Act of Betrayal (6 page)

A quick run-through yielded a rough view of her idea of how things happened. For her first effort, she watched the playback as if it were a computer game, with the figures three inches high on the screen. Everything happened in real time, although she could speed through slow sections if she wished. Later on, when she had the simulation more refined, she would immerse herself in it. That meant using a special Head-Mounted Display (HMD) to enter the virtual world so that everything appeared life-size to her. She put the playback on automatic and turned the computer loose.

The simulation started in the third-floor hallway. The three-inch-high Rick on her monitor approached the door of apartment 3F and knocked. Bonnie opened the door, smiling, and invited him in. He went without hesitation. There had been some letters found with Rick’s body, in the pockets of clothing left on the floor. PJ didn’t have the text of the letters. They had gone straight to the lab, but supposedly Ginger was pretty explicit about her plans for Rick. Toxicology results weren’t available yet, but PJ thought it likely that Rick had stopped for a beer after getting out of prison, tossing back a quick three or four, loosening his inhibitions and impairing his judgment. Maybe he had intended to contact his father after taking care of priorities one and two: beer and sex.

Bonnie closed the door behind him, and Rick looked confused at the lack of furniture in the room. At least that’s how PJ interpreted the odd look the computer had slapped onto Rick’s face: his eyes were round as an owl’s, and his mouth looked like a Cheerio.

Bonnie approached and hugged him—actually her arms went right through him in this early, crude version of the simulation—and apparently reassured him. She kissed him, stripped his clothes away, and then invited Rick to sit in the one chair in the center of the room. Bonnie opened a sack on the floor and took out one leather belt after another, restraining Rick in the chair. PJ flushed as she imagined how Schultz would react to her idea that Rick was a willing participant in the bondage. Worldly as he might be, she couldn’t imagine him cheerfully accepting such speculation about his own son. She resolved that Schultz would never see the simulation of his son’s death. Whether it reflected reality or not, it might be too hard for him to take.

When Rick was secured, and evidently expecting things to proceed in a pleasurable manner, another figure entered the room. Clyde had been hiding in the bathroom. The two conspirators began bringing sheets of plastic from the bathroom and fastening them to the ceiling to make a tent. Rick squirmed, but was unable to get free. Unfortunately in the first run-through, they were building the tent across the room from the spot where Rick sat in the chair. PJ sighed. There was a lot of work left to do on her simulation.

A bucket was brought from the bathroom and carefully filled with acid. Cyanide tablets were tossed in, and the plastic tent filled with red smoke. Wrong. The vapor was supposed to be colorless, or nearly so. Bonnie and Clyde beat a hasty retreat. Rick sat in his chair across the room. A minute later, with no sign of a struggle, his eyes closed like those of a baby doll laid on her back, a much gentler death than the one Rick had suffered in real life.

PJ assessed her simulation. Not too bad for a first attempt, but definitely not ready for prime time.

She glanced at the Mickey Mouse clock on her desk and was surprised to see that it was ten minutes after four. Schultz had been sent home about eleven. She’d been working in a concentrated fashion for over five hours. She called Thomas at home, relieved that he picked up the phone on the third ring. He had gotten home at four, as she had requested. Assorted beeps in the background indicated that he was playing games on the computer. Winston was with him.

She wasn’t sure how the news of the death of Schultz’s son would affect Thomas, and she hadn’t thought out how to tell him before dialing. He and Schultz had grown close over the past few months, and she was sure Thomas was beginning to think of Schultz as a father figure. Thomas knew about Rick, but had never met him.

PJ gave him the news matter-of-factly. She didn’t want him to hear from some other source, and besides, Officer Baker was supposed to come around at five o’clock, and Thomas had to know the reason by then. Thomas was silent, then said that he would like to see Schultz.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea now. Maybe in a day or two.”

“He must feel terrible, Mom. He shouldn’t be by himself.”

PJ acknowledged her son’s compassion, and it stirred her own. She felt a stab of pain at what Schultz was going through and would be facing in the days and months to come.

“I know, sweetie. That’s why I’m going over to his house. I don’t know when I’ll be home. He might want to talk a long time, maybe all night.”

She explained about the officer coming to stay with him and Winston.

“You and Winston use the security chain and ask for ID before you let him in. He’s about twenty-seven years old and blond, so you know what to expect. Have him phone me when he arrives. I hate to admit it, but I haven’t even talked to the guy. That’s not something I’d ordinarily do. I’d at least like to speak to him and tell him all the bad tricks you play.”

“Hey. No fair.”

“Actually, I just want to know he got there okay. You guys can order a pizza for the three of you. There’s money in the desk drawer.”

“All right! I get to choose something good since you’re not here to vote for all those veggies.”

She smiled. A conversation with Thomas could fly off in any direction, but sooner or later came down to food. “I’ll phone later tonight. Take care, T-man.”

“You too, Mom. And tell Schultz… well, you’ll think of something.”

L
ADEN WITH SACKS OF
roast beef sandwiches and fries, and with a two-liter plastic bottle of Coke tucked awkwardly under her arm, PJ made her way up the front walkway leading to Schultz’s home. The lawn looked neglected, burned out in the August heat and ragged from lack of mowing. She doubted that its condition was going to improve over the rest of the summer. She climbed half a dozen steps and stood on a four-by-four concrete landing that served as the entry porch. It wasn’t covered by a roof, and PJ felt exposed as she stood there. The century-old home painted in shades of gray and trimmed with white had seemed welcoming on previous visits, but on this trip it seemed dour and disapproving. She could swear that the third-floor dormers were frowning down at her. A curtain moved in a window next door, and she wondered if the neighbors all had the news.

She had no free hand to press the doorbell, so she leaned her elbow on it.

The door opened almost immediately, as though Schultz had been watching her coming up the sidewalk. One look at his face, and she was glad she had come.

“Is that Diet Coke?” he said.

“Nope. The real stuff.”

“You said the magic words. Come on in.”

She stepped in and Schultz closed the door behind her, cutting off the sunlight and heat. It was after six o’clock, but the heat and humidity outside showed no sign of letting up for the night. All the curtains on the first floor were drawn shut, and no lights were turned on. He had cranked the air-conditioner way down. It was cold.

“You expecting penguins any minute?” PJ said. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Oh? I didn’t notice,” he said. “When I got home, it was hot, so I turned down the dial. I guess I set it too low. Here, I’ll take those bags.”

He took two bags in one hand, clamped the two-liter bottle in the other, and walked off, leaving her standing in the entry hall. She sought out the thermostat, locating it down the main hall outside the bathroom. It was set on sixty degrees. She bumped it up to seventy-four, then joined him in the kitchen.

He had dumped fries out on a napkin and unwrapped one of the sandwiches, but then had gotten stalled. He sat at the table staring in the direction of the food, but not seeing it. She opened kitchen cabinets until she found some glasses. The ice cube trays in the refrigerator were empty, so she poured them each a glass of Coke without ice. Luckily it was cold already—she had gotten it from a refrigerated case at the store. When she sat down opposite him at the kitchen table, he began to eat without waiting for her to unpack her food.

“Thanks for bringing this stuff,” he said between bites. “I owe you one.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence, except for the sounds of eating, which seemed magnified in Schultz’s small kitchen. The high ceilings added to the situation, but Schultz didn’t seem to notice. PJ imagined her chewing noises and slurps coming back around like an echo long after she had left.

She was sitting close to Schultz, but the two of them seemed to be in different worlds.

“Sshh,” he said. “You talk too much.” And he closed her mouth with a kiss.

PJ responded, leaning into Schultz’s warm, reassuring presence, and let herself be enclosed in his arms. For the first time in many days she could close her eyes and not be haunted by terrible images of death. A draining and emotional homicide case had just concluded, and Schultz had driven her home. They were alone in her kitchen.

For a moment she forgot her battered and stitched body and rested her head on his chest. It was awkward at the kitchen table, so they moved to the couch in the living room. His hands gently roamed her body, avoiding the painful spots from her ordeal. It was soothing, so soothing, to relax and let Schultz’s strength serve for the two of them.

Fatigue and painkillers did their work, and she faded to sleep. In the morning, she woke with Schultz beside her. He must have carried her upstairs to bed. She nestled against him, smiling at the way his erection tented the blanket. His hands and his kisses were more insistent than on the night before, and she felt his fingers leaving trails of fire on her skin.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, naked, her back to him.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “I don’t know if this is what I want. What either of us really wants.”

He said nothing. She could feel her own heart beating, and there was a roaring in her ears.

“We’ve got to think more about this,” she said. “This is complicated. We work together.”

And you’re bouncing around from one woman to another since you got divorced,
she’d thought.
Maybe I’m just the next in line.

She heard him get up and dress, but didn’t turn around. She was afraid of meeting his eyes, afraid that the insubstantial barrier she had built with her words would collapse if she looked in his eyes right then.

She got up and went into the bathroom. When she came out after a long shower, he was gone.

The note read: Take as much time as you want. I love you. We can work it out.

The phone in Schultz’s kitchen rang, but he didn’t make a move to answer it. After a few rings, PJ answered it herself. It was Dave checking in, with the news that eighteen chemical supply houses had been placed on their contact list, and that not a single one of them had anyone to answer the phone past 5:00 P.M. except security guards. Short of tracking down the owners at home and persuading them to go back into the office, there was nothing to do but wait until business hours resumed the next morning. Dave inquired tentatively about Schultz, and got a report that food had been offered to the gods and all was well for the moment.

When they finished eating, Schultz cleared the wrappers and glasses, then stood facing away from her at the kitchen counter longer than necessary. She thought he might be crying. She rose and walked toward him, intending to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Schultz, I—”

He rounded on her, and she saw that his eyes were dry and hot.

“Don’t try any of that shrink bullshit about grief on me, Doc,” he said. “You have no idea how I’m feeling, so don’t say that you do. I’ll handle this in my own way.”

PJ shut her mouth, suppressing the unspoken words of sympathy.

“I’m going out,” he said. “You can go home or come along or sit here at my table by yourself, for all I care. But I’m leaving.”

He left the house, walking with long strides. Worried, she scurried after him. He got into his car, which was parked at the curb in front of hers. She barely had time to make it to her car and keep him in sight as he drove off.

She couldn’t get her thoughts to straighten out as she pursued Schultz. Why couldn’t he accept any comfort from her? Weren’t they close enough so that he could turn to her when trouble came along? If there was such emotional distance between them, surely there couldn’t be anything other than a professional relationship. Yet, she reminded herself, people grieved in individual ways, and maybe his was solitary.

PJ raised her hand to her lips, feeling the pressure of Schultz’s kiss months after it was placed there, on a night when she was the one who needed comfort.

God, the man isn’t easy. Nothing about him is easy.

He was heading downtown, and she thought with relief that he was going back to work. It was a controlled environment, and she could talk some sense into him there.

Instead of going to the headquarters building, he wound his way through unfamiliar downtown streets she hadn’t had reason to travel, and pulled up in front of a bar on Broadway, south of the main commercial district. As soon as she realized the destination, she knew that he was about to go on a drinking binge, as Howard had described. Should she try to stop him, or let him grieve in whatever way he wanted?

Stopping him didn’t appear to be an option, because while she had spent indecisive moments in her car at the curb, he had gotten out of his and was already pushing open the door of the bar. Setting aside her deeper concerns to deal with the moment, PJ hurried after him. At least she could be some sort of stabilizing influence, and make sure he got home safely.

At 10:00 P.M., PJ finished up her third glass of orange juice. She had stayed away from alcohol entirely, determined not to repeat her wine-drinking fiasco of the night before. Schultz was drinking Scotch, and she thought he’d had a couple of refills, but didn’t really pay attention because she was so distracted by his behavior. He had gone through several stages from surly to glad-handing everyone who got within reach. He talked about everything but his family.