she wants to go.”
Greg Oliver’s black Porsche pulled to a halt outside Jess’s brownstone. He turned the engine off. The loud rock
music, which had accompanied them on the drive, mercifully making conversation all but impossible, came to an abrupt stop. “So, this is where you live.”
“This is it.” Jess reached for the door handle, eager to escape the smell of his cologne. “Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate the ride.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No,” Jess said simply.
“Come on, Jess. You wouldn’t let me buy you a drink. The least you can do is offer me something for my long trip home.”
“Greg, I’m tired; I have an itchy throat; and I have a date,” she added, the lie settling on her tongue like a bitter pill.
“It’s half past six; take two aspirin; and you haven’t had a date in fifty years. I’m coming up.” In the next instant, he was out of the car.
Jess threw her head back against the dark leather seat. What had she expected? She opened the car door, lifting both legs to the sidewalk simultaneously, and boosting herself out of the car’s low frame with her hands.
“You did that very well,” Greg commented. “A lot of women don’t know how to get out of these cars properly. They throw one leg out at a time.” He laughed. “Of course, it’s a lot more fun that way for those on the sidewalk.”
“Greg,” Jess began, walking quickly ahead of him toward her front door, “I’m not inviting you up.”
“You can’t mean that,” he persisted. “Come on, Jess. All I want is one little drink. What are you so afraid of? What is it you think I’m going to do?”
Jess stopped at her front door, fishing in her purse for her key. Why hadn’t she thought to get it ready earlier?
“You think I’m going to come on to you? Is that it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Shit, Jess, I’m a happily married man. My wife just bought me a Porsche. Why would I come on to a woman who obviously hates my guts?”
“Because she’s there?” Jess asked, locating her key and unlocking the door.
“You’re funny,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping into the foyer. “That’s why I put up with all your crap. Come on, Jess. We’re colleagues, and I like to think we could be friends. Is that so awful?” He knelt down suddenly, scooping up some letters that lay on the floor under the mail slot, casually rifling through them. “Your mail.” He deposited the letters in her waiting hand.
“One drink,” Jess told him, too tired to argue further.
He followed her up the three flights of stairs, like a dog at her heels. “Trust you to live on the top floor,” he said as they reached the door to her apartment.
She unlocked the door. Greg Oliver was inside almost before she was.
“You leave the radio on all day?” he asked, his dark brown eyes quickly assessing, then dismissing, the contents of her living room.
“For the bird.” Jess threw her purse and the mail on the sofa, silently debating whether or not to remove her coat and boots. Although it was her apartment, she didn’t want to do anything that might encourage Greg Oliver to prolong his visit.
Greg Oliver cautiously approached the birdcage, peered through the bars. “Male or female?”
“Male.”
“How do you know? You look up its feathers?”
Jess walked to the kitchen, located a few beers toward the back of the fridge, and uncapped one, returning with it to the living room. Greg Oliver had already made himself at home on her sofa, his coat thrown across the dining room table, his tie loosened, his shoes off. “Don’t get comfortable,” Jess warned, handing him the beer.
“Don’t get cranky,” he countered, patting the seat beside him. “Come on, sit down.”
Jess hung her coat in the hall closet, leaving her boots on, and quickly took stock of the situation. She’d allowed a man she could barely tolerate, a man obviously on the make, to drive her home. That man was currently sitting on her living room sofa, drinking the beer she’d handed him herself. She was a smart woman, she thought, hearing herself scoff. How had she managed to put herself in this position?
“Listen, Greg,” she told him, walking back toward the sofa, “just so we set the record straight: I don’t want to create a scene; I don’t want to make it impossible for us to work in the same department; I don’t want to make your life—or mine—any more difficult than it already is.”
“Is there a point?” he asked, taking a long sip of his beer directly from the bottle.
Jess realized she’d forgotten to give him a glass. “The point is that I’m very uncomfortable with your being here.”
“You’d be a lot more comfortable if you’d sit down.” Again, he patted the seat beside him. Jess watched her mail bounce toward the next cushion.
“I have no intention of going to bed with you,” Jess said, deciding the direct approach was probably best.
“Who said anything about going to bed with me?” Greg Oliver managed to look both surprised and offended.
“Just so we understand each other.”
“We do,” he said, though his eyes said otherwise.
Jess sat down on the arm of the sofa. “Good, because I’m really not in the mood for anything as tacky as date rape. I know the system sucks and even if I weren’t too embarrassed to report it, you’d probably get away with it. So I want you to know that I have a loaded gun in the end table beside my bed, and if you so much as lay a hand on me, I’ll blow your fucking head off.” She smiled sweetly, watching Greg Oliver’s mouth drop into the vicinity of his knees. “I just wanted to set the record straight.”
Greg Oliver sat for several seconds in stunned silence. “This is a joke, right?”
“No joke. You want to see the gun?”
“Jesus, Jess, no wonder you haven’t had a date in fifty years!”
“Drink up and go home, Greg. Your wife is waiting.” She stood up and walked toward the door.
“Why the hell did you invite me up here?” His voice radiated righteous indignation.
Jess could only shrug. Why was she surprised? “I’m too old for this,” she muttered.
“You’re constipated, is what you are,” Greg told her, reaching for his coat. “Constipated and uptight and what the boys in the school yard used to call a real tease.”