This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (8 page)

Dwarf orange trees grew in large pots, and small, sparkling white lights had been strung through their branches. A row of box planters held herbs—mint, sage, oregano, basil, thyme, dill, tarragon, parsley, chives, and rosemary. Gregory was quite the chef, and he heaped scorn on my little turntable of bottled herbs.

Another box held tomatoes, the branches heavy with green fruit tied to poles. The shape of the poles made them look like tomato teepees. Other pots and planters held a riot of flowers—deep red geraniums, dusty miller, vinca, petunias, Canterbury bells, and lavender.

The table was set with china and flatware, and a candle flickering in a Chinese lantern provided area lighting. There was the occasional sizzle and hiss from the leg of lamb on the grill. The smell of roasting meat marinated in olive oil and herbs mingled with the scent of foil-wrapped corn roasting in the coals and the cinnamon-and-fruit smell from the freshly baked apple pie that sat on a small serving table.

I was stretched out on a lounge chair. Gregory huddled over the Weber grill, sipping a scotch on the rocks, and Ray handled bar duties—which was why I now held his signature mojito. I took a sip. The soda water laid a pleasant fizz across my tongue, and the alcohol and mint wrapped themselves around my taste buds. It was incredibly refreshing, and it tasted wonderful. The rest of the city might be baking, but here near the water swirling winds set the candle flames dancing, and I had even donned one of Ray’s shirts over my halter top.

Ray stared at me with the air of a whippet hoping for a walk. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“Delicious,” I said.

“But you’re still not smiling.”

“I’m not drunk enough to forget,” I replied.

“Dinner,” Gregory called.

Ray offered his hand and pulled me out of the lounge. As we all settled around the table, I said, “I feel like I’m a horrible person.”

“You’re not—” Ray began, but Gregory glared at him.

“Don’t. You always do that. You always shut off a person when they’re working through something important. You do it because you can’t stand raw emotion and emotional pain.”

Ray bristled. “I do it because I don’t like to see my friends hurting, and I can’t treat people like a lab specimen the way
you
do.”

“Excuse me.” I held up my hand. “I’m the one who’s just endured the trauma. You guys can work out your personal glitches on your own time, and not when I need to be the center of attention.”

Everyone laughed, including me, but the effort of being glib and cheerful seemed to have sucked all the strength out of me. It was exhausting to lift a forkful of food to my mouth.

“How are things at the firm?” Gregory asked. “Are they giving you time off?” I shook my head. “Bastards.”

“No, I don’t want to take any time off because I’m afraid they wouldn’t let me come back. I’m in big trouble because I talked about a case to the police. One of the big bosses wants me fired. And that’s why I feel like an awful person—because I’ve been thinking more about keeping my job then I have about poor Chip. I feel like a bug on a pin. I want to help the police, but I have obligations as a lawyer, and if I get fired after only two weeks…” Tears burned my eyes. “God, how can I face everybody? Especially my dad. I mean my human dad. It meant so much to him that I become a lawyer, and work for a big firm.”

Ray and Gregory got out of their chairs, made a manwich, and gave me a hug. For a few moments I let them, then I straightened and pushed them away. “Your dinners are getting cold.”

For a few minutes we all ate in silence. I was reaching for the salt when Gregory said, “Try squeezing lemon juice on the corn. It’s orgasmically good.” He was right, and I savored the explosion of sweet, yeasty flavor as the kernels crunched between my teeth.

“I feel like Nero Wolfe,” I said. “Well not in size,” I hastened to add at Gregory’s look of horror.

“Who’s Nero Wolfe?” Ray asked.

“The enormously fat hero in a series of detective novels,” Gregory said. “He grew orchids and was a notable gourmand.”

“He liked fresh corn on the cob,” I added. “That’s what made me think of him.…”

“What?” Ray asked as my voice trailed away.

“We have a detective at the firm.”

“Okay,” Gregory drawled. “And this is relevant how?”

I stood up and paced. “He works for the firm. I can give him information about Chip’s cases, and I won’t be violating confidentiality. He can follow up on any leads. That way I’ll be helping Chip, and I won’t feel like such a shit.”

“And protecting your job. Wins all around,” Ray said.

I suddenly felt better and hungry. I returned to my chair and started to eat—and dropped my fork when a loud
BOOM
echoed across the water. The night sky flared red, then blue, then white.

“The fireworks are starting,” Ray cried with the joy of an eight-year-old.

Gregory shook his head at this statement of the obvious, but he smiled as he watched Ray rush over to the side of the building facing New York Harbor. Gregory stood and offered me his arm. “Shall we join him?”

“Absolutely.”

Off to our right the Macy’s fireworks display thundered off barges in the Hudson River, but the president had decided to provide a federal display on Liberty Island. Sparks fell past Liberty’s shoulders.

“Trust the president to kick off his reelection campaign by wrapping himself in the flag until he chokes,” Gregory said.

“I know that’s probably true, but don’t be a cynic. Not tonight,” Ray said.

The wind off the water faintly carried the notes of “Stars and Stripes.” I’m a sentimental sap, and my upmty-ump great-grandfather, William Ellery, had been a signer of the Declaration of Independence, so I had tears in my eyes. Gregory threw up his hands.

“God, I’m surrounded.”

Ray twined his arms behind Gregory’s neck. “Admit it. That’s why you love me. Because I’m sincere.”

The older man smiled down at him. “Well, that’s one reason.” They embraced. I looked away.

Their love made me feel so horribly alone. Once again, I questioned the wisdom of ending things with Devon. When you share your life with someone, the good times are better and the bad times are less bad. I sternly warned myself not to romanticize my time with Devon. Toward the end, it hadn’t been all unicorns, rainbows, and cotton candy. It had been about competing goals and who yielded to the other. I hated power games, so I’d taken my ball and gone home. Except I wasn’t sure which home I belonged in, the vampire one or the human one.

The grand finale was starting. Some of the secondary explosions looked like spinning galaxies out over the water, and Lady Liberty seemed to be wearing a crown of stars. It reminded me of a statue of the Virgin I’d seen in the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. My father loved the Virgin Mother, and he always lit a candle in any Lady Chapel he entered. I had adopted the habit, but in my case the candle was always for him. So,
where the hell was he
?

I turned my back to the figure in the harbor. Was it trauma that made every train of thought take me back to the men who were in (or out) of my life?

*   *   *

The trip home required a decision—subway or taxi? A taxi was potentially safer, but there was also safety in numbers, and the subways had police on duty who had guns. My vivid imagination made me picture being stuck in traffic when a werewolf ripped the door off the cab, yanked me out, and tore … I cut off that line of thought and decided on the subway.

I walked toward the green globe glowing on the corner, past the windows and doors of restaurants spilling light, conversations, and the clink of silverware on china onto the sidewalk. They were a pleasant contrast to the dark, blank shutters of the neighboring stores. Above the stores were offices and apartments. From the apartments came the sounds of televisions, radios, voices, and children’s laughter.

The lonesome sound of a saxophone floated up the stairs as I descended to the station. The musician was an elderly African-American man. I threw five dollars into his instrument case as I passed, and he nodded his thanks.

The platform was filled with people heading home from various Fourth of July celebrations. The mood was exuberant, so the nervous couple alternatively huddled against and studying the subway map hung on the tiled wall stood out like gazelles in … well, in New York. I debated walking over and speaking to them, but New York teaches you to keep to yourself. Zones of privacy are really important when you have over eight million people living in about three hundred square miles.

The woman made the decision for me. She sidled over to me, eyes flicking nervously from side to side as more people drifted down the stairs and gathered on the platform.

“Excuse me, my husband and I are tryin’ to get back to our hotel.” The distinctive drawl of the South flattened every vowel. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a card. “It’s the Amsterdam Inn on West Seventy-sixth street. Are we in the right place?”

“Yes, this train is going uptown. I’m going past there, so I’ll signal you when to get off.”

“Oh, thank you.” She motioned vigorously to her husband to join us. As he lumbered over, I reflected that he looked like a high school or college football player now gone to middle-aged seed. “This nice young lady says we’re in the right place, honey.”

He gave me a big, warm smile. “Thanks. This place is a little overwhelming.”

“Where are you from?” I asked, resigned to conversation during the ride.

“Muscle Shoals, Alabama. I know, I know, funny name, but we’ve got some real history. W. C. Handy, Father of the Blues”—the pride in his voice provided the capital letters—“and Helen Keller were all from Muscle Shoals. I own a chain of family restaurants, Yummy’s. Debbie, here, wanted to celebrate her birthday in New York City, so here we are.” He thrust out a hand. “Todd Bingham.”

“Pleased to meet you, and welcome.”

“Are you from here?” Debbie asked. “I thought you must be, a little thing like you, riding the subway all by yourself at night.”

“Actually, I’m originally from Rhode Island. I moved down here a month ago from Connecticut, where I went to school.”

“And you’re not scared?” Debbie asked.

“Uh-uh.” I gave her a smile. “The city isn’t that dangerous.” The husband gave me a look that suggested I was on crack. “Of course, there are places I don’t go, but they’re few and far between. Basically you just have to avoid looking like a victim, and you’ll be fine.”

In a world where werewolves, vampires, and Álfar had stepped out of the shadows and taken power, that really was the trick for an ordinary human. It was like Debbie read my mind, because she leaned in close and whispered, “I think I’ve seen
three
vampires while we’ve been here.”

“You probably have.”

She shivered, and I couldn’t tell if it was due to delight or alarm. She said, “We don’t have them down our way. It just kind of adds to the excitement of New York.”

“Well, they better leave my girl alone,” Todd said, and gave his wife a quick hug. “And I gotta say, the werewolves bother me more. To think somebody who looks human can just turn like that. Creepy.”

And that, I thought, was why the Powers tended to congregate in major metropolitan areas—New York, Los Angeles, Washington, DC, London, Paris. People in urban areas were generally more accepting of different lifestyles. But until the Powers started living in places like Muscle Shoals, they were never going to be fully accepted. They were going to continue to be a source of titillation and dread, as evidenced by the Binghams.

The train’s arrival was heralded by a gust of warm air. The subway rumbled into the station, brakes squeaking as it slowed and came to a stop. The doors opened with a sucking sound, and we stepped aboard.

I got the Binghams off at their stop, and was surprised and touched when Todd gave me his business card and promised me a free meal at Yummy’s if I ever got to Muscle Shoals.

I then half-closed my eyes and scanned my fellow riders. Rocking with the swaying of the car, lulled by the clatter of the wheels, I watched a young Hispanic couple cuddling across from me. He was trying valiantly to grow a mustache, but right now he just looked like he had a dirty upper lip. The girl was gorgeous, with a tumbled mane of black hair and gold jewelry that glowed against her amber-colored skin.

In the front of the car, a bearded Hasidic man in his black suit, hat, and
payot
sat reading. Not Proust, but the summer’s latest potboiler. Its lurid cover seemed to pulse under the flickering lights. It was a perfect antidote to cliché.

Best of all, none of them looked like werewolves.

At 181st Street, I got off and headed up to the sidewalk. My phone chimed. I had a message. It was my dad. And he had sent a car for me.

*   *   *

The driver pulled up at the door of the Sofitel. The doorman opened the door and assisted me out of the car. The bell captain had instructions to bring me directly up to my father’s room. The care was so extreme that I almost expected the bell captain to place me on a luggage cart and roll me up to the room so I wouldn’t have to walk.

A discreet knock, and the door flew open. My dad held out his arms. I raced into his embrace and burst into tears. The bell captain closed the door on our emotional reunion.

Daddy provided me with a handkerchief. The way his first action echoed Meredith’s was sort of disconcerting, but I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and allowed him to lead me over to the sofa in the room. His eyes were red rimmed and his features slack with exhaustion. His jet-black hair, frosted with silver at the temples, was tousled. I touched his cheek.

“Daddy?”

“It’s all right, honey. Everything is all right now.”

“They’re going to fire me.”

“No, they’re not. That’s why I didn’t come to you right away. I went to see Bainbridge. He called Gold and McGillary and told them he would take it as a personal affront if his fosterling was dismissed. Your job is safe.”

I blinked in confusion. “But I just saw Meredith. Well, a few hours ago. He came to my apartment.”