Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (28 page)

I watched him go.

The Brinks truck was gone as well. Traffic was still snarled.

NINETEEN

ONLY A FEW ITEMS for sale remained: a rickety-looking bicycle; a battery-powered, leaf-mulching lawnmower; a small maple bookcase. A handwritten cardboard sign advertising the yard sale was thumbtacked to a telephone pole at the access end of the street. A second sign was taped along the edge of a foldable card table set up on the sidewalk. Parking was forbidden for the day on the yard sale side of the street.

“You have an in with city hall?” I asked the woman on the payee side of the card table.

“Huh?”

“No parking on this side of the street,” I said.

“Not done for me,” she said. “The garbage.”

Beside me, a young woman with the beauty of a rare piece of art laughed and examined the bookcase. She spider-walked her slender fingers over the smooth surface. I stood there and watched.

“Fifteen dollars,” the saleswoman said.

“I wouldn’t let it go for less than twenty-five, if I were you,” I told her.

Siobhan’s head shot around. She smirked at me and shook her head.

“I meant twenty,” the saleswoman said.

“Twenty and I want the bicycle, too,” Siobhan told her.

“I can go as low as fifteen for the bookcase.”

“Ten,” Siobhan insisted. “Otherwise I have a date with IKEA in the near future.”

“Geesh,” the saleswoman said, reaching her hand forward at the same time.

Siobhan pulled a folded ten from her pocket and handed it to her. Then she turned and looked at me, an unreadable expression on her face. “Your back’s bothering you?” she asked.

Frowning, I instinctively touched my lower spine. “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

She smiled. “Good. You’re carrying the bookcase for me.”

“You’re nasty.”

“Glad you noticed.” And to the saleswoman: “Don’t worry, I won’t bring it back if he scratches it.”

“Judging by the way he’s looking at you, I don’t think he will. I think he’ll be extra careful with it.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Talk about me as if I’m not right here,” I said.

Siobhan laughed and started walking.

“She always like this?” the saleswoman asked me.

“Just the days of the week that end in a “y”.”

“Oh, good.”

I hefted the bookcase, adjusted it to a horizontal position, and carried it under one arm.

To her credit, Siobhan slowed so I could catch up. “I have limited financial resources,” she said. “And your little shtick back there almost stretched me, so this is what you deserve.”

“I accept your apology,” I said.

She laughed. A throaty, sexy laugh. It took just a moment for the laughter to die down and then there was just silence and the sounds of nature and city. A dog’s mournful barks. A car with bad front brakes. A loud Spanish conversation that would be a louder Spanish argument in a matter of minutes.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“Whether you could’ve ridden that bicycle with the bookcase on the handlebars,” she said, chuckling softly behind the words.

We reached the corner and waited for the light to change so we could cross and continue. I did not rest the bookcase on the ground. Didn’t want to scratch it.

“What are you really thinking about?” I asked.

She sighed. “Nevada. I should say Darren, but that would be a lie. Nevada.”

On cue, the light for oncoming traffic winked red. We crossed on green.

“It feels awkward, me being with you,” she said. “Like a betrayal of some sort.”

“We haven’t done anything.”

“Yeah.”

“I saw you when I drove by. I settled my mind on parking and going inside Nevada’s for some rest. Next thing I knew, I’d parked and was walking back to meet up with you.”

“What happened with Uncle John?”

“The artful dodge,” I said. “That was excellent. When all else fails, avoidance works.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her delicate cheeks moved by a gentle smile.

“Uncle John is everything you told me and more,” I said. “He’s a cool character. Too cool. I think he is involved but I can’t prove it. He passed me on to Cole Enger, said Enger had real involvement with Sweet and Nevada.”

“Cole Enger. Name sounds familiar.”

“Councilman Enger.”

“The one who took an apartment in the projects?”

“One and the same.”

“He’s mixed up in this mess?”

We’d reached Elm Street. Siobhan’s grandmother’s house. Narciso Lopez’s flag of Cuba rippled despite the lack of any discernible breeze.

“You’ll have to come over to hear the rest,” I said. “I’ll fix something to eat.”

“I shouldn’t, Shell.”

“Watching your figure?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll hold your bookcase hostage,” I warned.

“You don’t fight fair do you?”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

“What does Iraq have to do with this?”

“Tell me where to put this so I can go get our dinner started.”

“You’re so surprising, Shell.”

I just nodded.

YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE in something. Everyone should, at least. For almost as long as I can recall, my twin theologies have been violence and women. Often the two have met at a fork in the road and chosen the same path. I had done due diligence, however, to subjugate all the violence from my life. Women, on the other hand, remained a proclivity. In a way, I am a connoisseur of the finer sex. I can find a woman’s beauty in the most unlikely sources: the less than obvious wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that seemed to only blossom when she laughed, never from just a smile; the different notes of her laughter; her delicate fingers; the fragrances trapped in her coarse pubic hairs. Siobhan’s beauty was not nearly as subtle as some women’s was. I could find entertainment in just watching her.

“This is ridiculous, Shell.”

She meant that in a good way, a critique of the meal I had cooked. Grilled fresh tomato and Greek salad pizza. “The arugula and kalamata olive add the necessary punch,” I said.

She nodded, took another bite. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“We’re supposed to be discussing what I found out about Uncle John and Cole Enger.”

“Well, I can’t contribute,” she said, smiling. “So you talk and I’ll eat.”

I told her everything as I recalled it.

“I agree with you,” she offered, once I’d finished. “Uncle John deserves a closer look.”

“A closer look? We’re sounding more and more competent by the day.”

“Something will break, Shell. You’ve sent the message that Nevada matters.” With the mention of Nevada, her mood changed. She took tinier bites of her pizza and chewed longer. Her beautiful eyes gazed at something only she could see, and not very clearly at that.

“Tell me something about yourself, Siobhan. Anything.”

“We’ve already had this discussion,” she whispered. “I prefer my mask.”

“We wear the mask that grins and lies. It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes.”

“What?”

“Line from a Paul Laurence Dunbar poem,” I said.

She nodded, repeated the words, slowly allowing them to process. “Exactly,” she said a moment later. “Exactly.”

“Ask
me
something then. About my life.”

She thought about it. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“My father,” I heard myself say.

“Care to expound?”

I smiled halfheartedly. “Rather not remove my mask.”

“Message received,” she said, nodding. “Say no more.”

Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes a word or a thought will jar something loose, something of value. This would turn out to be one of those moments.

“Message received,” I said, rising to my feet.

“What?” Her gaze followed me across the kitchen.

“Message received,” I repeated.

“Oh, boy,” she said. “I knew you were too good to be true. Are you having a moment? Do you need me to get you a glass of water to swallow a Xanax?”

“Message,” I said, securing Nevada’s house phone, lifting it for Siobhan to see. “I haven’t thought to check Nevada’s messages. Maybe there’s something in them.”

Siobhan sat up. “You know the access code?”

I swallowed. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Dial it,” she said.

A moment later I pressed in the four digit date of that long ago day at the Farmer’s Market. A voice sounded in my ear. I nodded at Siobhan, and called her to the phone a beat after that. She listened as I replayed one particular message.

Sometimes you get lucky.

I eased the cordless phone back in its cradle. “Dated the day before she went missing,” I said.

“
Nev, this is Dev
,” Siobhan replied, repeating what we’d both heard in the message. “And that self-deprecating laugh right after he said it.”

“Intimate,” I said.

She looked into my eyes. Hesitated for a moment, but went on. “
Let’s not allow this little misunderstanding to
impoverish
something so special
.”

“
I’m at the university
,” I said.

“
Your parking tag is still valid, you know
,” Siobhan added.

“
Let’s talk
,” I finished.

The harmony of the message played on in my mind, and I couldn’t have asked for a better dance partner than Siobhan.

“Tell me what I don’t know,” I said to her.

“She took some classes at Rutgers.”

“With this Dev?”

She shook her head. “She never mentioned the name that I remember.”

“Sounded as though he might be a professor.”

“
Impoverish
?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I’d say so.”

I nodded.

“Another lead?” she said. The hitch in her voice made me wonder whether she wanted Nevada found still. I wondered whether I did as well.

“Could be,” I said. “Dev? Devon?”

“Let’s find out,” she said. She took the phone, pressed three digits. “Newark…New Jersey.” Pause. “RutgersUniversity.” Another pause, and then I heard the phone rings cycling. Then a click. Siobhan cleared her throat, listened, pressed a single digit every few seconds.

I sat down near her on the counter. Dev. Devon. A spot on the wall captivated my focus.

I heard Siobhan say, “Yes. I’m hoping you can help me. I have somewhat of an odd question. The university has a professor, I believe his first name is Dev, or possibly Devon, something like that. Would you be able to clarify it for me?” Pause. “Of course. Thank you so much.”

The spot on the wall did not move. Neither did my allegiance to it.

“No?” Siobhan said. “Nothing? Well thank you for your time.”

I looked at her. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “The universe doesn’t seem to be cooperating.”

“Think that’s a
message
?” I said, smiling weirdly.

She didn’t get the chance to answer. A chime sounded. The doorbell.

She frowned and looked at me. I shrugged and hopped down from the counter. Moved toward the front door. Parting the blinds, I peeked outside. My shoulders slumped as the chime sounded again.

“Who is it, Shell?”

“I don’t think I should answer this.”

“Someone you know?”

I nodded.

Siobhan brushed me aside, took a look for herself. “Who is she?”

“Her name’s Trina,” I said.

“She seems persistent.”

“Without question.”

“You’d better answer.”

I moved to the door and opened it a foot. Trina smiled when I came into view, and seeing Siobhan at my shoulder the smile widened. “Hello,” she said to Siobhan, cheerful. “I’m Trina.” She looked at me again then.

“I’m Siobhan,” Siobhan said. “By the way, I love your tattoo.”

Trina looked down and touched her stomach. It was exposed beneath the fringes of a cut-off top. A hearts-and-vines tattoo. “The impetuousness of youth,” she said. “But thank you.”

I still had not spoken.

“Have I interrupted something?” Trina asked.

“We were just finishing dinner,” Siobhan said.

“Did Shell cook for you? He’s amazing.”

“He did, and he is. Grilled fresh tomato and Greek salad pizza.”

Trina smiled. “I remember it well. Where were we, Shell? Buenos Aires?”

Next to me, I felt Siobhan shift. “You two probably have some things to talk about,” she said, a catch in her voice. “I think I’ll head out.”

“I hate for you to miss out on desert, Siobhan,” Trina said.

“We had none planned.”

Trina’s eyes came alive with her smile. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, looking directly at me. “Desert is one course Shell never leaves out.”

“I’ll be going,” Siobhan said.

If not for my prurient approach to life, I would have stopped her.

TWENTY

IN THE ABSENCE OF reason all that can possibly exist is insanity. Some would argue that life is not that black and white, that there are shades of gray added to the spectrum. Those with that belief haven’t lived my life or walked in my shoes. That said, at one time even I found shelter under the umbrella of the shades-of-gray precept. Instead of allowing the faces of those I killed to live on as nightmares in my head, I assigned them some intermediate shade to represent their brand of evil, and this gray hue always ended with them forfeiting their right of life. I had some grays of my own, but my grays weren’t their grays. My evils weren’t their evils. I could go on living and they couldn’t. See? Shades of gray don’t work. And so I moved away from that. There was only black and white. I could continue on as a killer, or not. To simplify it further: do the right thing, or the wrong.