Except I didn’t feel like I did good. I felt like I’d just gotten my ass kicked.
“You want to be there? Tomorrow?”
“For the lie detector?”
“Sure. It’ll keep him off guard.”
I wanted to say no. I didn’t want to be there. Fuller unearthed feelings I thought I’d buried.
Feelings of fear.
In crisis situations, cops need to have a certain amount of fear. It precedes adrenaline, which makes reactions faster. When I shot Fuller, months ago, I’d been afraid. But the fear worked for me then, heightening senses, forcing me to act automatically, as I’d been trained to do.
Now – the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, the runaway imagination – did me no good at all, other than add to my pile of neuroses.
“Jack? You still there?”
“I just came back to work, Libby. I’m not sure what’s going on tomorrow.”
“The polygraph is at nine A.M., back at Division Eleven. I’ll talk to Bains to clear some time for you.”
“Thanks,” I managed. “See you tomorrow, then.”
Herb stopped at a light, squinted at me.
“Jack? You look sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“You let him get to you. Fuller.”
I tried to smile. “Not a chance. I’m just tired, Herb. Nothing more.”
The light turned green, but Benedict didn’t go.
“I know you, Jack. You’re not yourself.”
Rather than answer, I played the role-reversal card.
“Me? You seem to be having the granddaddy of midlife crises, and refuse to speak a peep.”
Someone behind us honked their horn.
“I’m not having a midlife crisis.”
“Male menopause, then.”
“That’s not the case. Bernice and I are just heading in different directions.”
“Different directions? Herb, you’ve been married for twenty years.”
Herb turned away, facing the road.
“Maybe twenty years is too long.”
Another honk. Herb hit the gas, squealing tires.
I closed my eyes and thought about yesterday, when my only concerns were what kind of pizza to order, when I’d be ready to make love again, and if I was becoming addicted to Ambien. My troubles seemed to have quadrupled overnight. And for the cherry on top, I got to deal with the very real possibility that a psycho would soon be out on the street, killing everyone I knew.
Herb and I didn’t talk the rest of the drive back to the station. I went to my office, stared at the huge mound of paperwork that had grown on my desk during my absence, and then moved it aside to fill out my report.
After an hour of hunt and peck, I dropped off the report, and the recording, with Bains. Then I thought about getting started on my backlog, couldn’t bring myself to do it, and called it a day.
Back at my apartment building, I was annoyed to hear piano music filling the hallway on my floor. Jazz, and someone playing it much too loudly. My mood was just foul enough to start banging on doors and flashing my badge, but when I discovered the source of the noise, I knew my badge wouldn’t do much good.
“Mom?”
When I opened my door, the music hit me like a wind. I never liked jazz – I preferred my music to have structure and balance. I also never liked piano, having been forced into two years of lessons by a mother who thought it built character.
The living room offered more unpleasant surprises. My couch faced a different direction than it had this morning. It now also had three pink throw pillows on it, which matched the new pink curtains on my windows.
I liked pink about as much as jazz piano.
I hit the Off button on the stereo.
“Mom?”
“In the bedroom, dear.”
I took a deep breath, blew it out, and walked into my bedroom. My mother was hanging a painting on my wall – one of those framed prints available at department stores for under twenty bucks. The subject was a tabby cat, with a pink bow on its collar, wrestling with a ball of yarn.
“Hello, Jacqueline. What happened to Midori?”
“Midori?”
“Midori Kawamura. The CD that was playing.”
“It was too loud. The neighbors were complaining.”
“Philistines. She’s one of the greatest jazz pianists on the planet.”
“I don’t like jazz pianists.”
“Perhaps you suffer from pianist envy.”
I was too annoyed to smile at that.
“Mom, why is my sofa turned around?”
“You had it facing the wall. Now it’s facing the windows. Do you like the pillows?”
“I don’t like pink.”
“You never liked anything girlish. When you were six, all of your friends played with dolls, and I had to buy you toy soldiers. What do you think of your new picture?”
She motioned, with both hands, at the cat with the yarn.
“Adorable,” I deadpanned.
“Reminded me so much of your cat, I had to buy it. Frisky? Where are you?”
Mr. Friskers bounded into the room, onto the bed, and into my mother’s arms.
“Frisky?” I asked.
“Look at him, isn’t he a ringer for the cat in the picture?”
She held Mr. Friskers up, and he did, indeed, resemble his framed counterpart – right down to the pink bow my mother had tied around his neck.
“A dead ringer, Mom. Can you take off the bow? You’re emasculating him.”
“Nonsense. Frisky loves pink, unlike some people. Right, Frisky?”
She stroked his chin, and the damn cat purred at her. I sat on the bed, which my mom had made – much better than I ever had. Not so much as a wrinkle anywhere.
“How’d you do all of this?”
“Alan took me out, the dear man. He’ll be back soon with the plant.”
“Plant?”
“I asked him to pick up a floor plant. This place is so sterile and lifeless. You need a plant.”
Resistance was futile, so I kicked off my shoes and shrugged out of my clothing.
“Jacqueline? You’re not mad, are you?”
“No, Mom. I just had a tough day.”
She set the cat down and put her hand on my head, stroking my hair.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Maybe later. I need a shower.”
My mom smiled, nodded. Then she limped out of the bedroom.
A minute later, the jazz came back on.
I slammed the door to the bathroom and set the shower dial to poach. Ten minutes under the needle spray went a long way toward washing the Fuller meeting off of me. I shaved, deep- conditioned my hair, and used the shower mirror to do some serious eyebrow plucking.
I was wrapped in a towel, moisturizing, when the bathroom door opened.
“Jacqueline? There’s a strange man at the door.”
A jolt of panic gripped me, then let go when I realized it couldn’t be Fuller.
“Does he have red hair?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Latham, Mom. My boyfriend. Didn’t he use his key?”
“He tried to. I had the chain on.”
“Can you let him in and tell him I’ll be right there?”
Mom gave me a small frown, but nodded. I slipped on my bathrobe and wound the towel around my wet hair, turban-style.
Latham and Mom stood in the kitchen, Latham in his work clothes – gray pants, red tie, gray jacket. Mom stared at him like he was something she’d stepped in.
“Hi, Jack. I thought I’d stop by, take you out for a bite.”
My mother smiled politely. “We have plans already.”
I shot my mom with laser eyes, but she pretended not to notice.
“We weren’t planning anything special, Latham.” I smiled smoothly. “We’d love to have you join us. Right, Mom?”
Mom managed to fake an enthusiastic smile. “Absolutely. It would be just lovely, Nathan.”
