Tell Me No Secrets (24 page)

“I’m a tease?” Jess couldn’t disguise the fury in her voice.

“If the shoe fits,” he said, impatiently stuffing his feet inside his Gucci loafers. He thrust the beer bottle in the direction of her chest. Jess grabbed for it, the cold liquid
splashing across her white blouse. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said, already at the door, slamming it shut after him.

“That was cute,” Jess said, watching her canary flit from perch to perch. “Real cute.” She rubbed her forehead, wondering at what point exactly she had started losing control of her life. She, who meticulously hung each item of clothing in her closet according to color, who carefully placed her freshly-laundered panties beneath those not yet worn, who made lists for everything from important appointments to when it was time to wash her hair, and then carefully crossed each item off that list as each was accomplished. When had she lost control of her life?

She walked back to the sofa, leafed through her mail. The heavy scent of Greg’s cologne still clung to the back of the sofa where he’d been sitting. Jess took the letters to the window, opening the window slightly to allow a breath of fresh night air inside. The antique lace curtains swelled in gentle surprise.

The mail consisted mostly of bills. A few more requests than usual for donations, not unexpected at this time of year. A notice about Individual Retirement Accounts. Jess looked each over hurriedly, then tossed them aside, concentrating on the stained white envelope that remained. No return address. Her name printed in awkward scrawl, as if by a child. Maybe an early Christmas card from her nephew, Tyler. No stamp. Obviously hand-delivered. She tore it open, extricated the single blank sheet of discolored paper from inside, turned it over in her hands, then lifted it gingerly to her nose.

The stale smell of urine mingled with the scent of Greg’s cologne.

Jess quickly stuffed the paper back inside the envelope, letting it fall, watching as the breeze carried it, dipping and turning like an expert dance partner, to the floor. She watched as little black things tumbled from the envelope, like ashes from a lit cigarette, almost disappearing into the hardwood floor.

Slowly, she knelt down, brushing what appeared to be short, wiry black threads into the palm of her hand. Hair, she realized with growing revulsion. Pubic hair. Immediately, she swept the hairs back into the envelope.

Pubic hair and urine.

Charming.

There was a knock at her door.

“Oh great,” she whispered, rising to her feet, closing the window. Pubic hair, urine, and Greg Oliver. What more could a girl want? “Go home, Greg,” she called sharply.

“Do I have to go home if my name is Adam?”

Jess dropped the offending letter onto her dining room table, not sure she had heard correctly. “Adam?”

“I see you’re wearing your new boots,” he said as she opened the door. “Were you expecting me?”

“How did you get in?” Jess asked, angry and more than a little embarrassed by how glad she was to see him.

“The front door was open.”

“Open?”

He shrugged. “Maybe Greg didn’t close it properly on his way out.” He leaned against the doorway. “Get your coat.”

“My coat?”

“I thought we could grab a bite to eat, maybe take in a movie.”

“And if I’m too tired?”

“Then tell me to go home, Adam.”

Jess stared at Adam Stohn, his brown hair falling carelessly across his forehead, his posture maddeningly self-assured, his face as unreadable as that of a suspect in a police lineup. “I’ll get my coat,” she said.

T
hey went to a revival of
Casablanca
, despite the fact that each had seen the movie several times on television. They sat near the back and, at Jess’s insistence, on an aisle. They said little on the short drive to the movie, nothing at all once seated, and only a few words as they walked to the restaurant afterward. They never touched.

The restaurant, located on North Lincoln Avenue, was small, dark, and noisy, specializing in roast beef. They sat at a tiny table for two near the back, and only after they had given their orders to the waiter, who wore a thin gold earring through his nose, did they make a few tentative stabs at conversation.

“I read somewhere,” Jess said, “that when they started filming
Casablanca
they didn’t have a finished script, and the actors were never sure who they were or what they were supposed to be doing. Poor Ingrid Bergman apparently kept asking the director who it was she was supposed to be in love with.”

Adam laughed. “Seems hard to believe.”

Silence. Adam’s eyes drifted toward the deep wine-colored walls. Jess grabbed a warm roll from the bread basket, tore it in half, stuffed it into her mouth.

“You have a good appetite,” he commented, although his eyes were still directed elsewhere.

“I’ve always been a big eater.”

“Mother tell you to eat everything on your plate?”

“She didn’t have to.” Jess swallowed, tore off another piece of the roll.

“You must have a high metabolic rate.”

“I find that frequent hysteria helps keep the pounds off,” Jess told him, popping the bread into her mouth, wondering why they were so ill-at-ease with each other. They’d had better rapport when they were virtual strangers. Instead of relaxing more with one another, each fresh exposure produced only greater stiffness, as if they were succumbing to an emotional rigor mortis. Probably self-inflicted.

“I don’t like the word
hysterical,”
he said, after a long pause.

“What’s not to like?”

“It has such a negative connotation,” he explained. “I prefer
high energy.”

“You think they’re the same thing?”

“Two sides of the same equation.”

Jess thought it over. “I don’t know. All I know that ever since I was a little girl, people have been telling me to relax.”

“Which only reinforced this negative image you have of yourself as a hysterical person.” He finally looked her square in the face. Jess was startled by the sudden intensity of his gaze. “When people tell you to relax, it usually means
they’re
the ones having problems with your high energy, not you. But they’ve made
you
feel guilty. Neat, huh?”

“Another of your interesting theories.”

“I’m an interesting guy, remember?” He grabbed a bread stick, bit off its end.

“So what are you doing selling shoes?”

He laughed. “Does that bother you, that I sell shoes?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“The fact is that I like selling shoes,” he said, pushing back his chair, extending his legs their full length alongside the table. “I go to work at ten o’clock every morning. I leave at six. Except Thursdays. On Thursdays, I come in at one, go home at nine. No taking my work home with me. No hours of preparation for the next day. No hassles. No responsibility. I come in; I sell shoes; I go home.
Veni, vidi, vinci
. Or whatever.”

“But it must be very frustrating for you if someone takes up hours of your time, then leaves with only one pair of shoes, or worse, none at all.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“Aren’t you on commission?”

“Part salary, part commission, yes.”

“Then your livelihood is affected.”

He shrugged, straightened up in his chair. “I’m a good salesman.”

Jess felt her feet warm in her new winter boots. “Well, I can certainly attest to that.” She was gratified when he smiled. “What about intellectually?”

He seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You’re obviously a very smart man, Mr. Stohn. It can’t be very intellectually stimulating doing what you do all day.”

“On the contrary. I meet all sorts of bright, interesting
people, doing what I do all day. They give me all the intellectual stimulation I require at this point in my life.”

“What exactly
is
this point in your life?”

He shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Springfield.”

“I meant college.”

“Who says I went to college?”

“I do.”

He smiled, an obvious strain. “Loyola University.”

“You graduated from Loyola University, and now you’re selling shoes?”

“Is that a crime in Cook County?”

Jess felt her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry. I must sound very presumptuous.”

“You sound like a prosecutor.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about the Crossbow Killer,” he said, suddenly changing topics.

“What?”

“I’ve been following your exploits in the paper this past week.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you’re going to win.”

She laughed, an open, happy sound, feeling strangely grateful for his vote of confidence.

“Are you going to ask for the death penalty?”

“If I get the chance,” Jess said simply.

“And how is the state killing people these days?”

The waiter appeared with two glasses of red burgundy.

“Lethal injection.” Jess quickly raised her glass to her lips.

“I think I might let that breathe for a few minutes,” the waiter cautioned.

Jess obediently lowered the glass to the table. She found the unintentional combination of wine breathing and lethal injections ironically compelling.

“So, lethal injections, is it? Disposable needles for disposable people. I guess there’s a certain justice in that.”

“I wouldn’t waste too many tears on the likes of Terry Wales,” Jess told him.

“No sympathy for the criminal underclass at all?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Let me guess—your parents, were lifelong Republicans.”

“Are you opposed to the death penalty?” Jess asked, not sure whether she had the strength to engage in a long debate over the pros and cons of capital punishment.

There was silence.

“I think some people deserve to die,” he said finally.

“You sound like you have someone particular in mind.”

He laughed, though the sound was hollow. “No, no one.”

“Actually, my father is a registered Democrat,” Jess told him after another long pause.

Adam brought his glass of wine to his nose and inhaled, though he didn’t drink. “That’s right, you told me your mother passed away.”

“There’s a park near here,” Jess said, speaking almost to herself. “Oz Park. My mother used to push me there in my carriage when I was a baby.”

“How did your mother die?” he asked.

“Cancer,” Jess said quickly, gulping at her wine.

Adam looked surprised, then dismayed. “You’re lying. Why?”

The glass in Jess’s hand started to shake, several drops of red wine spilling over onto the thick white tablecloth, like drops of blood. “Who says I’m lying?”

“It’s written all over your face. If you’d been hooked up to a lie detector, the needle would have been all over the page.”

“You should never take a lie detector test,” Jess told him, steadying her glass on the table with both hands, grateful for the digression.

“I shouldn’t?”

“They’re way too unreliable. A guilty person can beat them, and an innocent person can fail. If you’re innocent and you
fail
the test, it’s assumed you’re guilty. If you’re innocent and you
pass
the test, it still doesn’t eliminate you as a suspect. So you have nothing to gain and everything to lose by taking the test—that’s if you’re innocent.”

“And if I’m guilty?”‘ he asked.

“Then you might as well give it a shot.” Jess patted her lips with her napkin, although they were dry. “Of course, we’re very big on lie detector tests at the prosecutor’s office, so you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

“Any of what?” Adam asked, and Jess smiled. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to your mother?”

Her smile immediately vanished. “I thought we had a deal.”

“A deal?”

“No secrets, no lies. Remember?”

“Is there something secret about the way your mother died?”

“Just that it’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.”

“Then we don’t get into it.”

The waiter approached with their dinners. “Careful, the plates are hot,” he cautioned.

“Looks good,” Jess said, surveying the prime cut of rare roast beef, swimming in its own dark juices.

“Butter on your baked potato?” the winter asked.

“And sour cream,” Jess told him. “Lots.”

“The same,” Adam agreed, watching as Jess cut into her roast beef. “I like a woman who eats,” he said, and laughed.

They ate for several minutes in silence.

“What was your wife like?” Jess asked, digging into her baked potato.

“Always on a diet.”

“Was she overweight?”

“I didn’t think so.” He cut a large piece of meat, stuffed it into his mouth. “Of course, what I thought didn’t count for very much.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re on very friendly terms.”

“One of the main reasons we got divorced.”

“I’m friends with my ex-husband,” Jess offered.

Adam looked skeptical.

“We are. Very good friends, as a matter of fact.”

“Is this the famous Greg? As in ‘Go home, Greg’?”

Jess laughed. “No. Greg Oliver is a fellow prosecutor. He gave me a ride home.”

“You don’t drive?”

“My car had a slight accident.”

A hint of worry fell across Adam’s eyes.

“I wasn’t in it at the time.”

He looked relieved. “Well, that’s good. What kind of accident?”

Jess shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“We’re rapidly running out of things to talk about,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t want to talk about your car or your mother or your sister or your brother-in-law, and I can’t remember, was your father off limits as well?”

“I get the point.”

“Let’s see. The ex-husband was relatively safe. Maybe we should stick with him. What’s his name?”

“Don. Don Shaw.”

“And he’s a lawyer, and you’re great buddies.”

“We’re friends.”

“So, why the divorce?”

“It’s complicated.”

“And you’d rather not talk about it?”

“Why did
you
get divorced?” Jess asked in return.