“Besides,” I added, “she touches him, I’ll punch her perkies inside out.”
She laughed. “That’s more like it!”
We passed some time posing theories on Cecilia’s motives. I kept glancing at the clock. Rachel tried hard to keep me distracted.
At 10:25 the dogs suddenly clambered to their feet, tails wagging, and scrambled toward the front door.
“He’s home!” I shouted, exactly like a little kid, feeling just that excited and twice as relieved. I hurried down the hall and threw open the door.
The man who stood there was a fearsome sight. Tall, clad in black leather, scar faced. His head was shaved and he wore an earring. His tattooed arm was raised in a fist, but only because I had pulled the door open before he could knock, and the look on his face was astonishment, not aggression.
“Oh, it’s you, Jack,” I said to my next-door neighbor.
The dogs, who consider Jack Fremont their alternate owner, were rubbing up against him, rolling on the ground, panting in delight.
“Well, at least the dogs are happy to see me,” he said, reaching to pet them. “As far as you’re concerned, though, I’m clearly a big disappointment.”
“Sorry, Jack. No, of course not. I — come on in.”
He was puzzled but followed me back to where Rachel waited.
“Hi,” he greeted her. “Pete and Frank out on a case tonight?”
I briefly explained the situation.
“Maybe he’s still steamed after that fight you two had this morning,” he offered.
“Damn it to hell, does everyone in the city know about that?”
“Possibly,” he replied. “After all, you were shouting at each other in the driveway.”
I turned red. “Sorry if we awakened you,” I muttered.
It was the last thing I said for a while. They discussed a variety of subjects. Jack spent a lot of years as a rover, Rachel as a cop; between the two of them there was no shortage of stories. I think Rachel was relieved to share the burden of distracting me, but that part of it was pretty much a sham all the way around. I could think only in sets of a few words at a time, and I didn’t say them aloud: Please be safe. Please come home. Please call. Please don’t be hurt.
This rapidly turned into praying. Sort of. I worried that maybe that was a sham, too. Every time I pray, I end up telling myself that I have no business praying, especially not if I am going to swear and doubt and misbehave in as many ways as I do. This has become a routine between me and the Almighty, like letters that say, “I think of you more often than I write.” I’m sure I will hear about it later.
Rachel and Jack kept exchanging glances and trying to get me to do more than mumble and look between the clock and the front door. At one point Jack came over and sat beside me. Although we hadn’t known each other very long, he had helped me deal with more than one crisis, and he was also one of Frank’s closest friends. I thought about this, and the fact that I wasn’t the only person in that room who was worried, and found myself joining their conversation again.
At eleven-thirty the phone rang. Rachel was still sitting next to it and answered it on the first ring.
“Yeah, Pete. It’s me,” she said, watching me stand up.
She turned away from me. That’s when I knew the news would be bad.
2
“JUST TELL ME,” I said when I saw she was searching for some way to carefully phrase news that had obviously shaken her.
I hadn’t interrupted while she’d sat hunched over the phone, resting her forehead in her hand, talking to Pete. Not even when she’d quickly switched to Italian. I’d stood there, arms folded to prevent myself from grabbing the phone, hands clenching my elbows so hard that it hurt, even as she’d scribbled notes on a scratch pad, asking Pete to slow down, repeat things.
Now I wanted to know what was going on, no matter how difficult it was for her to tell me.
Jack stood up beside me. “Is he okay, Rachel?”
“Nobody really knows.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I snapped.
Jack took my hand.
“Sit down, Irene,” Rachel said in a strained voice. “I’ll tell you everything Pete told me.”
I sat, and Jack sat down beside me, still not letting go of my hand.
“Riverside sent a patrol car out to the junkie’s place,” she began. “Two officers — a rookie and his TO — his training officer. Frank’s car was nowhere in sight, but they knew this was where he was headed. So they went up to the house. Some shack of a place the junkie was renting — kind of isolated, I guess. Only one light on in the whole house. They knock on the front door, and it just swings open. The junkie is in there, shot to death.”
“No….”
“Frank wasn’t in there,” she went on quickly. “Just the junkie. They saw signs of a struggle. The rookie got on the radio, the TO looked around. No sign of Frank.”
“Frank is missing?” I asked, knowing that was exactly what I had just heard but hoping that someone would tell me I had heard wrong.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
