Double Indemnity (3 page)

Sam wasn't exactly hard up. Years of working outdoors had toned and strengthened his once thin frame, and even though his face tended a shade too far in the direction of boyish for his own liking, men found his dirty-blond hair and large hazel eyes compelling. He'd gotten laid the night before, after all. His thoughts drifted to Yuri. They had a lot of history. Yuri was good looking, if a bit on the short side, with dimples and olive skin. He was smart and funny and had always been there when Sam needed him. Sam sighed and brushed away the sweat dripping into his eyes. Maybe the problem wasn't with Yuri at all.

A splash from behind made Sam look to see Nathan emerge from under water, sputtering, as if after a dive.

“Hey, Sam?”

Nathan stood up in the shallow end. His nipples pebbled into tight beads, and water ran in lucky rivulets down his chest.

“Yeah?”

“If you finish up and want to take a swim, feel free.”

“I don't have a suit.”

“You can use one of mine.”

Sam licked his lips. If any other man had proposed the same, he would have read it as a come-on. Nathan, though, seemed genuinely concerned about Sam's comfort. There was nothing leering in his friendly expression.

“That's nice of you. Thanks. I've gotta get going, though, before it gets too late.”

Nathan nodded. “Of course. But consider it an open offer.”

By the time Sam finished up in the yard, Nathan was out of the water and lounging on a nearby deck chair. Sam said his good-byes before he could do any more ogling. Checking out Emma's husband didn't feel appropriate, no matter how attractive he was.

Still, as he drove away, he almost wished he'd said yes.

 

 

N
OT
MANY
people outside of Sam's inner circle knew about Tim. It wasn't a secret, exactly, but in Sam's experience, people only treated him differently after they found out. And not for the better.

Sometimes he felt guilty for not visiting more often, but the doctors weren't sure Timmy could hear anything, anyway. Still, Sam knew better than to investigate his excuses too thoroughly. The long-term care facility greeted him with its familiar whoosh of automatic doors. Inside, the cool air-conditioning instantly dried his sweat.

A front desk nurse named Lisa, who'd worked with his brother for years, greeted him. She'd been the one who had first encouraged him to read to Tim, back when he couldn't breathe on his own. Sam had done it for hours a day, reading everything he could get his hands on. He'd read himself hoarse. Lisa had called him a wonderful brother, but Sam knew the main reason he did it, and he kept it his guilty secret. Anything was better than letting the words out.

“How's he doing today?” Sam asked, as he always did, even though he already knew the answer. Sometimes he felt like he was in a play, repeating the same lines over and over for an audience of one.

“Oh, sweetie, he's fine,” she said. She gave him a warm smile. “I'm sure he'll be glad to see you.”

Sam nodded and headed down the hall, averting his eyes from open doorways where death and illness hung thickly in the air, covered by the smell of antiseptic. Everything was the same pristine white. The floor shone under his dirty boots.

Tim's room was bright and sunny, white and clean. The insurance plan didn't allow for a single room, so Tim shared with another comatose patient. Her name, Sam had learned from her son a couple of months before, was Helen. She'd fallen down the stairs, and now she might never wake up to meet her grandkids.

“Hey Timmy.” Sam stood next to the bed. Covered in a white sheet, his brother's thin, wasted limbs looked fragile. Only his open eyes and the slight rise and fall of his chest gave any indication he was still alive, kept that way by a feeding tube Sam'd fought tooth and nail for, though the doctors had advised against it. Bastards.

“How you doing, bud?” The words hung in the air, static. “Blink if you can hear me.”

Tim didn't blink.

 

S
AM
HAD
never been a high-maintenance kind of guy, but living in a fourth-floor apartment during a July heat wave, he longed for a working elevator and central air. The little unit in his bedroom window wasn't cutting it anymore.

He peeled his sweaty skin from the faux leather of his desk chair, sighed, and rubbed his temples to relieve the beginnings of a tension headache. The
Gazette
had called him, after all, for the obit piece on Feldman, and it was due the following morning. It still looked like crap, even though he'd taken the day off to work on it.

Most of the time, if they didn't want to write their own, families provided him with information and he'd piece together a narrative of life that painted their beloved—or, in some cases, not-so-beloved—in a positive light, highlighting major life events and celebrating those they'd left behind. With someone like Feldman, it was hard to know where to start. His widow had refused to speak with Sam when he called. He got the daughter instead—a twentysomething product of Feldman's failed first marriage. She told him the family's stance politely but firmly. Her father hadn't committed suicide. It was an accident, and there was nothing more to say. His accomplishments would stand for themselves. Her stepmother was too distraught and too busy to talk to him. Then she hung up and left Sam sitting with his mouth open.

Since he was getting nowhere fast, Sam decided to take a trip to the station to see Emma. Maybe she'd at least have the preliminary autopsy report.

The building where Sam lived had once been a warehouse. It still felt like it too, with high ceilings, utilitarian fixtures, and blessedly cheap rent. The neighborhood was mainly working class, and Sam liked the cracked sidewalks lined with caged trees and the old lampposts that fritzed out in the middle of the night. He liked them because they reminded him this city was more than the drug deals and gang violence outsiders saw. The people who lived here knew the truth. Their community wasn't perfect, but it was real, and Sam had seen generosity the likes of which he'd never known growing up in the suburbs of West Stonebridge, where everyone inhabited their own insulated bubble.

It was a quick ten-minute walk to the station, and soon Sam was climbing the gray stone steps that led to the interior of Stonebridge's central police headquarters.

Unfortunately Rich Petersen was manning the station's front desk with one of the rookies, McCormick. This meant Petersen was in charge, which was a shame. Sam would much rather have talked to the cute, all-American jock sitting next to his old high school nemesis.

Petersen folded his arms across a chest that could have been muscular but had long since taken an unfortunate turn toward saggy. His curly, dark hair had started thinning at the temples, and a doppelganger threatened his already round chin. It was a case of the ugliness inside being reflected on the outside, so Sam didn't feel particularly bad about being superficial.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Petersen gave Sam his characteristic sneer. “What are you doing here, Flynn? We didn't order any blowjobs.”

“You sure about that?” Sam arched an eyebrow at McCormick, who flushed scarlet, puffed out his chest even farther, and crossed his arms to mirror Petersen.

“Cut the crap, Flynn. What do you want?”

“I need to see Officer Walker. Is she here?”

“I dunno anyone by that name.” Petersen was all feigned innocence, while McCormick stared uncomfortably at the ceiling.

“She's in with the chief,” said McCormick finally, earning a dirty look from Petersen.

“All right. Well, when she's done, let her know I'm looking for her.”

“We'll think about it,” said Petersen.

An instant later Emma appeared from the staff offices beyond. She smiled when she noticed Sam and gave the others a wary glance. “Are you two behaving yourselves?”

“Of course,” said Petersen innocently. McCormick examined his fingernails.

“Are they bothering you, Sam? I can ask the chief to give them extra paperwork.”

“No more than usual.” Back in high school, Petersen had led the asshole brigade—the group of kids who got their rocks off teasing the gay kids, the slow kids, the nerds. Some things never changed.

Emma patted McCormick on the arm. “Behave yourself, or you'll end up like Rich.” He smiled up at her, flushing slightly at the attention, which Emma then turned back to Sam.

“What can I do for you?”

Sam held out the iced coffee he'd brought for her. “You have a minute?”

“For you? Of course.”

Sam followed Emma to the break room, which was empty late in the afternoon. He pulled up one of the ugly orange plastic chairs and parked it.

“I take it this isn't a social visit.” Emma said. “You're after the autopsy results?”

“Guilty as charged. Any word yet?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Report came in this morning. There was no sign of natural disease, only the water in his lungs. His stomach contents revealed pills, but we don't know what type yet. Once we get the toxicology back we'll be able to tell if the pills were enough to knock him out and cause the drowning.”

“So it's a suicide?”

“It's probable, but with no note, it's hard to gauge intent. I'm on my way to talk to his pharmacist right now. Then I'm going to stop in and talk to his wife later today.”

“Good luck,” Sam said, snorting. “I got nothing from her, not even for the obit.”

“She's probably in shock, Sam. I can't imagine what I'd do if anything happened to Nathan. At least we don't have kids yet.”

Sam shook his head. “I know.” He lowered his gaze. “It's awful.”

“Speaking of….” Emma opened the file she'd been carrying and slid a photo over to Sam. The Feldman family beamed up at him—Mark, his wife Patricia, and their two young boys. Twins. Sam was the first to admit photos could be deceiving, but this one felt real. It was possible things had been going down behind the scenes, but there was nothing to indicate any trouble in the photo. They all seemed perfectly happy. Feldman had one arm around his wife and the other slung around the shoulder of one of his sons. The other boy sat next to his brother. Both of the kids reminded Sam of Tim at that age, smiling mischievously at the camera.

“Can I take this?”

“Sure. I've got another copy. But I've got to get going. Good luck on your piece, Sam.”

“Thanks, Emma.”

Later, back at his apartment, Sam stared at the photo, looking for clues about what might have gone wrong. Maybe Feldman had been a pill popper. He presented one face to the world—successful entrepreneur and benefactor—but maybe in private he couldn't deal. There was a story there, a real story. Sam's fingers itched to trash the fluff piece on his laptop and start fresh. When he first told Emma he intended to write a blog exposé about Feldman, he'd only been half-serious. Now it felt like something he could do.

The rise and fall of Mark Feldman. But what had happened that night?

Sam yawned and slapped his face to wake up. When that didn't work, he retreated to the kitchen to brew some coffee and grab a bite. His stomach rumbled a complaint as he debated the questionably old takeout containers stacked in the fridge. Diving into one of those would be living dangerously.

He slipped on his sneakers and headed for the Star.

A blast of air-conditioning scented with stale beer welcomed him graciously. Rachel was behind the counter helping a customer. She looked over when he approached the bar, smiled, and gave him a gesture some would call rude. He gestured right back.

“Damn, you look like crap,” she said once she'd finished up with the other guy.

“Gee, thanks.”

“You're working too much. You need a break.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is.”

Before she could say anything else, he gave his order—a car bomb and a double cheeseburger, hold the onions. The Lucky Star doubled as a gay bar on Tuesdays, and you never knew how the night would progress.

Rachel nodded and turned her slim frame toward the tap. Her cropped shirt showed off her belly ring, which she'd gotten on a dare. Rachel was one of his oldest friends—they'd met freshman year of high school and stayed in touch through college. She was also the only woman he'd ever kissed—just once, as an experiment at a party. It had pretty much proven he was gay. If he couldn't fall for Rachel, he'd never fall for another woman.

When she turned back with the pint in one hand and the shot of whiskey and Irish Cream in the other, her sarcastic smirk was firmly back in place.

“Not writing tonight?” she asked.

“I am, but it's too hot. I can't even think in my place. This should help.” With a practiced motion, Sam dropped the shot glass into the pint and brought the whole foaming concoction to his lips. He drank half the contents in one huge gulp as Rachel watched.