Double Indemnity (7 page)

When the service began, he saw Nathan sitting toward the front, next to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to him. She couldn't be anyone but his mother. Something eased inside Sam's chest. Yet after the funeral ended, he went home feeling strangely vacant. He thought maybe he should write a blog entry, but he had nothing to say.

 

 

R
ACHEL
LET
herself into his apartment in the middle of a Sox/Yankees game. She flopped down on the couch and propped her feet up on the square inch of the coffee table that remained uncluttered. “It smells like a shithole in here, Sam.”

“I like to think of it as my own personal potpourri—beer and old Chinese food. It's got a certain je ne sais quoi.”

“Don't forget the dirty socks. Jesus, how do you even bring guys back here?” She nudged a can out of the way with one of her pointy-toed shoes.

“I don't.” In fact, he hadn't hooked up since Cowboy Boots—over a century earlier.

“Right. Never show them where you live. I forgot.”

“How could you forget my golden rule?” Sam flipped the channel. He hated commercials. And he'd finished all the beer in his fridge.

Rachel cleared her throat. “Are you all right, Sam?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Yuri told me about what happened.”

Shit. Yuri and his damned big mouth. “I'm fine.”

“He says you knew her, the policewoman who was killed.”

“Yeah, I knew her.”

“It's terrible. Jesus, to die so young.” She winced.

Sam sagged back against the couch. Even so many years later, he hated being reminded of his parents when he didn't expect it. He felt like a deep-sea creature suddenly yanked from the bottom of the ocean and exposed to air and light. Sam took a deep breath, but oxygen felt like poison.

“Sorry, Sam. I didn't—”

He waved his hand. “It's all right. Listen, what are you up to tonight? You feel like going out?”

“Can't. Alex and I have a date.”

“Oh, wouldn't want to interfere with the beaver brigade.”

She punched him. “Don't be an asshole. I better go, though, or I'll be late. I wanted to stop by and see if you needed anything.”

“I told you, I'm good. I don't need anything except more beer, if you wouldn't mind?”

“That's the last thing you need, Sam. Hey—” She punched him again, hard, and he grunted.

“What the fuck, Rach?”

“I'm worried about you. Yuri's worried about you.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. I thought you were going to write something about Feldman? What happened with that?”

“There's no story. And I don't feel like it.”

“How many have you had tonight?”

“Sorry. I can't hear you over the sound of this annoying whining in my ear.”

The door slammed behind her. Sam flung the remote onto the coffee table, upsetting the precarious balance of trash he'd worked so hard to cultivate. He was fine.

 

E
VEN
IN
relation to all the dumb things Sam had done in his life, standing outside the Walkers' home late on a Friday night ranked as one of the stupidest. When he'd gotten in his truck and started driving, he hadn't planned a destination. It just sort of happened.

Darkened windows gazed back at him, blank and vacant, but the Mercedes was parked in the drive. Sam rang the doorbell again. Once the chime faded, only the sound of crickets in the fields beyond the house remained.

It occurred to him the killer had stood right here, had maybe even rung the doorbell as he did for the second time. And Emma had come to the door to greet the stranger, unsuspecting, vulnerable, and at ease in her own home. His gut twisted, chased by the doubt in the back of his mind that perhaps it hadn't been a stranger, after all. So why had he come?

Try as he might, he couldn't forget Nathan's devastated expression at the police station. Maybe Sam was a sucker for lost causes.

He paused, finger hovering over the doorbell a third time. Maybe Nathan had cut out of town after all and left his car behind. Or maybe….

The pool glowed a luminescent blue-green. Empty deck chairs lined the perimeter, giving the surroundings a lonely, expectant feel, waiting for a party that would never happen. Empty except for one. In the far corner by the herb garden, Nathan sat with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He didn't say anything, and when Sam came closer, he realized how unfocused Nathan's gaze was. Made sense given the half-drunk fifth of Jack clutched against his chest. He looked up at Sam and lifted the bottle in salute.

“Want some?”

Sam eased the bottle away and took a small sip, just enough to feel the burn, before he set it down on an adjacent table. Nathan didn't seem to notice. He fumbled in his front shirt pocket for a pack of smokes and lit a new one off the back of the other. “I quit, you know. A few years back. Emma didn't like it. It's like riding a horse, though.” He inhaled deeply and shuddered, suppressing a cough. “Well, maybe not exactly. You smoke?”

“Nah, I never smoked, not even in college. Did pretty much everything else.”

Nathan let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob and leaned his head back against the chair. He took a drag of the cigarette. “I don't know what the fuck to do.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.” God, how many times had Sam heard the same lame comment himself? It was the kind of phrase people used when they didn't know what else to say, exactly his position now. Nathan's dark eyes flicked to his.

“You know, outside of my family, you're the first person who's said that to me? This whole town thinks I did it.” He shook his head and stretched his arm to reach for the bottle. Sam had half a mind to take it from him and pour it out, but he'd dealt with the kind of grief that rattled your bones so hard nothing could put you back together. Still, he winced a little when Nathan drank so deeply he choked on the liquor. He was a man intent on drinking himself into oblivion. It was strange seeing it from the outside, for a change.

“Gimme some more of that.” Sam dragged over a chair and tucked the bottle behind him when he sat—an old trick Rachel had pulled on him more than once.

Nathan didn't complain. He looked Sam over, his gaze watchful despite his near stupor, as though observation were an ingrained reflex. The attention made Sam mildly warm.

After another beat, Nathan butted out the cigarette and struggled to stand.

“I'm tired.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sam stood as quickly as he'd sat down, and in good time too. Nathan almost dropped like a sack of rocks before Sam got his arm around his waist. For a moment, Nathan sagged against Sam, resting his weight against Sam's shoulder, and Sam realized the full extent of Nathan's height. This close, he seemed to tower over Sam's five-foot-nine frame. His warm muscles flexed underneath his thin cotton shirt, and his hot, alcoholic breath tickled Sam's ear almost like an invitation. Sam couldn't help responding despite the inappropriateness of the situation. Drinking and tragedy always made him think about sex.

“Maybe we should get you inside.”

“I can walk.” Nathan didn't try to push himself away, however. If anything, he seemed to press even closer to Sam.

“All right. Well, show me your stuff, then.”

Somehow they managed to negotiate the chairs and Nathan's discarded shoes without any major incident as they skirted the edge of the pool on their way toward the house. The crickets, singing their chorus into the night, were louder in the tall grass beyond the yard. Sam remembered a lesson from grade school about what made the sound. There'd been controversy in his class over whether crickets rubbed their legs or their wings together. The teacher had held up a jar of crickets and instructed the children that male crickets made chirping sounds with their wings, which served as both a mating call to females and a warning to other males. Later, one of the boys who'd been embarrassed to be wrong ripped off all of the crickets' wings. This, of course, only proved the teacher right. They couldn't sing anymore.

As they entered the house, Sam disentangled himself from Nathan's grip to search for a light switch. The living room flooded into view. From the looks of it, Nathan had been sleeping on the couch. A messily bunched blanket and a pillow decorated one side of it, and the cushions were slightly askew.

“Is this where you're crashing?”

Nathan blinked slowly. “All of her stuff is upstairs.”

“I got you.”

For lack of anything else to do, Sam shook out the blanket and fluffed the pillow, feeling self-conscious all the while. Aside from the observation out by the pool, Nathan had yet to ask him what the hell he was doing there.

“Here,” Sam said, gesturing to the pseudobed he'd created. “Why don't you come and lie down?”

“I would, if I'd be able to sleep. Unfortunately….” Nathan swayed on his feet. “I can't.”

“The amount you drank, I'll bet you pass out in five seconds flat.”

“Whoever killed Emma is still out there. I can't sleep until I find who did it.” His eyes gleamed and sharpened. Sam noticed a black handgun on the coffee table, in reaching distance of the couch. Nathan picked it up and a chill ran up Sam's spine.

“Well, you're not going to find anyone drunk as a skunk. Better sleep it off, Nathan, and save it for the cops.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

Sam threw up his hands. “Whoa. I'm only saying you're no use to anyone like this, certainly not to Emma. If you want to help the investigation, this isn't the way to do it.” He gestured toward the gun.

The fight seemed to go out of Nathan again. “I don't think I can stay in this house tonight. I need to get out of here.”

“Do you want to sleep at my place?” The words escaped Sam's mouth before he could stop them. Nathan stared at him dumbly. “I mean, it's not much, certainly not anything comparable to what you're used to. I've only got the one bed and it sags in the middle. But you're more than welcome to take it, and I'll sleep on the couch. That is, if you want.” Sam ran a hand through his hair and stared at his feet. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

“No, no, I… yeah.”

Sam stood awkwardly in the hall and waited while Nathan gathered a few things, like they were going to a slumber party. He should have kept his mouth shut. He never thought Nathan would actually say yes, and now he had to play host to a grieving man in an apartment full of takeout containers and dirty laundry. His sheets were probably ripe enough to get up and walk away on their own.

“My truck's out here.” Sam led the way after Nathan locked the door. He carried a small bag and had managed to get a pair of shoes on his feet and tie them. He left the gun on the entryway table. Maybe the random invitation had sobered him up.

Nathan climbed into the passenger's seat and nearly fell back out trying to close the door. Maybe not.

“It's about a twenty-minute drive. You need me to pull over, let me know.”

“I'll be fine.” The haughtiness in his tone made Sam smile to himself as he started the engine. His truck rumbled loudly to life. The muffler and exhaust needed replacing, but Sam hadn't gotten around to it. He'd probably need a new car altogether before the winter set in. Fat chance given the state of his finances.

By the time they reached Sam's neighborhood, Nathan had nodded off. He startled awake when Sam shook his arm.

“Here we are,” Sam said. “Home, sweet home.”

Sam got out of the truck and helped Nathan up the four flights of stairs. If Nathan leaned a little too hard on Sam or got a little too close, Sam didn't say anything about it. He had left the TV on, so some sitcom laugh track greeted them as they entered. It was hot and loud inside the apartment. The asshole upstairs was having a party.

Sam's hand-me-down couch, a floral eyesore courtesy of his grandparents' retirement to Florida, seemed to catch Nathan by surprise. He blinked and looked around, and Sam's stomach squirmed with shame. How could he expect a guy like Nathan to be comfortable here?

“It's nice.”

“It's terrible, but it's home.” Sam gestured for Nathan to follow. “I'll show you where you can sleep.”

He made use of Nathan's delayed reaction time to tidy up the floor and kick some dirty clothes under the bed. Fuck. No wonder he never brought guys back here. The place really was a shithole. He vowed to be more diligent in his cleaning enterprises and turned on the light. Nathan watched him from the doorway.

“Sorry it's kind of a mess. I don't usually have guys over. Or girls. Er, anyone, really.”

“It's okay. I appreciate your hospitality, and to be honest, I'd rather sleep in a pit of vipers than at home.”