A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) (14 page)

Oh, and I was a fifty-three year old single guy asking a twenty-four year old woman to stay at his house. Whatever the reason, despite the best of intentions, I now felt like the worst kind of middle-aged creep. "Look, forget it. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, I understand--"

"Yes."

"Sorry?"

"I think it's a great idea," she said. She had a tentative, thread-thin smile so fragile it looked like it would float away at any second. "I don't have many places to go, anymore. They've…they've all been taken away."

"You're sure?"

"I am. Thank you, Marty."

The knot of anxiety and embarrassment I'd felt melted away. Something tugged at the corners of my mouth and I said, "You're welcome."

. . .

The forensic crew showed up not long after that, beating the half hour Kransky had set for them. The team was a cop named Owens and an evidence collection expert named Benkov. I filled them in on the basics, told them what we'd touched and hadn't, then let them get to work.

Robinson was tired and pissed-off while trying to put a good face on it at the same time. I'd worn that same look enough times myself. Hatcher looked like she'd swallowed a pickle. I introduced them all around, then turned to Robinson. "Look, if you didn't think this was real before, this is damn good evidence that someone's at least harassing Amanda, and probably getting ready to do something a whole lot worse. You need to take this seriously. Can you set up some kind of protection for her?"

He ran a hand over his scalp. "I can't guarantee anything, Singer. Our department isn't exactly teeming with bodies."

"I get that. But you're all going to be looking for jobs if something happens to Ms. Lane on your watch."

He held up a hand to placate me. "I'll talk it over with Owens and see what we can work out. Where can we reach you?"

Amanda and I gave him our cell numbers. Then she said, "I'm going to be staying with Mr. Singer until this blows over."

Robinson's eyebrows flicked upwards, which was all the surprise he showed. Hatcher had a leer on her face that made me want to grab her nose and yank, but neither said anything.

"Got everything you need from us?" I asked, talking to everybody in a uniform. They all either nodded or ignored me. I tuned to Amanda. "Let's get the hell out of here."

We took the elevator--hopefully for the last time--down to the lobby. I was still jumpy and kept Amanda close while I scowled at the corners. Another small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of Krueger. Not surprising, considering the MPDC and GW cruisers, reds-and-blues flashing, parked outside the building. Then there was my car which, I saw as I got closer, was up on the curb like a stunt car in a
Starsky and Hutch
episode. Old habits die hard.

"Dude, what's going on in there?" a teenage kid with matted dreadlocks asked me.

"Finals," I said, and kept walking Amanda to my car. We got in, I backed the car up, and we drove away.

. . .

We made a quick stop by the friend's house where Amanda was staying to pick up her stuff, then she gave me her schedule as we headed back to my place. Since she didn't have a car of her own, I told her I'd drive her to campus most days, so it was going to be Singer's Taxi Service for the foreseeable future. We scrapped over that one, since she wanted to do things like take the Metro line into school or ask friends for rides, but I pushed back: they all had the same inherent risk as grading papers at nine o'clock at night in a campus office with her name on the door.

"Wheeler was a cop," I said, trying to convince her. "A bad one, but still a cop. He knows how to tail people without being seen, he knows techniques you aren't aware of. He might have a partner or is paying someone to tip him off when you leave campus. Let's do it my way for a week or two."

She caved. Which was lucky for me, since I was running out of steam mentally, emotionally, and physically. My body, running on adrenaline, was shutting down. We were still a couple miles away and I was having to chew the inside of my cheek raw to stay awake. Checking the rear view mirror and imagining Wheeler tailing me home with a shotgun in hand helped. But when we got to my place, I had just enough energy to shut the car off, stagger up the steps, and unlock the door before I landed on the couch I'd vacated a few hours before.

"Thanks for holding the door," Amanda said, as she struggled up the steps with her bags.

"Sorry," I said, but made no move to get up from the couch. I felt like I'd been glued down. "Put them anywhere. I'll show you around in a second. The guest room is--"

She never heard the rest. With a squeal, she dropped her bags to the floor and scooped up Pierre, who had charged down the stairs to kill me with the death of a thousand cuts for not feeding him all day. The last thing he expected was a forced cuddle from a twenty-something with the grip of a python. I laughed weakly at the look on his face.

"Oh my god, he's so cute," she gushed. "What's his name?"

"Pierre."

She laughed. "Pierre?"

"Short for Robespierre," I said. She raised an eyebrow and I shrugged. "I'm a history buff. And if you saw what he did to mice, you'd know the name fits."

In less than a minute, she had him purring like a two-stroke engine. I told her where the cat food was, which is when I lost him forever. She doled out cat treats for fifteen minutes, making him sit up and paw at her hand for them while I watched. The interval gave me back a bit of energy and I hauled myself out of the couch with a groan.

"Let me show you around," I called. Amanda left him and I gave her the nickel tour of the place, including the tiny room she could call home. I winced at how stale the room seemed. It had been a while since I'd had anyone over long enough to be considered a guest.

But Amanda didn't seem to notice. She dumped her bags on the bed and turned to me. Her eyes were wide. "Marty, thank you for this. And for everything. I'll try not to be a pain."

"Don't mention it."

We stood there for a second, awkwardly, then she stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. "Good night, Marty."

"Good night, Amanda," I said, retreating. I closed the door behind me.

It was the second time that night I found myself blushing.

The next morning was odd.

I'd slept as badly as you might expect, knowing that today would bring the first round of chemo. Or maybe it was because I knew Wheeler had been within arm's length last night. Or, maybe it was realizing I had someone staying at my house that wasn't a one-night stand or a distant family member flying in from out of town. Whatever the reason, it wasn't much past five when I gave up, groaned, and rolled out from under the blankets. Normally, this would dislodge Pierre from the foot of the bed and send him running for the food bowl. Or, more often, he'd be perched on my chest, boxing my nose or chin until I took a swing at him. This morning, neither was the case.

"Pierre?" I called.

Nothing.

I got to my feet and threw on some sweats. I called for him again in the hallway. Nothing. Which is when I remembered last night and Amanda and the food. I walked down the hall. The guest room door was open a crack; maybe she'd gone to the bathroom or something in the middle of the night. I eased it open a hair, feeling like a dirty old man, but I couldn't help myself. Was my cat sleeping with someone else?

Sure enough, caught in the act, Pierre was curled up like a dish rag at Amanda's feet. The poor girl was twisted like a sideshow contortionist, having succumbed to Pierre's voodoo magic ability to make a human relinquish ninety-five percent of a bed in his favor. He opened one sleepy eye to look at me, but refused to budge despite my peeved finger-waving and silently mouthed threats.

I gave up after a minute and backed down the hallway, but left the door open cat-wide in case Pierre decided to let me back into his life. I crept downstairs, trying to avoid the worst squeaks and creaks in the steps, already seeing in my mind's eye the coffee being scooped into the filter. My mind's nose could already smell it. Just the thought of coffee gave me a lift…until I remembered that I wasn't supposed to eat or drink anything except water in preparation for the chemo.

It's hard to describe how much my spirits sank after that. Instead of sipping a cup of coffee at five-thirty in the morning, staring out my kitchen window like I'd done for thirty-odd years to wake up before a shift, I was standing there with a glass of tepid water in my hand, glaring at the refrigerator. My mind alternated between being completely blank and dwelling on the sordid facts I'd picked up about chemo and cancer survival rates. When my mood hadn't improved by five forty-five, I tossed the rest of the water in the sink and started cleaning the fridge. I know when some physical activity is called for. Amanda found me an hour later putting the drawers of the crisper back, after having removed them--and everything else--for a cleansing so complete that it approached sterilization.

"Hey," I said, from the floor when I heard her shuffle into the kitchen.

"Hey," she said back, her eyes at half mast. She wore an over-sized GWU sweatshirt and plaid flannel bottoms. "What are you doing?"

"Ah…couldn't sleep," I said. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

She shook her head, still sleepy. Pierre, the traitor, was threading his way through her ankles. "Do you have any coffee?"

I winced. "Sorry. I should've put it on," I said. My knees popped as I got to my feet, pulling on the refrigerator door for leverage. "Gimme one sec."

"Don't you drink coffee?"

"Yeah, a ton of it. But I have to go to the doctor's later today and they told me no can do. All I get is water until this afternoon."

"Oh, jeez," she said. "That's lousy. You don't have to make it just for me."

"No, no problem," I said, trying hard not to grit my teeth. "Coming right up."

She fed Pierre while I grabbed the can and set up the coffee maker. The smell made my mouth water. I turned away and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard.

"It's nothing serious, is it?" Amanda asked as she cleaned off the cat-food spoon at the sink. She put the spoon back in the drawer, then turned and leaned up against the counter.

"What?"

"The doctor's visit."

"No," I said. The fridge smelled of disinfectant and cold. I shut the door. "Only a checkup. When you hit fifty, they drag you in all the time."

"You're fifty?" she asked.

"Yeah. Well, fifty-three. Why?"

"You don't look it."

"Well, thanks," I said, feeling pleased. Cancer be damned.

"What time do you have to be there?"

"Eight-thirty."

"I've got class from eight ‘til eleven. Do you know when you'll be done?"

I thought about it. Demitri had said a couple of hours should do it. Maybe I should hedge my bets and assume it would be longer than that, but why not think positive? "I should be done with enough time to come pick you up. If not, I'll call and either get a cruiser to come get you or ask the GWU beat to give you a lift."

"That's not going to attract attention or anything."

"Might not be an entirely bad thing. I mean, if Wheeler is out there thinking that it's only you against him, he might get bold and try something more dangerous. On the other hand, if he knows we're on to him and you're protected and we're on the lookout, then maybe we'll scare him off for good or force him into doing something stupid."

"Or run him to ground so that we'll never find him."

"Maybe," I said. "But I'd rather err on the side of caution. If I can't make it, and you get in a cruiser, I know you're safe. I'm not going to use you as bait only to draw him out. Well, not yet, anyway. That's plan B."

"Thanks a lot."

"No problem," I said, glad to see she'd gotten some of her spunk back. Not becoming a victim isn't only about going to work and acting like nothing's wrong. Sometimes it's keeping a sense of humor or being chippy with people when you don't agree or, conversely, keeping your cool when no one would blame you for blowing your top. In short, acting like a human being. But it's easier said than done.

The coffee-maker gurgled to a stop. Amanda poured herself a cup. "So, that's plan B. What's plan A?"

I chewed the inside of my lip, trying not to look at her cup. "I'm tackling it in two ways. The guy I called last night, Jim Kransky, is my old partner. He's still on the force and he's going to pull some strings, try to turn up the info on Wheeler that we can't get ourselves. If he finds something, I can follow it until it either peters out or I find Wheeler and make him stop."

"And part two?"

"I'm doing my own digging. I've talked to his defense attorney from the trial. I didn't expect much--it's been twelve years, not to mention she's got no love for cops--and I didn't get far with her, but you never know what you'll find."

She nodded, but did it staring down into her cup.

I watched her for a second, then said, "Sound passive?"

She gave me a wan smile. "Maybe. Last night made it very real. I'm not sure I can take sitting back and waiting for Michael to make another move."

"Yeah," I said. "It sucks. He's holding a lot of the cards right now and the best we can do is react when he decides to show us some of them. The key is to hit him hard when he does. And, meanwhile, keep scratching away with the expectation that we'll find something that leads us to him. And then we're the ones holding the cards. And won't
that
surprise Mister Cheap White Carnations."

"Can't we go to the police?"

I hesitated. How to explain? "I know this sounds stupid, but we don't have enough to show them. If we take this to the MPDC, they'll file it under pranks and cranks, not as a death threat. They'll argue that anybody could've dumped those petals on your desk. "

"What about your friend on the force?"

"Kransky? He's helping already, like I said, but it has to be behind the scenes, so to speak. Technically, he shouldn't be involved unless and until a crime gets committed."