Me, Myself and Why? (10 page)

“No shit?”

“She leaves that to Adrienne,” Cathie added.

“You’re just full of helpful tidbits today,” I snapped.

“Oh, the other one,” Patrick said, and to his credit, he looked interested, not horrified. Still, I wanted to hide in a cupboard.

“I can’t believe you—you
told
him about us?”

“Well, sure.” Cathie was sounding perfectly reasonable, like she’d given him a recipe for stock. “He’s my brother. We talk.”

“Can’t you just complain about your parents or local sports teams?” I whirled on Patrick. “Don’t judge me!”

His hands shot into the air as if he were being held up. “Never! I stick with judging my nutjob little sister.”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it—and Patrick continued. “I’d hate to meet any of you in a dark alley, frankly.”

“It probably won’t be a problem. Ugh, okay. I’ve been here long enough. I’m going home,” I muttered, looking around for my bag. “It’s been a very long, very weird day.”

“Yes, I can see how all this would be stressful. For
you
,” Patrick added, but his dark eyes were—was that a twinkle? It was! I didn’t think there was such a thing outside of books.

“You just—never mind.”

“Don’t you have a hot date with that Detective Clapp?”

“I do indeed. So farewell,
arrivederci
, buh-bye, whatever.”

“Give him a kiss for me,” Cathie called after me as I slung my schlep bag over one shoulder. “With lots of tongue.”

“And me,” Patrick added, which made me grin in spite of myself.

So, yeah. It was safe to say that I liked him from the start.

Chapter Twenty-one

“You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” I admitted.

George and I were heading out for some routine interviews to follow up on the latest ThreeFer killing. He had been out most of the morning—“sick” he said, but I suspected just staring at himself in a mirror, trying to figure out the most perfectly awful tie. He was driving; I just wasn’t up to the argument it would take to get him out from behind the wheel.

“You want to get something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

George said nothing for another mile or so. Then, as we sat at a red light and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, he asked, “You should probably eat. I didn’t see you eat anything yesterday.”

“Just because you didn’t see me eat doesn’t mean I didn’t. I have a life beyond the office, George.”

“No. You don’t.” Not saying it in a mean way.

Huh. Usually when I was upset about something George encouraged Shiro or Adrienne to come out and keep him company while I, to use his compassionate phrase, “quit having a friggin’ poopie.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, actually.”

“Is
not
!” I straightened so quickly I nearly strangled myself on the shoulder belt. “I’m—I’ve met someone.” Uh. I was pretty sure.

“That’s better,” George said, yawning so widely I could see his fillings. “Conversation is good, even if it’s about a guy you’re not even dating yet. You’ve
met
him? That’s it? He could be a door-to-door salesman, I guess. Fuck, you’re killing me. Though I suppose this is an improvement over sitting in that passenger seat like a wordless blob. That whole pissing and moping about your condition gets
really
boring.”

“Sorry, George. I should have realized how difficult this was. For
you
.”

“Well, Cadence, I didn’t want to have to say so, but yeah, that’s exactly right.”

“I really, really hate you.”

My partner laughed. “Sorry, Pollyanna. You absolutely don’t. You don’t hate anyone—which is part of your problem.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud.” And what had gotten into the poster pinup for amorality? He sounded almost—what was the word . . . uh . . . interested? No. Concerned! George sounded
concerned
. About me. Good gosh. The entire planet was imploding around me. “Now, if you don’t mind, why don’t we—gaaah!”

I’d “gaaahed” because George had slammed on the brakes and, for the second time in twenty seconds, I’d nearly been strangled. There was a thud as we went up on the curb, a click as he disengaged his seat belt, and then the door was open and he was running away.

I struggled free of my own seat belt, grabbed his keys, and climbed out. At least he hadn’t run anyone over this time, thank goodness, but that trash can was never going to be the same again. It was wedged under the left front wheel.

“George! What the heck?” I glanced around at the witnesses on the street. “Uh. Official business, everyone. Nothing to see here.” Nope. Nothing—not a government-issue vehicle on the sidewalk outside Murray’s steak house, the pulverized trash can, my partner sprinting off into the distance like the hounds of heck were on his butt, and me yelling after him, minutes or perhaps seconds before switching personalities. Happens all the time. “Well, okay. There’s plenty to see here, but it’s rude to stare.”

“D’you need an ambulance?”

No, just a shrink. And maybe a tow truck.

“Wow!” A boy in a Timberwolves jersey which fell to his blue-jeaned knees was pointing at me. No. Past me. “Look at
that
guy!”

I looked. Then I scrambled across the hood of our steaming, hissing government-issue vehicle and ran after George as fast as I could.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Don’t touch them, George!” I shrieked, knowing I was going to be too late, knowing I wouldn’t be able to stop my partner, and also that I was going to have a terrible sore throat in the morning. “The restraining order is still in effect! You are well within fifty yards! And we’re illegally parked!”

I nearly tripped and went somersaulting over a newspaper machine and thought, This is a huge waste of time. I’d sure like to have the last thirty seconds of my life back. Also, it’d be swell if I could go one day this month without falling, choking, crying, seeing a shrink, seeing another ThreeFer crime scene, and—oh yes! Without having to chase someone and bring him down like a dang gazelle!

Thank goodness street traffic—both auto and pedestrian—was low today. Smashed-up innocent bystanders I didn’t need.

One had gotten past George, and as he streaked by on my left, I shouted, “FBI! Haaaaaaands!” again, for all the good it did. I couldn’t catch this one and help George with the others, so my order was mostly bluff.

“Hey, that guy—”

“—the car just flew up on the—”

“—garbage can!”

Darn it! Dang it! Dump it! Yes, I
know
I’m close to swearing, and guess what? I think I’m entitled to toss around a few vulgarities. The raggety-blamed stress was darn near killing me.

Just about when I was about to give up, one of the men George had been chasing blasted out of the alley in front of me holding—would this day never end?—a tire iron. Within two seconds, he saw my badge and decided his best course of action was to take a

Chapter Twenty-three

Swing wide

Sweeeet chariot

Turn those wheels and carry me home!
Bad day to be you.

Silly.

Goose.

Chapter Twenty-four

I awoke to find the unconscious—and possibly dead—body of David the Duke (birth name: Tyrone Lee; DOB: 4/4/82) at my feet. He was a sprawl of dirty and bloody denim, strappy and bloody T-shirt, and steel-toed and bloody boots.

Ah, there, one of the boots moved. Less paperwork. Excellent.

I turned to look for George. The two men he was chasing were, if my partner’s past actions were any indication, destined for colostomy bags and exploratory surgery. Not to mention all the weeks of physical therapy.

Sure enough, as I explored the alley two blocks away, I began to hear a familiar voice, punctuated by pounding sounds.

“Huh? Do
you
like people hurting
you
for something
you
can’t help? Huh? Huh?”

I had to admit, I was almost impressed. George’s fists were a blur; each “huh?” was punctuated with another blow. It sounded like he was punching hamburger. Which, in a way, he was.

“How about I cut that swastika off your arm and make you eat it? Huh? Huh?”

We were likely going to be here for a bit, if for no other reason than we would have to call an ambulance for each of the pulverized skinheads and then wait for the sirens. And I had no intention of putting a stop to any of it. It was more therapeutic than hypnosis, and infinitely more interesting to watch.

“You get that this just proves to everyone that you’re a closeted fag, right? Right? How about
that
?” There was a crunch as George broke Don Black’s nose. Two against one—that was hardly fair when you were up against someone as ruthless as my partner.

“Because if you
don’t
like it, then why the
hell
do you keep beating up homosexuals?” Thwack. Thud.

George was never going to get those stains out of his suit.

“Don Black?” Whump. “Kevin Strom?” Whu-thud. “And your other fellow Nazi, the one who got past me. David the Duke, you pathetic closeted anti-Semitic bag of shit? You formed your little club and named yourself after a bunch of ignorant crackers.
Most
of whom were too stupid to stay out of prison—that is, when they weren’t filing fraudulent income tax returns.”

I pulled up a pack of cigarettes I had bummed from David the Duke—he was not using them, after all. I cracked it open, found two inside with a lighter, took one, lit the cigarette with the lighter, and took a deep inhale. I was not a regular smoker, but now and again I found the occasional cigarette to be soothing.

“Hey, Cadence?” A yowl of pain from Kevin Strom as George seized his testicles and twisted. “You got anywhere to be in the next half hour?”

“Shiro. And no.” I flapped a hand at him, smoke trickling out of my nostrils. “Take your time.”

“Hear that, scumbag? The one person at work who’s crazier than I am thinks I should take—my—time!”

“I beg your pardon. I am certainly not the one person at work crazier than you.”

“Oh, cram it up your ass, Shiro!”

I took another drag, idly wondering about what never failed to set George off. Not only was he amoral and conscience-free, he was not gay or Jewish. Neither was anyone in his family, by his own admission. And yet he had, figuratively speaking, many many homophobic and anti-Semitic scalps on his belt.

Mysteries, mysteries.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, you cowardly puke? How many teeth do you even have left? The average IQ score in your pathetic gang is 112 and none of you made it past the middle of your junior year in high school.”

I took the cigarette out and studied it. Cadence did not smoke. Finding a cigarette in her hand would upset her. Smelling the smoke—tasting it in her mouth—that would upset her, too. Not in a traumatic sort of way, to be sure. But it would still be deeply irritating.

“The master race?” A bubbly moan. “Give me a break! No, never mind, I’ll give
you
one.” There was a final crunch, and then silence.

I puffed and waited.

George hurried out of the alley and stalked past me, muttering under his breath. His dark hair had flopped into his eyes. His green eyes—interesting, the strangest people I knew all had green eyes, hmm—were slits of extreme piss-off. His face was spattered brow to chin in a fine red spray of what I took to be back-splatter, probably arterial. His suit jacket looked like he’d dipped it in red paint before leaving the alley. His tie, which had a pattern of turtles split in two swimming in bloody soup, had real patches of crimson on it.

“That was nicely done, George. Your punches are getting more economical all the time.”

“Go to hell.”

I took the cigarette out of my mouth, studied it, thought about discarding it, and then had a truly wicked idea. I sucked in one last puff and fell into step behind the Anti–anti-Semitic Avenger. “Michaela will be annoyed.”

“I give a shit.”

“No. You do not. Really, George, in front of civilians? On a city street? There are only a hundred ways to do what you do without getting caught—and you know every one of them.”

“Maybe it’s not about not getting caught.”

“Oh, quite possibly.” I was not sure where George thought he was going; our car was still hissing on the curb, and at the least, we needed a tow.

Either way, playtime was over.

Chapter Twenty-five

“
Iuugh!
KACK! Oh my good—KACK—jiminy gosh!” I coughed and spit and then coughed again.

“Knock it off,” George snapped, and I was shocked at his appearance. He looked like he’d gone ten rounds with the Rock’s stunt double. He looked, in other words, almost as bad as our car did. That would be the third car he or I had totaled in five weeks. (Though to be fair, Adrienne had totaled the last one; I was but an innocent.)

“Rrrggghh. Oh. Oh my goodness. Ick . . .” I bent at the waist and nearly barfed all over my shoes. What the—my—what the
hell
was a
cigarette
doing
in my mouth
?

“Oh that wretch! That fiendish rotten—” Words failed me. I spit the cigarette out and then scrubbed my tongue with my fingers. My mouth tasted like an ashtray after a sparrow spent the weekend pooping in it.

This was Shiro’s idea of a joke, that hard-hearted shrew. Like Adrienne, she got bored if she stayed too long; unlike Adrienne, she could plan. Sisters’ tricks on each other were not always kind.

“I don’t smoke!” I raged, almost running after George. “But what will you bet I’ll have to deal with the lung cancer issues, huh? Huh? Who is dumb enough to smoke these days? I could have been burned! I could have aspirated on my vomit and died! I could have—uh—nicotine-stained fingers! Oh, rats, my mouth.” I untucked my shirt and scrubbed at my tongue with my shirttail. “Do they still make Topol? I’m not going to use Topol!”