Third Degree (3 page)

“Well, did you?” she was asking me, breaking directly into my musings about her personal life.

“Did I what?” I asked, trying to refocus my attention. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. Trixie licked my hand with mucho gusto.

“Did you notice anything about Mr. Wilmott’s physical appearance prior to his death?” She folded her hands on a file in front of her. Of course she already had a file on the case; she was a terrible dresser but extremely organized.

I thought back to what had transpired just a few hours previous. “Well, he was red in the face, sweating, and grabbing his throat at one point,” I said. “But I attributed all of that to his having been in a fight.” I picked up the soggy washcloth in front of me that had once held ice for my nose and pressed it against my forehead. It was still cold and a lot damp and did alleviate the pounding behind my eyes for a few seconds.

She wrote something in her tiny, squiggly penmanship on the pad in front of her. She looked up again, and boy, if she didn’t look just like one of the nuns at St. Thomas. I then set about on a mental journey whereby Detective Madden entered the convent as a young girl, decided she didn’t like it, and left it to pursue a career in law enforcement. Only when she cleared her throat loudly did I snap to again. “How long had you known Mr. Wilmott?”

“About forty seconds,” I said. We had been through this before. That’s the thing about cops: they like to ask the same question over and over again maybe hoping you’ll crack and tell them something they want to hear instead of something you’ve just made up. I don’t know. It’s a tiresome routine to me.

She stared at me again. Detective Madden didn’t like me for some reason—maybe it was a leftover feeling from her investigation into my ex-husband’s murder—and was making that painfully obvious during our chat. I looked at the clock behind her head. It was now three hours past the time I was supposed to meet Crawford at my house to go the pool party. I was hoping that he had passed irate and was now worried about my whereabouts.

“Can I please call my boy … Crawford?” I’m still not comfortable calling him my boyfriend, let alone fiancé. I had been at the stationhouse for three hours now and Detective Madden had been reluctant to let me use the phone. Who did she think I was going to call? And what difference did it make? I had left the house with only enough money to buy coffee and without my cell phone, and now I was at the mercy of a detective with an axe to grind.

I decided that she didn’t have a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or wife, nor was she sleeping with Detective Joe Hardin. It’s not a myth that the lack of regular sexual activity makes you grumpy. Just ask Crawford.

She begrudgingly handed me her cell phone, a fancy-looking operation with a keyboard. My cell phone is the size of a man’s loafer and has an antenna. “Yes, you may call your boy, Crawford.” That was what I had said but not what I had meant, but I let it go. Did I look like someone who used rapspeak to talk about their significant other? I examined the phone and decided that I wouldn’t be able to figure out how to dial it let alone make sure the call went through successfully. I looked at her pleadingly and asked her to dial Crawford’s number; although I had tried, my attempts at dialing had resulted in some vowels, the pound key, and some completely unrelated numbers. She obliged and handed the phone back to me.

Crawford sounded a bit wary when he answered, clearly not sure who was calling him. “Crawford,” he said.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Where the heck are you? And whose phone is that?” he asked, sounding a little mad but not enough to use the word “hell” in his question. “You know we were supposed to leave three hours ago.”

I dropped my voice to a whisper even though the detective and I were mere inches from each other. “I’m at the police station.”

“Which one?” he asked. I was surprised that he didn’t ask why I was in a police station, or what had happened, or why he didn’t just assume it was the one in my town. I guess I had been in a few police stations during our time together so asking which one was a better opener for this conversation.

“Mine.” I looked over at Madden and gave her a weak smile. She continued to stare back at me. Nope, she didn’t find me funny, or appealing as a human being, at all.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Actually, that should have been the first question, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was obviously flustered by my disappearance, or so I hoped. “I was in the coffee shop and a man died.”

“Died? As in … died?” Clearly, there was no “as in.”

“Died.” The look on Madden’s face told me that this phone call had gone on longer than was allowed. “Listen, where are you? Can you get over here?”

“I’m at your house. I was worried sick.” He left out “after I was furious that you had left town at the thought of meeting my family.” “I’ve been listening to your cell phone ringing in the house this whole time. You have to start carrying that thing.” He paused. “I’ll be right over.”

I handed Madden back her phone. “He’ll be right over,” I said, but she didn’t care. She put the phone back in her pocket and picked up her pen. “Can I go?” I asked.

She considered that for a few minutes and then stood. “Yes. When your friend gets here, you can go. But please stay in town. I think we’ll have more questions to ask you,” she said, glaring at me a little bit. She started for the door and then stopped, something on her mind. “What’s with you and the dead bodies?”

I stood, my hand wrapped tightly around Trixie’s leash. It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that question, nor would it be the last, I supposed. “Pardon?”

“You. Dead bodies. What’s the deal?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just lucky?” I ventured.

She exited the room with a sigh. Not only did she not find me funny, she obviously found me tedious as well. I was batting a thousand. I should have stayed in bed. “Come on, Trix,” I said, and led the dog out of the room, down a long hallway, and into the front of the police station. We didn’t have to wait too long until Crawford showed up. I saw him loping up the front walk toward the door; Crawford doesn’t move very quickly unless necessary. I, however, rush everywhere whether or not I’m late or the situation calls for it, so I ran toward the front door, putting us in the uncomfortable position of trying to open the door at the same time. After a few seconds of battling each other on either side of the door, he stepped back and put his hands up in surrender. “Ladies first,” he called through the door.

I pulled at the door and ran outside without saying good-bye to the desk sergeant and threw myself into Crawford, finally letting out the tension that had been bottled inside of me since I watched Carter Wilmott lose his breath and then collapse to the floor. “Get me out of here,” I said, handing over Trixie’s leash and doing an accelerated perp walk down the front walk toward the street. Crawford followed behind me. Once I was at the sidewalk and off police property, I turned to him. “We don’t have to go to the pool party today, do we?”

Crawford’s sad face almost made an appearance and got me thinking that I didn’t get a pass on pool parties or family meetings. If watching a man die didn’t qualify as a “pass,” I didn’t know what did. But he shook his head. “I sent our regrets.” He took my face in his hands. “You know you have the beginnings of a black eye, right?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “That’s where the story begins.” I touched my nose right below my eye and felt the bump there. “How bad is it?”

Crawford’s a terrible liar. “Not bad.” There was a bench in front of the police station and he sat down. Trixie sat next to him, her head on his thigh. “Pretty bad.” He reached up to touch it, thought better of that idea, and let his hand drop. “Horrible.”

I looked out at the street and everyone going merrily about their business in the town. “Thank you for being honest.” I started down the street again, Crawford and Trixie by my side. “What’s with me and dead bodies, Crawford?”

He took my hand. “You’re shaking.”

“Have you ever seen anyone die?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question but he answered anyway.

“They’re usually dead by the time I get to them.” He pulled me back to the bench and patted the space next to him. “Sit down.”

Instead, I paced nervously up and down the sidewalk. It was hot and humid, and in the short time I had been outside, my shirt was plastered against my back. “I’m serious. What’s up with this? Nobody I know finds dead bodies or sees people die like I do.” I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I plopped onto the bench and put my face in my hands. The whole day came crashing down on me and I let out a few muffled sobs. I could feel Crawford’s hand on my soggy back; eventually, it made its way around my shoulders and he pulled me close. I sobbed into his polo shirt for a few minutes before pulling myself together.

He leaned in and kissed me above the ear. “What happened?”

I started to explain but was interrupted by a loud “Dudes!” coming from the walk in front of the police station. I drew the bottom of my shirt across my face and turned to face Greg. “Hi, Greg,” I said.

Greg lumbered toward us, looking a little worse for wear. “Did they give you the third degree, too?” he asked. He stuck a huge, meaty hand out to Crawford. “Greg Weinstein.”

That made Jesus as Greg’s homeboy even more curious, but I decided not to go there. “This is my boy …” I started. “This is Crawford.”

Crawford gave me a look that indicated that if I hadn’t watched a man die that day, we’d be having a very long talk about Ring Pops, engagements, and various and sundry other topics related to matrimony. He then gave Greg the once-over, something that he did with most people upon introduction. It was a cop thing, I gathered.

“Your boy Crawford? That’s pretty hip, Alison. Nice to meet you, Crawford,” Greg said. “Jeez, I thought I’d never get out of there. What else is there to say besides ‘he came in, he grabbed his throat, he stopped breathing’? How many times can you say that?”

I nodded. “Same story, different detective,” I said. I thought of Detective Madden and decided that I was going to go through my closet, find anything that was navy blue, and throw it out. It is not a flattering color.

“I had that Hardin guy. He finally ran out of steam a few minutes ago and let me go.” Greg wiped his hands on his jeans. “I gotta get back to the store. Do you think it would be in bad taste to open tomorrow?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

I didn’t think it would be in bad taste but I wondered how many people would actually show up. Or how many would show up just to say that they had been in the store where Carter Wilmott had died. I didn’t have time to answer. Crawford jumped in. “If I were you,” he said, “I would open again on Monday. That’ll give you a chance to process what happened today and let things settle down a bit.”

I looked at him, a little stunned. “A chance to process what happened”? That wasn’t Crawfordspeak. But obviously, he was adapting to the situation at hand and to Greg’s vibe. Good job, Detective Crawford, I thought.

Greg mulled this over for a minute and decided that Crawford was correct. “Good call, dude.”

I saw Crawford flinch slightly; I knew the “dude” business wouldn’t go over well, but he took it like a champ. He held out his hand again. “Good luck with everything.”

Greg nodded and looked at me. “Alison, can I give you a hug?”

With those “guns”? I thought. Of course. I let myself be enveloped by Greg’s big, giant, sweaty, flabby guns and let out a sob that I had been holding in. He hugged me tight for longer than I was comfortable with and finally let go. “See you Monday?” he asked.

“Most definitely,” I lied.

I watched Greg walk away, my mind going through a mental spin cycle of the events. What would be the aftermath of Wilmott’s demise? Would Greg have to close, the stench of death forever washing over his little business? Selfishly and without compassion, I wondered if I could now break free of the hold that Beans, Beans and Greg had over me, forcing me to drink really terrible coffee on a regular basis. I blushed at that thought. It was very unkind and, hopefully, not characteristic, but I wasn’t willing to “explore” that, as one of the professors in the psych department at school would say.

Greg was a guy who had devoted himself to this little village and who participated vigorously and without a thought for himself or his income at all of the local events. Need free coffee for the PTA event? Greg would provide. Kids want to have a bake sale? They could use Beans, Beans anytime they wanted and for however long they needed the space. Want to have an open mic night and play your guitar for the locals? Greg would provide the store, after closing, for your performance. I guess, in spite of the bad coffee, I wanted the store to stay open. I looked up at Crawford.