Authors: Delia Rosen

A Killer in the Rye (15 page)

BOOK: A Killer in the Rye

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After that the photos predated my half sister. They were black-and-white images of strangers, who, I could only assume, were my distant half relatives. The pictures showed the usual stuff, mustached men standing in yards in front of houses, bored and tolerant women humoring the photographer, and children thrilled by the modern advancements of film technology, their clothes nothing more than shapeless fabric with buttons.

I flipped over several of the photos, hoping they would offer up some clues as to who these people were and why Lydia wanted me to see them. Only one had writing on the back, an antique picture of a tall young man with a big cowboy hat and one of those stubby neckties that were popular in the late 1800s, his giant hands hanging at his sides, his rugged suit almost resembling Herman Munster's. The man stared deeply into the heart of the camera, the mighty sun casting deep shadows on his face from the brow down to his cheeks. In pencil, on the back, was written “Devil Anse.”

Oh. Maybe the pictures weren't for me.

Well, I'm not sure how I feel about being a messenger
. I didn't know if I wanted the responsibility for any of this.

Now that I thought about it, consciousness itself was no longer a responsibility I wished to bear.

I fed the cats their usual fare and looked in my fridge for mine. It was practically empty, save for half a garlic clove and some leftover Chinese food from a few nights before Joe Silvio died. I closed the fridge door and leaned both my hands and stiff arms on the kitchen counter, clicking the tip of my tongue off the inside of my bottom lip.

I'd heard about this new pizza place in Five Points and decided one more junky meal would do me good. Gathering up my second wind, I put my jacket back on and got back in the car. Ten minutes later I was sitting in front of two slices of New Yorkâstyle, gooey-cheesed, grease-dripping, easily folded pizza. I didn't even do the usual napkin blot to soak up the extra grease. I sat in the booth as I blissfully chewed my giant bites. I stared out the window and gazed at nothing in particular in the foreground. Then my focus shifted to the background, where I noticed an American flag fluttering on a pole. I followed the pole down to a large brick building with a mural painted on the side depicting President Andrew Jackson with a strong-looking woman, who I was fairly certain had to be his wife, Rachel. I remembered from another Charlton Heston movie that she never lived to see him become president.

“Everything okay, miss?”

I looked up. You could tell the parlor was new, since the employees still had that ready-to-please attitude.

“Yes, thank you,” I told him. “Things are much better now.”

He gave me a funny look as he walked away. I realized then that he had meant the pizza, not with my life.

As I told my staff, you never know what's on customers' minds when they're sitting alone at a table, and that the rule of thumb was to approach them as gingerly as a cop coming up to a car on a routine speeding stop. It just never occurred to me that I would be one of those whack jobs on the other end of a server's greeting.

Chapter 15

When I arrived at the deli, the place smelled of fresh coffee and sizzling onions. I could hear Luke singing from the kitchen, and through it all came Dani's tinkling-bell laugh. Thom even greeted me with a big smile as she counted money into the register.

I should always arrive to work twenty minutes late,
I thought, although lately I had been.

“Sorry, guys. I hit some construction traffic,” I said.

“Nothing to worry about,” Dani said cheerfully, though there was something a little off with her smile. “We've got it under control!”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yo. I be fine,” she said.

I wasn't convinced, but I let it go.

“How was last night, after I left?” I asked Thom.

“Everything went smooth as velvet.”

“How was Mr. Reid?”

She broke a roll of quarters into the till and gave me a funny look. “As pertains to what?”

“I don't know,” I lied.

“He was the short list of what every host should be,” Thom said. “He was very gracious and gave everyone a good tip.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Honey, what are
you
talking about?”

“Did you discuss the weather or the meetingâ”

“Oh,” Thom said knowingly . . . and wrongly. “You want to know if he said anything about running those pictures? He didn't.”

“I see,” I replied, improvising. “He should have apologized.”

“Yesterday's news,” she said, not realizing what she'd said.

“Did he say anything else?”

Thom was losing her patience. “About what? Can't you just spell it . . . oh,” she said again, once more knowingly and wrongly. “You mean about how the vote is leaning.”

I made a noncommittal face.

“I don't know. A.J. and Dani may have overheard, if you want to ask them. I didn't. I figure the good Lord will let you know when and what He wants you to know.”

“You've probably got a point,” I said.

“I know I do.”

“Was he surprised I wasn't there?” I decided to be a little more aggressive.

“What? God? You askin' what God thought?”

“No,” I said. “Mr. Reid.”

“Girl, you were there.”

“Only for a minute.”

“So? I don't think he gave two thoughts to any of us, and if he did, he did not share them with me. He didn't come into the kitchen, and I'm sure if things hadn't run smooth outside the kitchen, I'd've heard from him. Now, are you writin' a book about last night, or can I finish this so we can open?”

I told her to carry on, and a minute later the front door swung open and in walked our first customers of the day. The Repeat Returners, who gave me a dirty look as A.J. went to take their order, and a young couple I thought were tourists. You can always tell by the big lenses on their cameras. Except that the male half took pictures of the kitchen. I knew why, and at this point, I didn't give two shakes. As long as they ordered something, they could take all the after-the-fact photos they wanted.

I went to the kitchen, gave a quick wave to Newt, Dani, and Luke, and headed for my office.

“Hey, you need to approve the playlist for open mic night?” Luke shouted.

“No,” I called back. “As long as it's Luke unplugged.”

“Always, always.” He raised some fingers in a sign whose meaning completely eluded me.

I heard Dani say, “Unplugged rules!”

They made it seem so easy, so uncomplicated. Stinkin' kids.

I put my bag on the back of my chair; sat in the chair, which I suddenly, irrationally viewed as an antagonist; and thought about what I had to do. Not what I wanted to do, not what I felt obligated to do, just what I knew I needed to do.

I had to go see Stacie.

That brief glimpse of her I'd caught had stayed with me all night. She looked like I felt: lonely. That spoke to me, louder than it should have. In a way, we'd both experienced the same kind of childhood: Dad wasn't fully engaged. She was in love with someone but drawn to someone else. That wasn't an exact matchup, but I understood the kind of riptides that could cause. She felt estranged from her mother. Mine had passed, but hers had tried to sell her. Those were two sides of the same sense of loss.

There was another part of this, though, and that was, what kind of advice would I give her? I didn't know much about Scott, but I was not sure that I would've hooked my twentysomething life to his star. Childhood sweethearts or not, maybe she wanted something more. And if she didn't, was it my responsibility to try and coax her in that direction?

Why? What did ambition ever do for you? I asked myself. Wouldn't you have rather met and married a poor guy and been happy, some schlub who had a shoe shop in the East Village or ran a bar or sold back-issue magazines in a loft on Fourteenth Street?

“Why did you dump this in my lap, people?” I asked.

The chair creaked. I told it to shut up. Decided, I left the office.

I stepped out in time to see the ladies leave without tipping. A large family of eight sat down. Business was okay and the staff was moving around like a well-oiled machine that wasn't even noticing me, so I slipped out.

It was a damp dayâfittingâwith a misty rain. I didn't need an umbrella, just a baseball cap. I had decided to walk over to the child-care center Scott had mentioned. The not-long walk was one of those things I found myself having to force myself to do, like the time I had to go up and collect my sixth grade diploma and I felt like everyone in the world was watching me and I didn't want them to. Or when I walked down the aisle with Phil and had a feeling like I was doing something incredibly dumb, and I had to tell myself it was just nerves and force myself to think,
Left foot, right foot, left foot . . .

The place was on Seventh, between Broadway and Church. I smoked one of my “healthy” cigarettes on the way to chase away the jitters. I didn't know why I felt them. I didn't have a dog in this fight. If we got along, great. If she listened to me, fine. If she didn't, okay. The worst thing that could happen was I'd waste some time and breath.

No,
I thought.
The worst thing that can happen is she likes you and you don't like her. You'll feel obligated to see her now and then, harming yourself to keep from hurting her. Thanks, Dad. Damn you.

As I walked, I heard a car horn toot to my left. I didn't know if it was for me, but I looked over. It was Grant flying solo in his cop car. He pulled to the curb, rolled down the window, and asked if I wanted a lift somewhere.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“You want to get in, anyway?” he asked.

I said sure. Because I was either a masochist or insane. Because Luke and Dani definitely were not.

“What's doing?” I asked.

“Heading out to see Brenda Silvio,” he said.

“Oh.”

“The funeral is tomorrow, and she's planning to leave town immediately after and stay with friends. I wanted to talk to her. This is my shot.”

“What do you expect her to say?”

He raised and lowered a shoulder. I didn't know him well, but I knew that gesture.

“You have something,” I said.

“Just questions.”

“What about?”

“I can't tell you,” he said.

“Why?” I added angrily, before I could stop myself, “Because we're not dating anymore?”

He looked disappointed. “No, Gwen. Because I told you about the canine presence and you told a third party.”

“Lydia?”

He made an “uh-huh” face.

“How did
that
come to your attention?”

“She came to the station, asked to see me, wanted to know what it would take to put someone in protective custody.”

“Who?”

“Can't tell you that, either,” Grant said.

“Come on. She's family. Almost.”

He seemed puzzled. “How's that?”

I explained the connection. He listened without responding. Then he looked down the street. “You're going to see your half sister,” he said.

I didn't answer. I was being bitchy but didn't care. He accepted that.

“Look, I just wanted to tell you that I assumed whatever I said to you was between us,” he said. “I would appreciate if you would respect that confidence going forward.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I hadn't realized it was confidential.”

“Why? Because I didn't flag it?”

“Yeah.”

“I expected better from you.”

“I seem to be getting that reaction a lot lately.” I cracked the door. “We done?”

“If you want to be.”

I looked at him. “Are we still talking about the case?”

“If you want to be.”

I exhaled. The windows were fogging. He switched on the defroster. The hum had the effect of a vibrating bed inside my head. It shook my thoughts into a relaxed state.

“I was upset when I left you that message,” he said.

“I was upset when I got it,” I replied.

“My work has always been important to me, Gwen. Not my job or my career, but my work. Keeping people safe, making Nashville a showplace.”

“I know that,” I said. “I respect it.”

“Well, then, understand that it was tough for me to shoulder that aside to make room for a potential relationship. No, I take that back. For an actual relationship. I like you a lot, we haveâ
had
âfun, and I felt you pulling away.”

“I guess I just don't have my feet under me yet down here. The deli takes time, I've got the past in my head like Scrooge's ghost, and then we have Joe Silvio.” I took his hand. He didn't flinch. That was a big thing, with him being on duty. “It's a lot. I screw up when I try to juggle. I've never been very good at it. I dropped the ball on this. The Grant Daniels ball. You got bruised and rolled away. I understand. I don't blame you.”

“But are you upset?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I don't mean about the relationship. I mean, do you miss me?”

How to answer that.
“I have missed you.”

“As in a lot or as in a little?”

“As in I would like to try again, if you would.”

He smiled.

“Would you have asked me that if you hadn't happened to see me walking down the street?”

“I would have,” he said. “I planned to stop by on the way back from Brenda's to chat about the sanctity of whatever I mentioned, or mention going forward, in pil-lowless pillow talk.”

“I got that message,” I said. “Loose lips sink investigations. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

“I don't think it did any harm,” he said. “She's got other things on her mind.”

“I know.”

Grant looked at me. “Gwen.”

That was an odd thing for him to say, especially as an entire sentence.

“Yes, Grant?”

“I have an idea.”

“What kind?”

“A potentially disastrous one,” he said.

“Does it involve a second woman? Because Iâ”

“Maybe later in the relationship,” he said.

I was kidding. I hoped he was.

“No, I was thinking that you should come with me.”

Truthfully? That was a stranger idea than the other one. “Why?” I asked.

“Because . . . And this is between us, right?”

“My lesson has been learned.”

“Jason McCoy has been making things miserable for me with the chief and with the union.”

“How?”

“He's been saying crap like I shouldn't be involved with this, because you and I have a relationship, that it should be turned over to another detective, who just happens to be a family friend, the man who brought him on the forceâ”

“As if
that
wouldn't be a conflict of interest. That's lunatic!”

“Exactly.”

“Did you explain that that's crap talk?”

BOOK: A Killer in the Rye

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