Gilt (10 page)

Oh, boy. Now it was my turn to sigh. Rest in peace?

If only she knew.

Chapter 6

When I awoke the next morning, I was surprised how buoyant I felt. I had tossed and turned the night before, but the morning light seemed a harbinger of positive things. It was great to know someone else would go through this whole thing with me. Amy was a no-nonsense, brisk, take-charge kind of woman who had survived more tragedy in one life than any three people. If anyone could help me take charge, Amy could.

Then I remembered Dan Steele. I had felt the same way when I thought he was on my side and look what happened.

Well, this was Amy and she wasn't going to betray me. I glanced around the bedroom as I dressed. "John?" I called tentatively. "How does this ghost thing work? Are you around somewhere? I talked to Amy last night. She's coming for a visit." I waited expectantly but no ghost materialized. "Well, hell, that's not fair. You can drop in when you feel like it. What if I need to ask a question? What if I need to talk something over with you?"

I suddenly realized I was talking to empty air. Or was I? Was he listening? Was I insane to be thinking I was talking to a ghost? I closed my eyes, remembering the way John appeared as he sat in my car. I wasn't insane. He had been there.

Hadn't he?

I shelved those doubts and proceeded with my day. This Monday was slightly busier at work than most because it was the last day of the month. That meant we had accounts to tally at work and bills to be sent. In addition, I helped Brenda man the front desk, working seven-morning to one-afternoon. By the end of my shift, I was happy to turn the desk over to Martha, who would work the one-afternoon to seven-evening shift and finish the last of the accounting paperwork.

I emerged into a day that was so hot and humid it felt like pushing against a damp sponge. Summer had come to us with a vengeance. By the time I drove to the gym six blocks away, I was sweating. The outdoor pool was jammed from stem to stern with screaming kids, squashing any idea I had of swimming laps. I made a mental note to pack my swim suit for my upcoming trip to visit Mom. Maybe I could get in a swim at the municipal pool at home.

I parked under the meager shade of a sad-looking maple tree in the parking lot and went into Northwest Fitness for my afternoon workout. "Gym" is a kind noun to use for the aging structure, which had been around decades before the current fitness fad. It suited my purposes, though, and the shabby exterior hid a variety of equipment, a track, a surprisingly large indoor swimming pool, the outdoor pool, and a few handball courts. I changed into my exercise clothes at my locker in the locker room, evaluating myself as I passed a full-length mirror. I was somewhat wrinkled. It was time to swap my duds for freshly laundered ones.

I ignored that bit of sartorial self-criticism and embarked on my usual routine of thirty minutes of exercise machines to be followed by a brisk walk around the track. Cranking up the volume on my iPod, I launched into my own mix of workout tunes that were guaranteed to keep me moving. I was finishing my abdominal machine portion, eyes closed and grunting with the effort, when I sensed someone nearby. I glanced to my left and almost fell off the bench when I saw Dan Steele lying on another bench about a foot away from me, pacing me as I pulled up.

I yanked off my headphones. "What are you doing here?" I demanded.

"Hey, there," he said with a grin. He wore exercise shorts and a T-shirt, showing off his well-developed chest, somewhat heavy arms, a small waist, and--my eyes widened in surprise. I don't know what I was expecting, but I didn't realize he was an amputee. His right leg was a metal pole attached to a foot-like appendage. His other leg--his real leg--was muscular and brown, a startling contrast to the artificial one.

I tore my eyes away, not wanting to be rude. "What are you doing here?" I repeated.

"Working out." He pulled up the ab bench with ease. I noted that he even had a weight on his, while mine was the weightless wimpy model. "You're right," he said, not even puffing as he lifted the bench. "This is a great time of day to be here. It's not at all crowded, at least here inside."

"I suppose your buddy told you to find me." I reached for my gym-provided towel.

"Jack doesn't know I'm here. I wanted to talk to you without him. Jack can be a bit intense."

"You think?" I asked with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I wiped my sweaty face. "I don't know what made him such a hard ass, but he plays the bad cop role really well." I started to get to my feet but Dan sat up and put a hand on my wrist.

"He's had a tough time of it during the last few years."

"Tough time? What about Amy? He killed her son, for cryin' out loud."

"And he's paid for it."

"Oh, please." I pulled away from his grip, overbalancing and tilting back on the bench. I flailed around for an instant and when I finally righted myself, Dan was sitting on the edge of his bench, watching me. It was hard to ignore his artificial leg. It shone brightly in the overhead lights, the cup around his knee socket flesh-colored and worn.

"Jack gave up his position, the woman he loved, his future, plus he was shot and almost died." Dan's voice was flat and matter of fact, but I saw anger in his eyes.

I sprang to my feet, nearly tangling with him in the close quarters, and managed to stalk away without tripping over him. "It's silly to argue about who was hurt worse."

"Have you thought about our proposal?" he asked.

"I'm still considering it," I said over my shoulder. "I'm not sure that I trust him or you."

He caught up to me as I reached the stairs leading to the upper level and the indoor track. "Can I join you? Do you run?" He leaned on his cane as one of the trainers passed us, a young woman who covertly eyed his metal leg in disbelief.

"No. But I walk fast."

"That sounds like my speed. I'll join you and we can talk over what's next." He paused by the elevator next to the stair. "Do you mind?"

"I don't have a lot of choice, do I?" I grumbled. "I mean, isn't that the way you and your friend planned it?" I stomped into the tiny elevator. It was barely large enough for the two of us and it creaked as it moved laboriously upward. I had often scoffed at the notion of an elevator in a gym, but watching as Dan maneuvered his way out of its tight confines on the second floor, I could see that it served a purpose.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." He led the way past the free weight area to the interior track that circled the upper floor. "I didn't want to back you into a corner."

I decided not to grace that comment with an answer. "I usually do a mile or so. Do you want to wait?"

"Nope. The exercise is good for me." Dan moved onto the smooth surface and I matched my stride to his, which was surprisingly quick.

We were silent for one quarter-mile lap before my curiosity snared me. "Do you mind me asking how it happened?" I stole a glance at his leg. It was like something from Star Wars: a flesh-colored cup around his upper thigh, which connected to a metal knee, which in turn connected to a metal "bone," connected to a "foot."

He tapped it with his cane. The metal clanked. "I took a shotgun blast in my leg and my chest. Oddly enough, it was the leg that almost killed me."

"Are you serious?" I stared at him, my eyes so wide I thought they might pop out of my skull. He said it in such a casual, off-handed way that it was hard to believe.

"Yep. I was working on a drug case. We went into a dealer's house. A perp who was crazy on meth came at me with a shotgun. The first blast got me in the leg. I was falling backward, so the second blast only grazed me in the chest. I lost a lot of blood, though, because of the leg wound. It was touch and go for a while." He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world. "The blast mangled my knee and that affected the blood flow which in turn screwed up everything below the knee. They had to amputate to save me."

Good God. What an injury. I thought of Dan's wife and what she must have gone through, waiting at the hospital. I felt a burst of sympathy for her, and empathy. I had often imagined myself nursing John through a traumatic injury but I never had to do it. Dan's wife, though, experienced all that I had only imagined. I wondered if his wife imagined him dying on the job. I always avoided imagining that about John, but when it happened it was like nothing I could have dreamed. My empathy for his wife deepened.

Dan continued his quick hop-walk around the track, using his cane for support on the slightly soft track surface. "Jack's been working on cracking this gang for almost six years. It's because of them your nephew was murdered."

Mark was John's nephew, really, but I didn't correct him. "What do you mean?"

"The gang knew Jack was getting close. They set up your nephew. When Jack killed him, the case stalled. It threw Jack off his game and also got him demoted, then transferred. He almost cracked the gang again when he busted the leader's brother, but the man died in prison and someone new took over. Jack rusted away in a few FBI postings in the middle of nowhere before he was sent to Kansas. When he got wind of the gang opening an operation not far from Kansas City, he tracked them down again. Jack has a heart condition and when he was shot, he almost died." Dan tapped his cane in a quick, one-two rhythm. "He managed to kill a couple of them in the process."

"Good heavens," I murmured. "It's almost mythic, like Ahab and the white whale." I made a mental note to talk to Amy about her interpretation of the events that killed her son. She and I had never talked about it in any detail, but now we would have to. "Why does he think John's fire has anything to do with that gang? Is it because of that man, that Nesbitt person? Is that the only connection?"

"Jack is convinced your aunt is the common thread between everything."

"That's ridiculous. She's a ninety-year-old woman living on a farm in rural Minnesota." My anger and incredulity propelled me forward but I slowed when I saw it was difficult for him to keep pace with me. "Aunt Portia doesn't know anyone in this gang."

"She knows Bennington and she knows your husband."

"Now wait a minute. We've been through all of this. John had nothing to do with a gang."

"I didn't say your husband was involved with the gang." Dan kept talking, not letting me get a word in edgewise. "Your aunt is wealthy. Bennington had access to her wealth through his position as her lawyer."

"Aunt Portia? Wealthy?" I had no idea what her net worth might be, but I doubted it fell in the wealthy category. Then his words registered with me. "Michael? Her lawyer?" My steps slowed as I struggled to remember what Penny had said in our previous day's phone call. "I don't think he's her lawyer."

"Yes, he is," Dan said patiently. "That's why we want to talk to her."

"So talk to her!" I flung up my hands, almost clunking him in the head. He dodged me in the nick of time. "Sorry. But listen, she's a smart old woman. Give her a call and talk to her."

"She has a lot of friends in town, some of whom are related to Bennington. Do you think she would express her reservations about him to a total stranger? What if word went around that she was bad-mouthing the local boy?"

I started to protest but subsided when I looked into Dan's direct, unwavering gaze. There was something about his eyes that forced me to be honest. "I see your point. But even if you're there with me, you're still a total stranger."

He smiled, small dimples denting the corners of his mouth. "Ah, but I'm a good friend of yours. I'm someone you trust and by implication, your aunt will trust me, too." He leaned slightly closer and we bumped shoulders. "True?"

He was right, of course. A stranger in a small town didn't remain a stranger long, especially when introduced by a local. "I can't drop in with you in tow. I haven't dated since John died. It's going to seem suspicious if I bring someone."

"I'll bet your family has been pushing you to get out, meet someone new."

I gaped at him. "Well, yes, but--"

"I get that from my kids all the time. Trust me. If you show up with someone, people will be glad you're finally getting over your husband's death. They're not going to ask a lot of questions." He frowned. "That's the way my kids have acted."

"Act about what? Are you dating?"

"Don't sound so shocked," he said with a wry grin.

"No, I mean--I didn't mean it that way--I meant--" I waved a hand, not sure what I was trying to say but wanting to avoid inserting more of my foot into my mouth.

"I had a couple of dates with the real estate agent who handled our house sale." He shrugged. "It was nice but nothing special. My kids acted like I was launching into the social registry or something."

I could imagine my mother's reaction if I brought a man home with me. She would probably lay on the fatted calf, so to speak. Knowing Penny, it probably would be a fatted calf. "House sale?" I had considered selling our house, too, but inertia kept me from taking that step.

"I didn't feel like keeping the house once Diane left. I moved into an apartment." He glanced at me. "Didn't you notice it after your husband died? People don't seem to know how to treat you. Our neighbors weren't sure what to do. Diane had moved out so they knew we were getting divorced then she died. Nobody knew if I was the merry bachelor or a grieving widower." He hesitated. "Of course, you didn't have that problem. You guys were married when he died. I'm sorry. I shouldn't compare our experiences."