Conduct Unbecoming (2 page)

He mumbled something unintelligible into his pillow, then shot out a hand and made a grab for it. 
“Yeah,” he growled.

He listened for a second, still face down in his pillow, then rolled over onto his back and sat up. 
“Wait.  What?”  He shook his head, frowned through the cobwebs.  “Who is this?”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
  “Yeah.  Yeah, he’s my brother.”  His voice was rough, scratchy; his heart, hammering in his chest.  “Jesus.  When?”

He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear,
pulled on his jeans.  “How bad?

The answer sent the air swooshing out of his lungs, like a fist to the gut, left a dull roaring in his ears. 
“Tell him...”  He swallowed the lump in his throat, tried again.  “Tell him to hang on.  I’m on my way.”

Chapter 2

Harley Greer watched yet another squad car pull up in front of St. Ignatius’s, bringing the grand total to... thirteen?  She watched the Crown Vic whip into a parking space she would have
sworn
was too small, two uniformed Chicago cops climb out to rush into the hospital.

There were vans, too, from most of the local news affiliates.  Including - she had to stretch to be sure, but it was there - one from Channel 3.    

So something was up.  Obviously.  Celebrity overdose, politician with a DUI,
something
.  She was mulling over the possibilities in her head, only half listening, when she heard the man sitting across from her mutter something snide about
subpar service
under his breath.

 
                 Subpar service?  Seriously?  Who talked like that?  She winced at his rudeness, mouthed
sorry
to the waitress standing over them, her tray tucked neatly under her arm.

The girl was probably barely out of her teens, but she took it like a pro. 
Said, “Of course, Sir.  Right away, Sir,” in a sufficiently contrite-sounding voice.  Scooped up Clive’s drink and put it back on her tray, reached for Harley’s.

“
No.”  Harley put her hand over her glass, smiled.  “Mine’s perfect.”

“
Yes, well, I suppose even a broken clock is right twice a day.”  Clive Symonds lifted his eyebrows - waxed, from the looks of it - and leaned back in his chair, a scowl marring his too-perfect face.

“
Wait.”  Harley lifted a finger, took a healthy swallow of her drink.  “Am
I
supposed to be the broken clock in this scenario, or would that be my Margarita?”  When Clive opened his mouth to answer Harley shook her head, cut him off.  “You know what?  Doesn’t matter.”  She tossed back the last of her drink, hopped down off the tall stool.

“
You’re leaving?”  Clive’s mouth fell open for a second, exposing perfect white teeth before it snapped shut again.

“
Yes.”  She scooped up her cute little borrowed, beaded bag, smiled.  “Early day tomorrow, you know?”

“
Oh.  Well.”  Taken aback, he frowned.  “Dinner next week then?”

“
Next week is pretty busy for me, Clive, but I've got your number.  Why don't I give you a call if something opens up?”  Like if Hell freezes over.

 
                 He blinked twice, shook his head.  “Well at least let me-”

 
                 When it looked like he might stand up, she stopped him with a raised hand.  “Stay.  I’m sure your drink will be here soon.”  She smiled, relatively sure there’d be a little spit in the glass, too.  “I can find my way.”

 
                 Harley waved at the waitress on her way past, a quick flutter of fingertips before she stepped outside.  A block or two one way or the other and there would have been a breeze off the water - the Chicago River to the South, Lake Michigan to the East - but here the air was thick with humidity, stagnant and still.      

On the steamy sidewalk, she plucked idly at her shirt, pulling the fabric away from her sticky skin while she weighed her options.  Obviously, drinks with her neighbor’s favorite brother’s college roommate had been a
bad idea - surprise, surprise - but she could always go home and catch up on her laundry.  And of course those takeout containers in the back of her refrigerator were probably growing penicillin by now, too.

Or... she could run across the street, just for a minute or two, to see what was happening at St. Ignatius’s.

Well
duh
.  Kind of a no-brainer.

Harley stepped off the curb and darted across the street, stopped next to the Channel 3 van.  Cupped a hand over her eyes and peered inside, grinned.

Yep.  Half a dozen empty Yoo-hoo bottles and a cap with
Gone Squatchin’
printed in big black letters across the front.  They belonged, she was certain, to Augie Troy, her favorite Channel 3 camera guy. 

 
                 Harley hurried into the lobby, then followed a pair of somber-looking uniforms onto one of the elevators, rode with them up to the seventh floor.  Onto the ICU, she realized.

The silver doors slid open to a sea of uniforms. 
Men and women standing around and whispering in hushed, strained voices.  Not a familiar face in the bunch.

 
                 When she stepped out of the elevator, it seemed like every one of those faces turned to look in her direction.  She winced at the sudden, unwelcome attention, heat radiating up her chest, reddening her neck, her face.

A couple of hours ago her short skirt and pretty little lace top had seemed like a good idea. 
Now?  Not so much. She might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign over her head.  One that screamed
hey, look at my boobs.

 
                 Which was ironic, really, considering the fact that they weren’t even hers.  The clothes that is, not the boobs.  The boobs were definitely hers.

Her neighbor Monica, apparently not satisfied with just talking her
into
the blind date, had insisted on dressing her for it, too.  She looked like some sort of... Barbie. 
Stripper
Barbie, if the stares were any indication.

 
                 Even the shoes were Monica's. High-heeled, strappy sandals that did great things for her calves, but made her feel like she might topple over any second.

             
She'd wanted to wear something comfortable, preferably something from her own closet.  Linen slacks and a silky tee maybe, shoes that didn't warrant a warning label.  But
nooo
, somehow she’d ended up in this get-up.

God forbid she look like what she actually was; a twenty-something bibliophile with latent self-esteem issues and an almost paralyzing fear of failure who was more comfortable with her cat than most people.

A throwback to her teens, she supposed, when she'd been awkward, uneasy in her own skin.  A head taller than anyone else in her class - including the boys - all knees and elbows and long, gangly limbs.

Back then, her hair - the bane of her young existence - had been a tangle of straw-colored curls that corkscrewed around her face, despite relentless attempts at straightening it.
  Her skin pale as milk except for the faint little sprinkling of freckles across her nose.  Even her
eyes
were pale, an eerie blue-gray, flecked with green and gold.  Was it any wonder she’d wandered through her childhood feeling invisible?

 
                 And as if being invisible wasn’t bad enough, there’d been the whole...
smart
thing.  She’d gotten a 2360 on her SAT's, a Bachelor’s in English Lit from Brown, and a MFA - Masters of Fine Arts - from Columbia.  Had an ear for languages, too.  Was fluent in French and German, Russian.

In fact, while most of her classmates were rushing sororities, she was devouring Tolstoy's Anna Karenina in
it's original format.  All of which looked good on her resume, but hadn’t done much for her social life.

She liked to think she’d grown into her life, the way some people grew into an awkward nose, or big ears. 
She was a strong, confident woman; she was a strong, confident woman; she was
-  Jesus, enough already.  Time to shut her inner Oprah up and get on with it.

She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, stood a little taller.
  Even managed to put an extra little shimmy in her walk as she headed towards the lone cameraman packing up his gear at the end of the hall.

 
                 He didn't recognize her for a minute - a true testament to just how extreme the makeover was - but when the light finally dawned Augie bobbled the bottle of Yoo-hoo he was guzzling, sputtering and dripping it down his chin.

 
                 “Geez Augie.”  Harley took hold of the lanky, choking man's arm, whacked him between the shoulder blades with her palm. “Drink much?”

 
                 “What the Hell, Harley?”  Augie blinked, his face red and sticky with chocolate, eyes wide as dinner plates.  “You're like… hot.”

 
                 “Thanks.”  Harley frowned, eyebrows knotted.  “I think.”

 
                 “Seriously, what's with the... girl clothes?”  Augie took a cautious sip.  “And what are you doing here, anyway?”

 
                 “Saw the van outside, followed the cops up in the elevator.  And I wear girl clothes,” she huffed.

 
                 “Uh, not so much.”  Augie looked her up and down, eyebrows raised.

 
                 “Whatever.”  Harley rolled her eyes, moved on.  “Where is everybody?”

 
                 “Just took off.”  He leaned back against the wall.  “Three alarm fire in Tinley Park.  Lights and smoke, sirens.  Apparently makes for better video than a police statement.  I'm just wrapping things up.”

 
                 “What's that thing you network guys always say?”  She snapped her fingers twice.  “If it bleeds, it leads?”

             
“True enough.”  Augie scooted over to make room for her against the wall.  “So tell me about the...” he rolled his hand, “new look.”

 
                 Harley smoothed the front of her skirt, looked down at the floor.  Mumbled, “I was on a date.”

 
                 “Screw the police statement,
there's
the real news.”  He nudged her shoulder with his.  “Anybody I know?”

             
“Nope.”

 
                 He gave her a
come on, spill it
look until she rolled her eyes.  “If you must know, it was a blind date.”

 
                 “Well I hope you were careful.”  Augie waggled his eyebrows.  “You know, safe sex and all that.”

             
“No,” Harley hissed, whipped her head back and forth to see who might be within earshot.  “
God
, no.”

             
“Harley.”  Augie fake gasped, pressed his palm to his chest.  “I, for one, am shocked.”

             
“That’s not- I didn't-” Harley stammered, her face going red.  Huffed out a surly, “shut up, Jackass.”

 
                 “Jackass?”  He shook his head.  “Real nice.  Have half a mind not to tell you about the…”  He let the words fade away, jerked his chin towards the sea of blue uniforms.

 
                 “About what?”  Harley turned to look.  “What are they doing here?”

 
                 “I think it’s safe to say they were here for moral support.”  Augie nudged his camera case with his foot.  “I, on the other hand, was waiting for the official police statement.”

 
                 “And?”  She lifted her eyebrows, waited for the rest.

 
                 “Uh uh, no way.” He shook his head. “I’m a jackass, remember. Besides, you’re the competition.”

 
                 “Puh-lease.  I work for the
Voice
.  Maybe you've heard of us?  We’re a charming little newspaper whose primary function may or may not be the lining bird cages.  You, my friend, are network TV.  Do the math.”

 
                 “You have a point,” Augie conceded.  “And if memory serves, your last story was about people who look like their pets.”