Deadly Beloved

Even in my imagination?”

“...Perhaps you were attacking yourself.”

“Myself?”

He shifted in the chair again. “There’s that odd coincidence that you and your late husband shared not just a last name, but a first one—both named ‘Michael.’ Two Michael Trees.”

“Two Michael Trees is right....”

My policeman father had wanted a boy and got me instead. And Michelle wasn’t good enough for him: Michael it was. Pop had justified it by saying Michael was the first name of the lead actress on The Waltons, wasn’t it? But I knew better. We weren’t the Waltons.

“Ms. Tree?”

“It’s a possibility,” I granted.

“Do you feel in any way ‘attacked’ by your husband? Abandonment issues aside, did he keep...secrets, perhaps, that you learned only after his death?”

I gave him a sideways glance. “You’re good, Doc—haven’t even got to that yet. So much to tell you, since our last session....”

The smile in the trim beard was forgiving, as were the soft gray eyes in the angularly handsome face. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “After all, you’ve missed the last two.”

“I know, I know.”

He shrugged. “Well, you’re my last scheduled appointment this afternoon. We can go over. No problem.”

Right. But we wouldn’t go off the clock, would we?

I turned away from him and into my memories. “There’s a lot to tell, Doc. Things I didn’t witness—things I learned later.”

“That’s all right. Tell it all.”

“Even if I wasn’t there for it?”

“Even then....You live an eventful life, Ms. Tree. But I hope you’ve managed to stay well- grounded. In the year since your husband’s death—”

“Murder.”

“...Murder. In that time, we’ve accomplished so much.”

“ ‘Examine the past, understand it, then leave it behind...and move on.’ Great advice, Doctor. But as a detective I spend at least as much time in the past as in the present.”

“The nature of your business.”

“And yours.”

“And mine. Go ahead, Ms. Tree. Start wherever you like.”

“We’ll make it last week. That’s not really the beginning, Doc...more like the middle.” I glanced sideways at him. “I’m going to be jumping around some. Think you can keep up?”

“I think so.”

“Didn’t mean to patronize you, Doc. It’s just—you may have heard your share of wild things in this office in your time. But I’ll bet you double or nothing your bill that this is going to top ‘em all.”

“Ms. Tree, I believe you.”

“No bet?”

“No bet. Please. Begin.”

TWO

A year ago or so—about a month before his death—my husband Mike had moved the Tree Agency into new, nice, modern digs in a venerable, recently remodeled high-rise on Michigan Avenue that meant even our relatively modest space required a monthly king’s ransom.

This was probably what had my young partner, Dan Green, upset with me.

End of the workday, almost six, we both stepped out of our respective offices, which were side by side. He tagged along as I headed out, moving down the aisle between vacant cubicles, four on either side. Their inhabitants hadn’t gone home for the day—they didn’t have inhabitants.

Dan was edging up on thirty, blond and boyish with a wispy mustache that he thought made him look older (it didn’t) but only served to suggest he was gay (he wasn’t). He wore a brown-and-white pinstripe shirt, tan khakis, brown Italian loafers, and a look of consternation. I was in a gray wool Ralph Lauren blazer, cream-color silk blouse and black slacks and ankle boots, pretending not to notice how worked up he was.

“Look, Ms. Tree,” he was saying in his earnest second tenor, “we gotta make some changes. We’re stuck in the mud here and our wheels aren’t even turnin’.”

“Nicely put,” I said, making him work to keep up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but nicely put.”

He gestured to a nearby empty cubicle. “Look at these chairs with no asses in ‘em! You know what the boss had in mind—expansion! And what have you done about it? Nothing!”

I stopped abruptly, which threw Dan a little, as he kept going for a second, before backing up to face me and regain his composure.

My arms were folded, my head tilted, just a little, my eyes not blinking. “Current caseload is easily covered by our staff of three. If anything, we should be seeking smaller quarters...and I’m the boss.”

He huffed a sigh. “Our ‘staff of three’ includes Bea, who’s just a glorified goddamn receptionist!...No offense, Bea.”

Bea, up at her reception desk, a sexy sentry in a V-neck blue-and-white polka-dot dress, glanced back at us with a blank expression that spoke volumes. “None taken.”

About twenty-six, Asian, and as cute as a box of kittens, Bea Vang had formerly been on the Chicago PD, four years, and was now a licensed private investigator herself.

Dan gave Bea a strained smile, then returned his gaze to me, frowning. “When you took over after Mike’s murder? No P.I. in this town ever got better media than you did. No P.I. anywhere ever did. And the agency got a boost.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “Great career move on my husband’s part.”

“All I’m saying is, we need to step up our staff. We haven’t even replaced Roger yet.”

“Haven’t needed to.”

“No, because we haven’t done what Mike intended, maximize what we’re up to. But all you wanna take on are lost causes and unsolved murder cases.”

I shrugged. “Media loves it.”

“Well, I don’t. Particularly since we aren’t taking advantage of any of this good publicity. We need paying cases, Ms. Tree, and more of ‘em. Domestics are the bread and butter of any—”

I shook my head. “No divorce work. It’s undignified.”

“So is standing in the government cheese line!... You know how we ought to fill Roger Freemont’s old office?”

“No. How.”

“With Roger Freemont. You need to call him.”

“That prick?” I started walking again. “Not in this lifetime.”

He tagged along. “He was Mike’s partner, too.”

“The bastard quit. When we needed him most.”

Dan’s hand found my arm—not roughly, but enough to stop me. I gave him a look, which should have withered him, but didn’t.

“Kiss and make up with him, boss.” He let go of my arm but his eyes held onto mine. “We can use Roger—he has smarts and contacts and can generate business.”

I drew in a breath. I let it out.