Childless: A Novel (2 page)

“Smitty!” Tyler
shouted with too much enthusiasm, leaning against the white bark of a full-leafed aspen. “How’s my favorite former partner doing?”

“Fine, Cain. Just fine.” Detective Smith had never been the most gregarious officer on the force, content to let his partner cover rituals like disingenuous backslapping for the both of them. He was even less inclined toward empty chatter now that he held the post of assistant chief.

“Great to hear from you,” Tyler continued. “How’s life at the top?”

He regretted the dig immediately. It wasn’t Smitty’s fault Tyler had been passed over. Greg Smith was a solid officer and a good man. He had earned every promotion, unlike the conniving Kory Sanders, who actually deserved snarky comments about maneuvering his way into a higher rank.

“To be honest, stressful,” he replied. “But I won’t bore you with my headaches.”

Tyler paused for a fraction of a second. Would Smitty finally nibble on the line? Tyler had never actually asked his former partner to hire him back onto the force. But Smitty must have known.

“Can I do anything to help?” Tyler asked, trying to sound indifferently willing rather than desperately eager.

“Actually, you can.”

Tyler jerked forward as if standing at attention. “Really?”

“That’s why I called,” Smitty continued. “The chief got an odd message from a staffer over at the Tenth Circuit this morning.”

“Over on Stout Street?” A dumb question. The Federal Court of Appeals had been housed in the same building for more than a hundred years.

“I’m forwarding you the message.”

Tyler instantly heard the ping of arrival in his ear.

“I know you have a full dance card, but could you squeeze in a quick call between cases? I think you’re the right man for this one.”

Tyler smiled. “What’s the issue?”

“Can’t say. The message is pretty cryptic, the kind we would ignore if it came from the average citizen. But this came from the courthouse to the chief’s in-box.”

“Say no more. ‘When it comes from the top…’” Tyler began.

“‘…we get to the bottom.’” Smitty finished the familiar mantra. “Probably just needs a courtesy call that will go nowhere. But I can’t let this one fall through the cracks. You never know, it might generate some business.”

Disappointed that Smitty hadn’t called about an opening on the force or a juicy case like the ones they’d solved together in the glory days, Tyler resumed his leaning posture. “I’m on it. I’ll call today.”

“Thanks, Cain. I owe you one.”

Tyler smiled at the notion of being owed anything by Smitty, the same man who’d sent one strong lead after another during Tyler’s early, starving days as a private detective. What’s more, his former partner treated Tyler with a respect that nearly made him feel legitimate by pretending not to know what kind of work kept Cain Investigations LLC above water. This call was yet another ploy to feed Tyler an assignment much more respectable than his usual fare. Captain Greg Smith was a very good man.

“Play message,” he said.

“Greg, the chief asked me to forward you the attached for handling per the usual.” Tyler couldn’t place the voice. Perhaps the chief’s office assistant? “Please close the loop with me and I’ll let him know it’s done. Thanks.”

He continued listening until the forwarded portion began.

“Good morning. This is Jennifer McKay from Judge Santiago’s office in the Tenth Circuit. We’ve encountered a sensitive situation and find ourselves in need of a private investigator that can be trusted with highly confidential information. I wonder if someone from your office could recommend a name or point us in the right direction. Thank you for any assistance you can offer. I will be available at this number all day.”

Tyler felt a twinge of self-esteem while tapping his phone to pursue such a mysterious, potentially important case. It’s not every day a federal judge calls the chief of police requesting a private detective recommendation.

“Jennifer McKay,” a voice answered.

Her abruptness told Tyler he had reached a very busy person who skipped pleasantries to squeeze additional seconds into an overloaded schedule.

“Yes, Ms. McKay, my name is Tyler Cain. I’m following up on a request that came from the chief of police. I was told you were looking for a reliable private investigator.”

“If such a thing exists.” A sardonic laugh told Tyler she ranked his profession only slightly above that of used car salesman. “Do you have a recommendation for me?”

He allowed a momentary silence while considering the most advantageous posture in reply. “Actually, Assistant Chief Smith asked me to offer my services. I made no promises, but said I would give you a call. I’m very busy, but I owe him a favor.”

“I’m so sorry,” came the suddenly embarrassed answer. “I didn’t mean to…” She paused to redirect. “I appreciate your call, Mr.…?”

“Cain. Tyler Cain,” he said, glancing toward the house of ill repute to check for motion. Nothing.

“Listen, Ms. McKay, I stepped out of an important meeting to make this call. I can only give you a few minutes. Can you give me the gist of your situation quickly, or should I try you again in a day or two?”

A sense of apologetic urgency overtook the woman’s voice. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll make this brief.”

He smiled at the results of his favorite tactic. He who cares least controls the conversation.

“Judge Santiago has received three letters that I consider threatening. We need someone to help us turn sparse details into meaningful clues so that we can decide next steps.”

“Next steps?”

“Specifically, I need to decide whether to share the content of the letters with the judge.”

“He hasn’t seen them?”

“He won’t let anything compromise his objectivity. I read all of his mail and screen out anything directly or indirectly touching a case on his docket. He trusts me to handle them as I see fit until after he issues an opinion.”

“And these letters touch an open case?”

“They do,” she explained. “A pretty high-profile case.”

The comment piqued Tyler’s curiosity, but he continued feigning indifference. “Why not ask the police to look into it?”

“I’d like to avoid that if possible.”

“Because?”

“It might force the judge to recuse himself from the case. If either lawyer learned of the threats they could claim his self-interest trumped their oral arguments.”

“So you’re certain the threats are credible?”

She hesitated. “Not certain. Quasi-worried. I’ve read a lot of messages sent to the judge over the years. Nothing like this before. It feels, I don’t know, both quirky and diabolical. It’s probably nothing. But it might be for real. I don’t trust my gut on this one, so I’d like another set of eyes.”

He appraised the voice. She seemed unaccustomed to qualms.

Tyler jumped when he noticed the front door of the house starting to open.

“Let me check my schedule and call you back,” he said, scurrying toward the car. “I might be able to move an appointment to squeeze you in late this afternoon.”

“That’d be perfect,” Jennifer said gratefully.

Tyler ended the call while retrieving his camera. He pointed the lens in the general direction of the house to capture whatever images he could before the pair moved out of range. Luckily a few proved useful. The first revealed a smeared trace of lipstick on the man’s earlobe that matched the color the woman had applied before entering the house. The other showed smeared streams of dark mascara on the woman’s face, as if the fantasy she had anticipated had turned into a shameful nightmare.

The tearstains prompted a sudden burst of anger that caught Tyler by surprise. He reached for the source, remembering a frightened, shame-ridden victim from his last year on the force. Raped by a lowlife who got his kicks defiling somebody’s mom. It was Tyler who had placed the blanket over her slumped shoulders and brought a Dixie cup of room-temperature water for her to sip while waiting. It took thirty minutes to get a female officer to the station to console the woman toward a lucid statement. He spent the time gathering other evidence for the lab. He recalled a queasy repulsion at the lingering scent of the rapist’s sweat and fluid on the back of the woman’s torn skirt. It had proved useful in nailing the culprit.

Tyler watched the car pulling out of the driveway carrying a different kind of lowlife: one who had traumatized a woman
with
her consent. He wanted to follow the car to the man’s home. He wanted to whip out the handcuffs he no longer carried and frighten the guy, possibly teach him a lesson about true manhood. But he restrained his temper and turned his car in the opposite direction. Tyler Cain was no longer a police officer authorized to right the wrongs of a world filled with ugly realities that, for now, helped him pay the bills.

Matthew Adams’s
steps felt lighter as he strolled toward the Campus Grinds coffee shop. He reread the words that lifted a weight his shoulders had been bearing the entire academic year.

He had done it. The late nights memorizing study sheets and drafting essays had paid off. Matthew’s dream could now shift from a remote possibility to a “more than adequate” pursuit. Sure, he still had three years of undergraduate to complete before applying for a master’s and then a PhD program. But he was one important step closer to becoming a college professor, the aspiration his mom had died to make possible.

The money hadn’t actually arrived yet. It remained in an interest-bearing account while the estate trustee resolved a few legal technicalities. But it would come, an assurance he had given the registrar’s office when he learned it required tuition and other fees up front. The idea of making minimum payments on an academic loan did not trouble Matthew in the least. After all, his financial prospects looked every bit as promising as his burgeoning academic career.

Entering the coffee shop, Matthew accepted Sarah’s bright greeting with a nod before slipping into the same chair he occupied whenever he arrived early for his scheduled shift. Placing his tablet on the table he began typing, eager to share the news with his favorite professor.

Matthew looked up from the screen to think of others who might share in his excitement. None of his fellow students knew he had barely cleared the admittance hurdles, nor would they care. Most college freshmen still had pimples. Matthew had thinning hair. The few who knew his name weren’t likely to admire his triumph. Thirty-five-year-old men should be teachers, not students. They should assign and grade papers, not barely escape academic probation.

Matthew pushed past a momentary sense of isolation to find Sarah’s smile. He tried to curtail fantasizing about his wholesomely gorgeous shift manager now that she had a formal long-term partner. Sarah and the steroid-enhanced Ian had been living together for nearly a year, enough time to seriously dampen any hope that Matthew’s unspoken admiration might blossom into something more. Still, he enjoyed any splash of her attention—the closest thing he felt to the feminine nurturing his mother could no longer give.

Mom would be excited
, he thought. On a good day she would have beamed with pride over the accomplishment, over a son she just knew would be a professor someday. On a bad day she would have been confused, would have asked what it meant only to misunderstand his explanation. Despite her hazy grasp, however, she would have placed her lean hand on his arm to offer a well-deserved squeeze.

But Janet Adams was no longer part of Matthew’s life beyond warm recollections mixed with a diminishing regret. He told himself she had died a hero, that he hadn’t forced his mother’s decision. She had made a willing choice. His urgings had only bolstered her timidity and given her the reassurance needed to do what was best. For both of them. Why cling to a decaying body when the freedom of pure spirit could be achieved with a simple, painless procedure?

What a bodiless existence entailed seemed more mysterious now than it had eleven months earlier when Matthew had escorted his mother into an Aspen House transition room. That was part of the reason he looked forward to spending more time with a man who could shed light on the subject. As a freshman he hadn’t been able to register for 200-level classes. As a sophomore, however, Matthew would sit under the formal instruction of Dr. Thomas Vincent. The recollection prompted a second brief message.

“Big news?”

He looked toward the voice to see Sarah clearing a nearby table. He relished both the view and the question.

“Actually, yes,” came his mockingly smug reply. “You have the great honor of speaking to a world-renowned scholar.”

“You got the 2.0?”

“Blew past it,” he said. “Just got notice from the dean’s office. She practically begged me to consider an associate professor position.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“But I said I want to finish my sophomore year before committing myself,” he continued.

They shared a laugh as Sarah slapped him playfully with her towel.

“Seriously, Matt, that’s great. Congratulations!”

He felt a single pat on his arm as she rushed back toward the counter. He wished she had added a slight squeeze.

“Thanks,” he answered over his shoulder. “I’m pretty excited.”

Celebration ended, Matthew glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until his shift began, enough time to let others in on the exciting news. But who? He considered his mom’s former sitter. Donny would certainly act enthused. He might even genuinely admire his pal’s accomplishment. But his occasional buddy had barely graduated from high school. Probably didn’t even know the difference between a freshman and a faculty member. Donny hadn’t read a book in forever. No. A moment like this required someone special, someone at or above his rising station rather than beneath it.

He thought for a moment longer. No one came to mind because, as he had told himself repeatedly, Matthew Adams lived in a relational Siberia.

“Maria Davidson,” he whispered to himself, tapping the name on his screen. He had been sending her anonymous notes for months. Wasn’t the occasion of his academic validation a perfect excuse to cross the line from secret admirer to high school classmate hoping to reconnect? Didn’t people do such things? Sure they did, all the time. Would it be so wrong to send a message suggesting coffee or dinner? Of course it wouldn’t.

He thought about the invitations he had received to attend their ten- and fifteen-year class reunions—where, he assumed, people went to learn whether the homecoming queen still turned heads and whether the geeky valedictorian had made millions. More to the point, people who never spoke to one another during high school had been known to hook up. Sixteen years can humble the most rigid caste systems, even those defending the popular elite from invasion by mortals like Matthew Adams. So while Maria Davidson declined Matthew’s invitation to the senior prom in 2027, she might give him a chance in 2043.

Back then Maria had been the hottest girl at Littleton High School, while Matthew had little swagger and even less muscle mass. She had received nine invitations to the prom before Matthew’s. He knew of at least five other guys who wanted to ask her but didn’t have the confidence. He gave himself credit for at least taking that risk. He remembered that she wore a short, dark-blue, open-backed dress. Matthew went alone and spent the entire evening watching her from afar, seething whenever her date’s groping hands touched her barely concealed body.

Sixteen years later he continued watching from afar, a pleasure that had become significantly easier nine months earlier when she’d accepted his anonymous request to join her “secret admirer” network. Every picture she posted told Matthew she remained amazing. Unlike those of the other former cheerleaders, her photos did not appear doctored. Even if they had been touched up here and there, you couldn’t make here or there look that good unless you started with something great.

Mustering every ounce of his newly bolstered confidence, Matthew decided to do something he had imagined doing since the day he and Maria threw their graduation caps in the air. Alphabetical seating had put them only ten rows apart, the A’s in row one and the D’s in row eleven, but the distance between them couldn’t have been greater. Today he lived within an easy drive, a gap he could quickly close by sending a note revealing his identity, asking her out, and, he let himself hope, receiving her “I’d love to” reply.

He opened her unique page and clicked the
LET’S CHAT
icon just below her smiling image.

He stopped typing. Was it unwise to suggest his success had been recent? Yes, women probably liked guys with a longer track record than two semesters of college. He deleted the last sentence to replace it with something better.

He sat back to review the draft. His message needed to strike the perfect balance between sincere admiration and playful flirting. Maria Davidson liked, and deserved, both. Pleased, he reached toward the
SEND
icon. But he paused for one last scan. Then he moved the cursor over the last two words and bounced thirteen taps on the
DELETE
key, clearing his real identity to replace it with his favorite pen name.