Blown Away (11 page)

“It's only a scrape,” he said. “If something was broken, you'd have screamed when I pushed.”

“Only thing broke is your pride,” Branch snorted. “Even Luerchen didn't get beat up by a girl.”

Emily tried to laugh but couldn't quite manage. She massaged her neck instead. “Where do we go from here?”

Branch high-signed Cross, got waved over. “The birthday deadline changes everything. Let me tell Ken.” He returned ten minutes later. “You hungry?” he asked Benedetti.

“Always. Why?”

Branch's faint smirk became a Buddha smile. “Seems the mayor just called the TV stations from her car. SWAT scanners picked up the transmission. She said they're missing a blockbuster at the library and should route their news choppers from the fire.” He blew a kiss at the mayoral Mercedes clearing the barricades. “This place is about to look like the fall of Saigon.”

“Kee-rist,” Benedetti groused. “Will you please get that mayor of yours potty trained?”

Branch laughed. “The good news is that most of the troops have dragged themselves to the station. They're sicker than dogs but insist on working 'cause one of our own is under attack.”

“The chief can put them to good use,” Emily said, voice cracking a little.

“Indeed, he can,” Branch told her. “But there's not enough cruisers for everybody. Or radios. So drop yours off at the station, and ride with me to Grandma Sally's. Marty will meet us there, and we'll eat.” He grinned at her look of confusion. “Ken wants you out of the way till the choppers leave. We'll use the opportunity to compare notes.”

Benedetti pulled his jacket away from the blood. “Sounds good. We can order doughnut omelettes, seeing we're cops and all.” He nudged Branch. “Just make sure you drive, pal. Mood Emily's in today, she'd try to run me over.”

Chicago
September 1974

“Half my friends are going out for gymnastics, Daddy,” Emily sighed as she watched the final minute of
Dragnet
from the floor. Mama was in the kitchen washing supper dishes. “The rest want me on the basketball team. I don't know what to do!”

“How about both?” Gerald Thompson suggested from his easy chair. “You're a good athlete for age nine. You could handle two sports with no problem.”

“It's too much,” she said. “I already have school, homework, church, and Volunteer Club.”

“Well, Princess,” Gerald said, arching an eyebrow, “I suppose we could end the Thompson Family Game and Ice Cream Festival. We've been doing it for seven years, and maybe that's enough. It would free up your Saturday nights for—”

“No way!” Emily shrieked, bouncing around to look Daddy square in the face. “It's my favorite thing in the whole world, and you know it!”

He smiled, and she realized he was teasing. “I could give up catechism,” she countered. “That'd save three hours a week.”

“Nice try,” Gerald snickered. “Sounds like you need to choose one sport instead.”

“I suppose,” she sighed. “Tell me what to do, Daddy. I just can't decide.”

Gerald shook his head, nestling her close. “The only real freedom any of us have is making our own decisions. I wouldn't dream of taking that away from you.”

“Which means you don't want to choose,” Emily pouted.

“You got that right,” he said, getting up to turn off the set. Time for homework. “Let me know what you decide.”

Tuesday, 7
A.M
.
Forty-seven hours till Emily's birthday

The Greek diner on Ogden Avenue bustled with mail carriers, garbage collectors, and other early-to-risers. “Hell with doughnuts, give me bacon and ham,” Benedetti decided. “Preservatives are a cop's best friend.”

Branch grinned from the other side of the booth and flagged the waitress. “Meat-lovers omelette with cheddar, please,” he ordered. “Biscuits and gravy on the side.”

“Make it two,” Benedetti said.

“Three,” Emily said. “With Egg Beaters, no cheese, and dry wheat toast.”

“Sissy,” Branch teased as the waitress disappeared. “Naperville detectives eat steel and shit nails.”

Benedetti snorted. “I heard it was eat shit and steal.”

Branch waggled his eyebrows. “Speaking of eating, you've lost weight since the library. Where's your vest?”

“She got it dirty,” Benedetti said, blotting sweat from his forehead. “What's your excuse?”

Branch grinned. “I'm Superman. Bullets bounce off me.”

The joke wasn't all that funny, but they guffawed, anyway. Benedetti's gaze rested on Emily's cheek several heartbeats longer than strictly business. He looked away and began dissecting the crime scenes.

Six coffees and a second, full-fat, omelette later—
Forget the thighs, I'm hungry
!—Emily shook her head. “There's no link in these cases but me.”

“Give it time,” Branch said. “We just started digging into Soull's life.” He answered his phone, listened, said, “See you in fifteen.” Then, to Benedetti and Emily, “Senior staff meeting.”

“About?” Benedetti asked.

“The feds are coming.”

Benedetti rolled his eyes.

“You got that right,” Branch said. “FBI wants a piece of this. As do Homeland Security, the Secret Service, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. You know, we might have the dreaded Islamofascists.”

“Any excuse to stick their nose in.”

“Yup. So Ken's forming a joint task force, headed by me. That way we control the investigation, and they provide federal resources. They won't like it, but tough.” He crumpled his napkin. “You guys finish breakfast. I'll swing back when I'm done, pick up Emily.”

“Back to Neuqua High?” she guessed.

“Back to bed.”

She sputtered. “With all this going on?”

“You've worked twenty-four straight hours,” Branch said. “You need shut-eye.”

“No way!” Emily said. “I want in on this!”

“Who's arguing? But first you're going to rest. You're no good to anyone this exhausted. Call me after you've gotten eight hours—”

“Four—”

“—and I'll tell your where to meet. It's still eight.”

Emily knew he was right. Her fear and exhaustion had prompted that attack on Marty. She needed sleep. She still didn't like being left out, though, and shook her head.

“That's an order, Detective,” Branch said.

“Yes sir, captain sir, chief of detectives sir,” she grumbled, saluting.

Branch slid to the end of the booth. “Pour her some decaf, would you, Marty?” She stuck out her tongue as he threw a fist of tens on the table. “Back as soon as I can.”

Benedetti moved to the other side. “Now what, Mr. Babysitter?” Emily said grumpily.

“Sleeping sucks when everything's popping,” he said. “I know. But you gotta rest. You don't, you'll screw up big-time.” He raised his hands at her glare. “Yeah, yeah, shut up, Marty, or I'll pound you again.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself,” she said, somewhat mollified. “You know, the chief can't be pleased the FBI's involved.”

“For damn sure.” Two decades ago, an overly adrenalized FBI agent emptied his shotgun at Cross, then a Las Vegas Police undercover officer, who was chasing the violent bank robber they were jointly trying to capture. Cross dived behind a truck, but his backside didn't make it. The heavy lead buckshot tore off his right buttock. Cops being cops, Cross was tagged “Halfass” by fellow undercovers once they knew he'd live. He emerged from the hospital with a permanent limp, a career switch into management, and a lifelong distrust of feds. “They never did admit they were wrong,” he said. “Not to this day.”

“I didn't know that,” Emily said. “Wow. That's so darn grade school.”

“For some people life is grade school,” Benedetti reminded, picking at his eggs. “You don't cuss much, do you?”

Emily reminded herself that Marty was a sharp observer. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to. It's unusual for a cop. Especially rookies, who think they have to cuss like dockworkers to be tough. Are you offended by swearing?”

“No. Not at all.”

“What then?”

“I made a promise about that when I was a kid,” she said. “Still honoring it.”

“Huh,” he said, mulling that over. “How'd you feel going in there?”

“Where? The library?”

He nodded.

“Well…” She picked at a green pepper, recalling the fear that had turned her knees to putty. She'd known Marty a whole, what, twenty-six hours? Could she trust him? She played with the pepper some more, hoping it would provide some sort of guidance. Onions worked no better. So she looked up and said, “I was scared to death.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “Yessir, nobody holds a candle to Emily Marie Bambi Child Thompson when it comes to courage.”

“All those names, you must be Catholic,” Benedetti said. “And being scared annoys you somehow?”

“Of course!” she barked. Heads turned, and she lowered her voice. “I hate being scared, Marty. I wanted to be brave, and all I did was shoot a hole in the floor.” She explained her wayward trigger finger.

Benedetti raked his fingers through his locks. One flopped over his eyes, giving him a boyish look, which contrasted with the toughness of his angled facial planes. “Brave doesn't mean ‘fearless,' you know. It means doing the right thing even if you're frightened.”

“Don't remind me.”

Benedetti chuckled. “I'm just getting started, Ossifer. You start the day with dead animals. An hour later you're kicking Ray Luerchen's butt. Poking through a decomposing Lucy Crawford. Finding severed heads in your mailbox. Subduing a naked kid by yourself, entering the library without hesitation. Charging across a shooting gallery to save Arnie Soull even though SWAT's a minute away and your partner's AWOL. You've worked twenty-six straight hours and could legitimately beg off from exhaustion. But the only thing you want to do is beat me up and get back on the street. Navy SEALs don't have that kind of moxie.”

“And all this tells you what?” she asked, amazed at what Benedetti knew. “That I'm stupid?”

“Or reckless or brave, and the first two don't count.”

“Thank you.”

“That's not all. You're not only smart, not only courageous, you're…” He held up the breadbasket like a shield. “You sure you want to hear this? I don't want you hitting me without my bulletproof vest on. I'm delicate.”

“I'll decide when you're done…Commander.”

“Aw, geez, we're back to my rank,” he groused, rolling his eyes. He dropped the basket, picked up his cup, and said, “You're pretty. Really pretty. Athletic. Smart. Brave. Nice.” He pointed to her empty plate. “And you eat like a truck driver.” He grinned at her withering glare. “Compliment. Too many women pick like little damn sparrows 'cause they're worried about what people might think if they eat normal. Branch is a big fan of yours. Points in my book because he's a superb judge of character. And another thing…”

Emily realized she was clenching her fists. This conversation was entering territory she wouldn't have dreamed possible yesterday. But she was interested. Very. She'd been asked to countless movies, concerts, dinners, and beds in the decade since Jack died. She felt nothing for the men—and several women—and kept saying thanks but no. After awhile she began hearing she was a “lez.” The thought amused her. She liked men fine. She just felt still married and therefore was not dating.

“So anyway, Emily, I guess I'm saying I like you a whole damn lot. So what do you think about us having dinner sometime?…”

OK. There it is. Now what do I do about it?

“Say something wrong?” she heard him ask, and forced herself to pay attention.

“Wrong?” she parried. “What do you mean?”

“You're working that wedding ring like a twist top.” His eyes crinkled in amusement as she whipped her hands apart. “I say something to make you nervous?”

“Of course not!” she said, the denial making her even more so.
You're not in grade school. This shouldn't be so difficult!
“How could I be nervous? You just said I was brave, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

She started twisting again. “It's just that…well…I…”

“You're still married,” he said. “And you don't want to cheat on Jack.”

She stopped mid-twist. “Yes,” she said, surprising herself. She'd never explained herself to anyone. “That's exactly how I feel. Ridiculous, huh?”

He raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Well, it has been ten years. When will you—”

“Get over it?” she snapped, throat constricting with anger. She hated people saying that! To think she'd thought Marty different! “Am I on a timetable? Did God come off the mountaintop and say, ‘Two weeks to grieve, kid, then forget Jack existed'?” Silverware jumped as she slammed the table. “You have no idea what it's like to lose someone you love, Marty! No idea at all!”

Benedetti glanced at the hopping forks, went back to her face. The manager started over, concerned. Marty waved him away. She found herself not wanting to finish the tirade, after all. So she limped it home with, “Anyway, that's how I feel.”

Benedetti finished his coffee with a long slurp. “So I gather.”

Emily looked at him closely, hoping his feelings weren't hurt. She hadn't wanted to wound his pride. More selfishly, if she ever reentered the romance market—not that she would, of course—she might give Marty a whirl. He was Old Spice, not Chanel. Strong. Sure of himself. Tender under the brontosaurus hide. Said what he meant, meant what he said. Had a clumsy charm she found endearing. Good at what he did, obviously loved it, had the respect of people she admired. Listened, really listened, a trait she treasured for its rarity. But, of course, she wasn't interested in romance any more…She was married…She was faithful…She'd buried those feelings with Jack….

“Let's wait outside for Branch,” she said.

Benedetti phoned to tell him where they'd be. She paid the bill, and they walked to the back of the parking lot. They got to his car, and Emily stopped, staring. The black Trans Am was as rusty as a Louisiana garbage scow. Its back bumper hung crooked to the left, front bumper crooked to the right. A spiderweb of cracks crazed the rear window. Roof and hood were ragged as cat-clawed silk. Dents warped the passenger door so out of true, it was hard to open. Handle chrome dug into her palm. “Where'd you find this thing?” she demanded. “A flea market?”

Marty grinned.

She yanked the balky door just wide enough to squeeze inside. It proved no better, with sun-blistered dash and carpeting thin as paint. The upholstery reeked of fast food. She planted a heel to steady herself, and a ragged square of sheet metal popped off, providing a bird's-eye view of the lot.

Benedetti slid in and started the car with a surprisingly silky
vroom
. “Never judge a book by its cover,” he said. “Or beauty's only skin-deep, pick your cliché.” He flipped on the heater to take off the chill. A half dozen cars and a white minivan queued up to turn onto Ogden Avenue, their slots instantly filled by waiting vehicles. Grandma Sally's hopped now that the sun was up. “A heroin smuggler owned this. He lost it to the county in a raid.”

“The engine's smoother than I expected,” Emily conceded. “Did the smuggler soup it up?”

Benedetti goosed the accelerator, jumping the car like a pogo stick. “I did. This is my race car.”

Emily blinked.

“I drive the amateur racing circuit,” he explained. “County fairs, horse tracks, what have you. If it's got prize money, I'm there.” He grinned. “If it doesn't, I'm there, anyway. Beer's free.”

“Racing, huh? How did you get into that?”

“I was pretty burned out eleven years ago. Needed a hobby to get my head straight.” He adjusted the mirror. “I've loved muscle cars since I was a kid, so I figured why not? Me and Love Shack won our first race together and never looked back. We're three-time champs of the Midwest League.”

“Cool!” Emily said, stretching her shoulders loose. “But why Love Shack? You a ladies' man?”

Benedetti's laugh was a buttery-rich baritone. “Sad to say, I never quite got the hang of that. It's the name of my sponsor. A good-ol'-boy tavern run by a fishing buddy.”

“Don't sponsors want their names on their investments?”

Benedetti hooked his thumb toward the back. “Magnetic signs. I attach them for races, take 'em off for work. Shack's particularly useful in robbery stakeouts, where high-speed chases aren't unknown. There's so many horses under this hood, the bad guy's fucked before his panties are down.” He put his hand to his mouth like he'd sworn in church. “Oops. I shouldn't encourage your terrible potty mouth.”

She punched his shoulder. He faked wincing. “Listen, I'm sorry I yelled at you,” she said. “I get kind of defensive sometimes.”

“No kidding,” Benedetti said, patting his chest. “But what I was trying to say back there was, When will you ever know you're ready?”

The black notes under the question made her ask her own in the form of a reply. “I don't know, Marty. Does anybody?”