how halfway home the boy had decided he felt a little better and wanted to go back to the streets. He and Jack had had some conversation, and the boy had decided to stick to his original plan.
“What did you say to him to persuade him?” I asked.
“I just told him I’d carry him home, kicking and screaming if necessary. When he told me I wasn’t capable of that, I pinched a nerve in his neck for a minute.”
“I bet that shut him up.”
“That, and me telling him I’d found and shipped plenty of runaways-just like him-home in coffins. And they never came back from
“You’ve seen a lot of runaways.”
“Yeah. Starting back when I was a cop, I’ve seen way too many. The ones like him, the ones that started selling their butts, didn’t last three years. Sickness, or a client, or self-disgust, or drugs… mostly drugs.”
Every time Jack tracked a runaway, he went through a spell of depression; because the fact was, the kid often ran off again. Whatever grievance had led a child to leave home was seldom erased by life on the streets. Sometimes the grievance was legitimate; abuse, mental or physical. Sometimes it was based on teen angst; parents who “just didn’t understand.”
Catching a runaway often led to repeat business, but it wasn’t business Jack relished. He’d rather detect a thieving employee or catch someone cheating on a disability claim any day.
“Did you get a chance to call anyone about the new detective here?” I asked, as Jack slid into bed.
“Not yet. Tomorrow,” he said, half asleep already. His lips moved against my cheek in a sketchy kiss. “Everything tomorrow,” he promised, and before I switched off the lamp by the bed, he was out.
The next morning when I returned from cleaning Carrie’s office, Jack was in the shower. He’d already worked out, I saw from the pile of clothes on the floor. Jack didn’t believe in picking up as he went, a tenet that my mother had instilled in me when I was knee-high. I took a deep breath and left his clothes where he’d dropped them.
When he came out of the steamy little bathroom fifteen minutes later, vigorously toweling his hair, I was working on a grocery list at the kitchen table. He was well worth the wait. I sighed when Jack pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and began to brush through his long hair.
“When I got up, I called this woman I know on the force in Memphis, and she knew someone on the job in Cleveland,” Jack said.
“And?” I said impatiently, as he paused to work through a tangle.
“According to this detective in Ohio, Alicia Stokes was a rising star in the office. Her clearance rate was spectacular, she handled community appearances well, and she was on the fast track for promotion. Then she got involved in a case she couldn’t solve and it all kind of fell apart.” Jack frowned at the amount of hair that came off in his brush.
“What was the case?”
“One she wasn’t even the primary on,” Jack muttered, still preoccupied by his hair loss. “That is, she wasn’t the detective in charge. She did some of the related interviews, that’s all. No one knows what set her off the deep end about this case. Which,” he added, seeing the exasperation on my face, “involved a woman who was being stalked.”
I felt a deep twinge of apprehension. “Okay. What exactly happened?”
“I heard this secondhand, remember, and I don’t know how well my friend’s source actually knew Detective Stokes.”
I nodded, so he’d know I’d registered the disclaimer.
“In Cleveland, this woman was getting threatening letters. Stuff was being nailed to her door, her house got broken into, she got phone calls, her purse got stolen three times, her car was vandalized… everything happened to this poor gal. Some of it was just annoying, but some of it was more serious, and all of it was scary when you added it up.”
“What about the police?”
“They were onto it right away. But they couldn’t catch anyone. This guy, who was like Stokes’s mentor, was the primary, and he pulled her in to do some of the questioning of neighbors-had they seen someone they didn’t know hanging around the neighborhood? Which of the neighbors had been home when the incidents happened? You know the kind of thing.”
“So she got wrapped up in it, I gather?”
“More so than was healthy. She began to spend her off time watching the house, trying like hell to catch the guy. She was so furious about what was happening to this woman…”
“I can understand why.” How would it feel to think that someone was watching your every move? Someone was waiting for you to be alone, your fear his only goal.
And that someone was able to get away with it. The police couldn’t stop him; the officers who had sworn to protect you couldn’t do their job. Despite everything, he would get you eventually.
Shaking my head, I leaned forward to rub my aching back. “So she got as obsessed about finding the stalker as the stalker was about his victim?”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it.”
“So, what happened?”
“She was warned off three times. The department gave her a lot of slack, because she was a good detective, she was a woman, and she was a minority. They didn’t want to have to fire her. After a while, when she seemed to be watching the victim as much as the stalker was, they gave her a long leave of absence so she could get her head on straight.” Jack looked disapproving; no one had suggested he be extended the chance of a leave of absence when he’d misbehaved. They’d wanted him gone. If he hadn’t resigned, he would’ve been fired.
“So, no matter what Alicia Stokes told Claude, she’s really still an employee of the Cleveland Police Department.”
“Yes,” said Jack, looking surprised. “I guess she is. Surely Claude called up there when she applied for a job here; that’s one of the first steps, checking references. You call and get the official story. Then you use the network of cops you know to get the real story, like I did this morning. So Claude must know about her problems.”
But I wondered if Claude, chronically understaffed, had taken the extra time.
I shook my head free of problems that really didn’t concern me and returned to work on my grocery list. It was taking me an awfully long time to finish my task. I couldn’t seem to concentrate. Truthfully, I was feeling less than wonderful. When Jack showed signs of wanting to make up for his inattention the night before, I had to wave him off. It was the first time for that, and when he looked surprised I felt obliged to tell him I was about to have my monthly time, and that somehow it felt worse than usual. Jack was quite willing to leave our discussion at that; I think he feels it’s unmanly to ask questions about my femaleness.
After thirty more minutes, my list was complete and I’d figured out the weekly menu. Also, I was in pain. Jack agreed to go to the store for us, and when I saw the worry on his face, I was embarrassed. I was seldom ill, and I hated it; hated going to the doctor, spending the money on prescriptions, not being my usual self.
After Jack left-after many admonitions and a lot of scolding-I thought I might lie down, as he’d suggested. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d lain down during the day, but I was feeling very strange. I went back to our room and sat down very carefully on the edge of the bed. I swung my legs up and lay on my side. I couldn’t get comfortable. I had a terrible backache. The weird thing was, it was rhythmical. I would feel a terrible tense clenching feeling, then it would back off. I’d have a few minutes of feeling better, then it would start again.
By the time I heard Jack unloading groceries in the kitchen, I was sweating and scared. I was lying with my back to the bedroom door, and I thought of turning over to face him, but it seemed like a lot of trouble to move. His footsteps stopped in the door.
“Lily, you’re bleeding,” he said. “Did you know?” There was lot of panic behind the calm words.
“No,” I said, in the grip of one of those pulses of pain. “Gosh, and I put a pad on, just in case. I’ve never had this much trouble.” I was feeling too miserable to be embarrassed.
“Surely this isn’t just your period?” he asked. He went around to the side of the bed I was facing and crouched down to look at me.
“I don’t think so,” I said, bewildered. “I’m so sorry. I’m just never sick.”
He glared at me. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You’re white as a sheet. Listen, Lily, I know you’re the woman and I’m the guy, but are these pains you’re having… have you by any chance been timing them?”
