Regrets Only (2 page)

“That must be the painter,” Jack said, nodding in the direction of the door. “Sad part is he looks just like his pictures.”

Through the crowd, Lucy could see a tall boy wearing a navy blue T-shirt that hung loose around his thin frame and blue jeans speckled with paint. His face was pallid and drawn; dark circles surrounded his black eyes. Leaning against the wall, he cast a vacant stare around the room. His face could easily have been the thirteenth portrait.

As she watched, another man with thick, curly brown hair and wire-rimmed round glasses approached the boy, said something, laughed, then swung his arm around the boy’s neck, pulled him close, and kissed the top of his head. The boy spoke; the man smiled a flash of white teeth and knocked his knuckles quickly but gently on the boy’s skull. The boy grabbed at the man’s baggy oxford shirt, the two stumbled backward slightly, and the man tickled his side, making the boy smile, too. The man looked familiar—perhaps she’d seen him here before—and the exchange had a fraternal sweetness to it, a playfulness that made her miss Aidan even more. How many times had she roughhoused with her Irish twin? He was bigger and stronger by far; she could still feel his grip on her wrists as he inevitably managed to pin her to the floor and tickle her until she begged for mercy.

Jack picked up the flyer and appeared to reread it. “All the peer pressure and drugs, it’s gotten really hard for kids. I feel sorry for this guy’s parents. I’ve always wondered what I’d do if one of my sons had mental troubles. Probably wouldn’t handle it too well,” he said, seemingly to himself. He finished his beer and licked the foam from his top lip.

“Want another?” she asked. “My treat.”

He glanced at his watch. “No thanks. Sarah’s waiting dinner for me.” He stood up, reached into his wallet, and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Maybe we’ll get you out to the house one of these nights. Beers are cheaper, and my boys would love to meet a cop with great legs.” He winked. “Have a good weekend, O’Malley.”

“Yeah. You too. See you Monday.”

Lucy watched him weave his way through the crowd and disappear out the front door just as a couple in fur Cossack hats pushed their way inside. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her glass was empty but there was no particular reason to leave. She’d canceled her date several days before. Who wanted to spend another evening in forced getting-to-know-each-other conversation filled with painful pauses and muscle-aching smiles? She preferred to get home, change into flannel pajamas, put a log in the wood-burning stove that heated her one-bedroom apartment, and read with her pet rabbit, Cyclops, asleep in her lap. But whether her routine began at seven or eight or nine hardly mattered. The only thing affected by delay would be the number of chapters she could get through before fatigue hit.

There were moments, especially on winter nights such as this, when she missed the Somerville community she’d left behind in Massachusetts when she’d decided to stay in Philadelphia after graduation. While she was growing up in the house in which her father had been born, there was never a moment without company—a relative, a friend, or a neighbor passing by for a few minutes of socializing, which included the exchange of gossip for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. Even when she’d first started dating, there was little awkwardness with two brothers around to help break the ice, and few moments alone given the constant stream of teenagers both male and female parading through the house. The blessing before supper in which her father thanked the Lord for all the goodness He had bestowed on the O’Malley family was the only quiet minute in the day that Lucy could remember. With that upbringing, she’d thrived in a college dormitory; unlike some of her peers, she was never bothered by the lack of privacy. It had taken her years to realize that she often preferred to be alone, to do things on her own rather than suffer through idle chatter or boring conversation. Still she wondered whether the right person might change her relatively recent, self-imposed isolation.

She grabbed her coat, moved to the bar, and rested her elbows on the mahogany counter.

“Hey there,” Sapphire said in a voice that was low and breathy. “What can I get you?”

“Just a beer. Draft, please.” Next to her, a woman got up from her stool and she quickly slid onto it.

Sapphire placed a glass in front of her with a bit of foam making its way slowly down the side. “You should gamble tonight lady ’cause you must be lucky. A place to rest one’s ass has been virtually impossible to find.”

“I’ll buy a lottery ticket on the way home.”

“Pick one up for me, too,” Sapphire said, moving on to serve the next customer.

The beer was cool but not chilled and Lucy pushed it aside. Obviously consumption was up this evening and the new batch hadn’t had ample refrigeration. She inhaled deeply, cherishing the secondary smoke as yet another reminder of Aidan in a night that seemed filled with his memory. The Christmas season highlighted his absence.

“May I introduce myself?”

His voice had the resonance of a radio announcer. She turned to see the curly-haired man with glasses whom she’d noticed earlier with the artist. He had a rectangular face, deep blue eyes, and prominent cheekbones. “Archer. I’m Archer Haverill,” he said, extending a hand.

She shook it as she introduced herself. His palm was large and warm, and her small fingers seemed to disappear in its grasp.

“My pleasure.” He bowed his head slightly. “I won’t ask if you come here often since I know you do. I’ve seen you at several of the readings recently.”

She nodded. “I enjoy them.”

“I’m glad. Truly. Because I constantly wonder when I’m reading work and picking someone to come speak whether anyone who listens will share my excitement. It’s so hard to gauge reactions.”

“You choose?”

He gave her a quizzical look and then commented, “This is my bar. Archer. The Arch. Get it?”

Lucy felt herself blush. “Sorry. I didn’t put two and two together.”

“So I guess that means even though I’m here virtually every night, I haven’t made much of an impression.” He clasped his hands together. “Maybe I should dye my hair, too. I obviously need a gimmick.”

“Or work the bar. That helps,” she said, wondering whether she should confess that he did look familiar or that she’d been watching him earlier. No, she decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. She couldn’t tell whether his humility was entirely genuine, and she didn’t feel like fanning the fire of male arrogance if it wasn’t. But there was something besides his good looks, something in his manner that was appealing, and she didn’t want the conversation to end. “Do you pick the art, too?” she asked.

“Yeah. What do you think of these self-portraits?”

“Painful. They’ll stay with me,” she responded. “I’m not much of an art critic but I think they’re good. It’s amazing what someone can do with a piece of charcoal.”

“He’d sent me slides but they didn’t do it justice. My impression changed completely when he brought the drawings in. He’s a great kid with a lot of talent though I wonder about him. The title was his idea. Of course I’d already agreed to hang the show before I realized I might have problems because he’s underage—only sixteen if you can believe it—but he’s practically lived here the last couple of days and so far not had a drop of alcohol. I think I’m safe.”

“I won’t report you.”

Archer smiled. “I appreciate that.” He paused, looked at her as if to gauge her reaction, and then asked in a voice that actually sounded timid, “Can I offer you a drink?”

Lucy was about to respond when she felt a vibration in her pocket. Her beeper. She must have forgotten to turn it off when she’d left the precinct. Her shift had ended, but her squad was short-staffed around the holidays. Lieutenant Sage must have decided to call back some of his off-duty detectives. Although she wished she could ignore it, she pulled the BlackBerry from her pocket and checked the text file.
Nineteen-year-old black male. Multiple stab wounds. Gang related? DOA at Thomas Jefferson Hospital.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Perhaps another time,” she added before she could stop herself.
Lucy O’Malley
, she heard her mother chastise.
How dare you be suggestive?
She could still envision Mrs. O’Malley with a checkered apron tied tight around her waist, shaking a finger in her face.
A proper girl waits for a proper invitation.
Even at a ninth-grade Sadie Hawkins, her mother had drilled it into her brain that she couldn’t be the one to ask a boy to dance.

“A patient calls?” Archer said.

“No. I’m not a doctor.”

“What do you do?” He sounded disappointed.

“I’m a cop. Homicide Unit.” Her new assignment sounded strange. The novelty was still hard to believe.

“You?” He laughed. “Now that’s a first. With looks like yours, why in the world would you ever do that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She felt a surge of rage. How many times had she heard derogatory comments about being a police officer? The litany of insults—the suggestion that she was a public servant punching the clock as she waited for a retirement pension, the constant innuendos of corruption, as if she couldn’t own a cashmere sweater on a law enforcement salary, the snide remarks that she simply was trying to meet some hunk for a husband—made her see red. Her thighs didn’t rub together from too many doughnuts; her only criminal activity was jaywalking; and she logged longer, more intense hours than almost everyone she’d ever met. That she came from a legacy of honest, good cops was a source of tremendous pride. What did this yuppie bar owner know anyway?

“You just . . . you don’t strike me . . .” Archer stammered. He eyed her up and down. “You just don’t look like the type.”

She was about to explain that being five-three and ninety-nine pounds had nothing to do with her ability to investigate and apprehend drug dealers, rapists, and now killers, but stopped. Any explanation sounded defensive, something she certainly was not. “Apparently for the same reason a person like you is drawn to the hospitality industry,” she said instead, relieved that she hadn’t confessed to anything remotely suggestive of attraction. “Going against character.”

With that she hopped off the stool, shoved the BlackBerry back in her pocket, and buttoned her overcoat. As she walked away, she thought she heard him call out, “There’s a wonderful poet coming Tuesday night. Eight o’clock. Maybe you’d take the drink then.”

But she wasn’t really listening.

2

Saturday, January 11th 9:17 p.m
.

F
oster hated the putrid smell of his own sweat. It was one thing to perspire from physical performance—he’d been on the lacrosse team and still occasionally lifted weights. There was a cleansing sensation to that, a purging by osmosis. But he felt entirely different tonight as he sat behind the barn. Despite the freezing wind, his shirt stuck to the clammy skin of his underarms and back. Beads of moisture congregated on his forehead, his upper lip, and behind his knees. Even his toes slipped in his Adidas sneakers. Anxiety and fear made his synapses fire too rapidly, leaving him drenched in sweat. He needed to peel off his damp flesh and escape, abandoning the body that tortured him and the soul that tormented him. Fortunately that was exactly what he was about to do.

He adjusted his position and felt a jagged rock dig into his coccyx, causing a shooting pain up his spine. Quick shallow breaths helped dissipate his agony, but he still felt a throbbing sensation. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back against the red-painted building.

Inside he could hear the horses, Fern and Jumpstart, as they snorted, stomped, and rearranged themselves in their stalls, settling down for the night. The dressage horse was black with white socks; the other—a chestnut brown—had retired years ago but remained a family pet. They were majestic, loyal animals that had eaten carrots from his hand for as long as he could remember. Although never an equestrian himself, he’d always liked the feeling of their soft lips flapping against his extended palm. He hoped his shot wouldn’t startle them.

He stared up at the waning crescent moon, illuminating a scattering of cirrus clouds in the dark sky. Aside from the stir of the horses, and the rustle of small animals, the night was still. He ran his fingers along the chamber of the .38 caliber gun, then cupped its steel snub nose in one palm while he gripped the wooden handle in the other. He’d gone to great lengths to procure this $500 weapon for which he’d paid more than a thousand. It had taken considerable coaxing and a substantial bribe, but eventually the bearded shop owner in his Orvis fishing vest had acquiesced, overlooking the birth date on his license and falsifying the age on the permit application. For an envelope of cash, he’d gone from sixteen to twenty-six with the flick of a ballpoint pen. So much for gun control in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

He squeezed the trigger, hearing nothing but a loud snap in the empty chamber. He’d yet to load his bullet of choice, the 158-grain lead semiwadcutter, which, according to the article he’d read, was designed to ensure maximum penetration. Given the location of his shot, he could sacrifice expansion. He shivered and then squeezed again. Snap.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his breathing and felt his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time he wondered who would find him. At least it wouldn’t be Avery, his twin sister. Protecting her was the only thing that mattered to him, but he needn’t worry. She’d returned to boarding school the day before. Her Christmas break was over and he and his mother had driven her back to Garrison Forest last Sunday in time to make the 7:00 p.m. check-in.

So the discovery of his body would undoubtedly be made by one of his parents, if he could call them that, and that might not happen until the light of morning. They’d left shortly before seven for a dinner party in the neighboring town of Villanova. His mother had worn a gray gabardine pantsuit and a fur jacket, a Christmas gift from her husband. From his bedroom window, he’d watched his father open the passenger-side door for her, lighting the leather interior of the Lexus. Before settling in her seat and affixing her seat belt, she pulled down the visor to check herself in the mirror and apply just a touch more Garnet Shimmer to her thin lips. Foster had stared at the car lights until the dark green sedan disappeared around the bend in the long driveway.