Steeled for Murder (12 page)

“I don’t think I need one, ma’am.” I hoped not. I didn’t have another thirty-five dollars.

“Really?” she said. “Most people do.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I have no recorded history of drug abuse.”

Not quite sure how I had lucked out on that. When I was originally arrested, I was carrying enough heroin to supply half the state for a month. That got buried in the plea bargain to the more serious murder charge. And since the only drug use I actually had was breathing secondhand marijuana smoke from my father and brothers in the apartment when I was a kid, I’d been honest when I told the prison intake counselors I didn’t use. That second-hand smoke hadn’t been enough to show up on the tests.

She frowned, scanning her computer screen. “So I see. How about restitution?” She continued scrolling down.

“No restitution ordered, ma’am.” The victim had been a drug dealer in his early twenties with several convictions under his belt and no relatives clamoring for a financial settlement. No one would claim him. Miraculously, no known offspring. Again, I had lucked out.

Miss Haverford peered at her screen and then at her keyboard. I wondered how her elegant fingers with those long nails could type anything, but they did. She waited for it to print and then handed the paper to me. “Your receipt,” she said.

“Thank you.” I folded it and put it in my pocket.

She turned away from the computer and shuffled papers for a few more minutes. “Mr. Ramirez is not in,” she said. “Didn’t you get a phone call this morning before you came in?”

I winced. “I work nights, ma’am. I came straight from work.” Would I have to make a new appointment?

“Well, he called in sick. Then he’s on vacation until after the new year.” She lifted a sheet of paper from another pile on her desk and studied it. “He’s left instructions for his caseload.” She ran a scarlet fingernail down a list. “Some parolees have been given permission to go out of town for the holidays. Usually to visit relatives.”

That wouldn’t be me. I didn’t know where any of my relatives were, and I wouldn’t want to visit them if I did.

She put that list down and picked up another piece of paper. “You’re on the list to be off monitoring from now until January second.” She put a check mark on the list next to an entry.

I stood there stunned. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t have anyone to visit or anything. And I was picked up…” I let my voice trail off. I’d been about to volunteer that I’d been arrested. How stupid could I be?

If I’d seen Mr. Ramirez, I would have said something. Even if I’d seen a substitute parole officer. This lady hadn’t introduced herself at all, much less as a parole officer. She seemed to be pushing paperwork, not making decisions. She didn’t seem to care.

He should have gotten a routine notice when I was arrested. It usually didn’t take long. Unless he’d been out sick for a few days and it was sitting in his mailbox right now. Probably he’d made up the list before that. Would he be mad that I didn’t say anything?

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know anything about that.” Miss Haverford looked annoyed, reinforcing the idea that she didn’t want to be bothered with troublesome details. “All I know is that’s the list you’re on. Don’t take the box off. If you cut the strap, it’ll cost you $350. It’s just the monitoring that’s suspended until then. And don’t leave the state.” She looked up at me sternly. “You do have to bring in the weekly monitoring fee anyhow.”

“Yes, ma’am. I get paid tomorrow. I’ll bring in the fee after I cash the check.”

“Doesn’t have to be so soon,” she said. “You can pay two weeks’ fees when you come in the next time.”

What with the unpaid week off from work, that was going to leave me very short of cash. But it was non-negotiable.

A whole week and a half when I didn’t have to watch the clock and be home by a certain time. That giddy concept was just beginning to sink in. Especially welcome when the plant was closed and I would have been stuck in my tiny apartment so much of the time.

“When does the monitoring start being suspended?”

“As of right now. Until your appointment the Thursday after New Year’s.” Miss Haverford was looking at me, her eyes cautious.

I made an effort to clear my face of emotion. Didn’t want to set off alarm bells and have her decide she should get someone in to review the situation. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

She turned to her computer again and started typing. I waited to see what else she had to say, but she didn’t bother to look at me again. “That’s all. You can go.”

I walked out through the still-empty superheated waiting room, up the stairs, and onto the slushy sidewalk. The rain was turning back into sleet. A strange feeling of elation filled me. I didn’t have to go straight home. I could stop at the library without worrying that I was spending too long picking out my books. I could go to the Laundromat. I could go for a walk. If I had any money, I could go shopping. And all whenever I wanted.

What I did was go straight home. I’d worked all night, and I hadn’t gotten all that much sleep the day before. I had to work tonight. I was comfortably full from breakfast. A shower and bed beckoned. Tonight was the last night of work for a while. I would have an entire week to do other things.

Back in the apartment, I hung my wet jacket on the back of the wooden chair, draped the damp woolen socks on the radiator, and pulled the tongue of the work boots out so the inside could air out and dry. Maybe someday I could buy a second pair of boots. Then I took a quick shower and tumbled into the lumpy bed, and for a change, slept soundly until the alarm got me up for work.

An easy night. I ran light shelving on the plater the entire time. I was hoping to see Kelly again, but plater four broke down, making Hank late to relieve us for our breaks. I ate my peanut butter sandwiches at the table by myself.

Friday. Payday. When the shift broke, I hung around for my paycheck. Most people had direct deposit. When I had enough extra money so I could open a checking account, I would get direct deposit, too. Then I wouldn’t have to wait around for the lady from payroll to bring the checks out to John.

Aaron was waiting for his paycheck, too. He approached me as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it and went to put a few coins in one of the vending machines. He got a candy bar, ripped it open, took a bite, and looked at it like it was made of sawdust. Swallowing what he was already chewing, he tossed the rest in the trash. He slid onto a bench at one of the tables and scratched his cheek so fiercely that he drew blood. Although any sound was lost in the din of the machinery, his fingers beat an unholy rhythm on the table. His leg trembled.

Hank came by; his oversized fur-trimmed anorak zipped against the cold outside. He handed John his clipboard and pointed to an entry. “Problem with plater four,” he said. “But we got it going again. Might have somebody take a look at it.”

“Thanks.” John rifled through the sheets of paper on the clipboard.

Hank walked by me on his way out. He stopped and clasped my shoulder with his ham hock of a hand. “See you a week from Monday, okay?”

He’d caught me by surprise, but I didn’t flinch. “Sure. Hope you have a good holiday with your family.”

Hank nodded and left.

The lady from human resources finally arrived with the checks. She looked suspiciously at the small handful of us waiting, gave the checks to John, and retreated.

John handed me my check. He raised his bushy eyebrows. “You stay out of trouble, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

As I left, I mulled the fact that both Hank and John had gone out of their way to encourage me. Made me feel warmer than a jacket ever could. I would do my best to show them that their support was not misplaced.

Under the usual schedule, I would have to go home and stay there until Saturday morning, when Mr. Ramirez had designated six hours “errand time.” I’d still go home to take a shower and change into a clean pair of jeans and a warm sweater—thank you, Goodwill thrift shop—but with the monitoring suspended, I didn’t have to stay there.

I could go cash my check right now. The bank that handled the payroll opened at eight on Fridays so the night shift workers could stop in before their weekend started.

Without a bank account of my own, the best option I had for cashing my check was the bank on which it was drawn. The check cashing and payroll loan places charged a hefty fee for their services.

I walked the few blocks over, through the nearly deserted streets, stopping for an ambulance screaming up the ramp to the emergency entrance at the hospital. Seemed like while the rest of the jobs in town were drying up, the health industry was booming.

The bank building was old and elegant, dating back to the times when Rothsburg had been reasonably prosperous. As the teller counted out the money, I thanked Quality Steel for issuing picture ID cards to its staff. Otherwise, I would have been stuck with my old prison ID, like I had been for the library card. Maybe someday I could get a driver’s license and use that for ID. Maybe someday I could even get a car. Seemed impossible, but not that long ago I would have laughed if someone had suggested that I would be standing in a bank, cashing a paycheck that I had earned myself.

When I got the money and moved away from the window, I peeled off four twenties to pay for two weeks of home detention monitoring and tucked them into the back of my wallet. Next Friday, I’d get a check to cover this week’s work. The pay would be a few hours short since Belkins had me dragged out of there early that one morning.

At least it was only a few hours,
I reminded myself. Things could have worked out a lot worse. Still might.

Then I’d go a week without a check for the holiday layoff. Next week’s check would just about cover the January rent. I’d have to stretch what was left of this one for three weeks’ worth of living expenses. More peanut butter and instant coffee.

Peanut butter and instant coffee on my own terms, though,
I told myself firmly.

The wind had let up, and while the winter air was brisk, the sky was clear. I tossed back my hood to let the crisp morning air blow freely through my hair. I walked back toward my apartment. I’d catch a nap and then hit the library and get a few books.

Marvelous creations, public libraries. Aside from proof of identification and residency, they asked nothing from their users except respect for the library and its materials.

Torn newspaper and cigarette butts swirled in a sudden gust as I approached the faded brick façade of my building. Clouds scuttled in front of the sun. I flipped up the hood and pulled the jacket a bit tighter, quickening my pace.

Then I stopped short. A marked patrol car sat at the curb, right next to the stairwell that led from the sidewalk to my room. Probably not there by coincidence.

Slipping into a recessed entryway to a defunct grocery store down the block, I watched. I started to feel dizzy and realized I wasn’t breathing. I made myself inhale.

A man in a wrinkled overcoat and crumpled hat emerged from the stairwell and approached the idling car. He removed the hat and leaned down to talk through the driver’s window. As I watched, he straightened up and looked around.

Belkins. Only one reason to be there. Wanted to talk to me. Probably take me in for more questioning.

Montgomery was nowhere in sight. Not good.

The patrol car swung around and backed into the alley. If I’d been in my apartment, I could have looked out the window and seen its tires. But if I’d been in my apartment, I would probably be in the back seat of the car, hands cuffed behind my back.

No other outlet for that alley. The car had backed in far enough that it wasn’t visible from the street.

Belkins turned away from where the car had stood and hunkered down in his baggy overcoat, mashing the hat back on his disheveled hair. He flipped his coat collar up and stepped into an entryway very similar to the one in which I stood. It, too, belonged to a defunct storefront—that one advertising video games, CDs, and DVDs. From it, he could keep an eye on the stairs leading down to my room.

Trash eddied on the sidewalk. A city bus swished through the half-frozen puddles at the bus stop. No one was waiting, so it didn’t stop. A siren in the distance sounded, heading in the other direction.

I didn’t have to go home. Belkins probably didn’t realize that. He thought if I wasn’t home already, I’d be there soon. If I didn’t show up, he would be calling it in to Mr. Ramirez, who would not be back until after the holidays.

I rubbed the side of my face. Still a little tender, but the swelling was mostly gone.

With sudden resolve, I jerked up the hood of my jacket, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and walked back toward the plant. I kept my back to my apartment, Belkins, and the waiting patrol car. I wasn’t sure where I was going, just away from Belkins and his handcuffs and interrogation rooms. I forced myself not to rush, to hold my head up, not to turn around and look back. I wished my jacket wasn’t in such a visible black and red check pattern. It was the warmest one Goodwill had had for sale in my size. A hunter’s jacket, with big patch pockets. At least a lot of people around here wore ones like it.

Belkins thought I had killed Mitch. Even if Hank continued to insist that he had seen me working the entire time, Belkins would be just as sure that I had been able to slip away for a few minutes or that Hank’s records on when he gave breaks were wrong. People made mistakes about little details like that all the time. And the more they were asked about it, the more they convinced themselves they were right.