“I want to get everyone together over at my place this evening if we can.” I continued, “We really need to talk about what’s happened, and the more information we can get, the quicker the cops can catch whoever killed Ariel.”
“But…” R.J. started.
“I know, R.J.,” I interrupted. “I know you think that Devon did it, and what he’s getting himself into is some sick shit, I agree. But, right now there’s no proof it was him. Believe me, they plan to pick him up and question him.” He settled back in the seat as I talked. “We have to help the police, man. Not fight against them. Okay?”
“Okay,” he nodded after a short silence and then hung his chin down to his chest.
“We’re on,” I told Ben as I stood up.
My friend nodded and stepped to the driver’s door of the squad car. He opened it and reached in to the controls near the dash. He punched a button and the light bar atop the roof blinked to life. The pre-arranged signal quickly caught the eye of the officer belonging to the vehicle, and he was soon making his way back toward us from the coffee shop across the street.
After signaling the patrolman, Ben got in the back seat momentarily and unlocked the handcuffs that were restraining R.J.
“I’m gonna have the officer drop ya’ off at your car,” he told him. “You’ve got a real friend in Rowan here, so don’t fuck it up and pull any shit this time.”
R.J. nodded quietly and rubbed his wrists where the restraints had bit into his skin.
“Here.” I held out a business card to him. “This is Detective Storm’s card. My number and address are on the back. Tell them we’ll have sandwiches and the like so they can eat there. Say we set everything up for about seven tonight? Sound good?”
“Okay,” he nodded.
“Stay grounded.” I smiled at him. “We’ll work this out.”
Ben returned the handcuffs to the patrolman and instructed him to return R.J. to his vehicle. We both thanked him for his time and watched them pull away before making the short trek across the parking lot to the van. It was coming up on noon, and I was starting to fade. Exhaustion, not only from the lack of sleep but from the mental trauma of channeling Ariel’s murder, was taking its toll.
“You really think the kid’s gonna show?” Ben asked me, looking quickly each way then nosing the van out into the traffic.
“Yeah.” I slumped in my seat. “He’ll show. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” he told me as we entered the flow and came to a halt at a signal that had just winked to crimson. “Ya’know, Rowan,” he said after a pause, still looking straight ahead. “If I didn’t know ya’ better, I’d have ta’ consider ya’ a suspect.”
“Because of everything I told you this morning at Ariel’s apartment,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Ya’know I’m gonna have ta’ check out your alibi with your dad.”
“I figured you would. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He looked quietly out his side window and then turned his eyes back to the front. It was apparent that he was wrestling with something other than my whereabouts Wednesday night. “Ya’know, I’m still kinda weirded out about this stuff,” he finally admitted.
“I know.”
He looked over at me. “For your own sake, keep this between us.”
“I will,” I told him.
The dull background noise of the city was sharpened momentarily as a horn blared to our rear, angrily alerting us to the fact that the traffic light had changed. Ben pushed the van into motion, and we rolled on through the intersection and down the street in the general direction of my suburb.
“Mind if I use this?” I asked, picking up his cell phone.
“Go ahead. Gotta call the little woman?”
“Yeah,” I replied, punching in my number. “She should be home by now.”
After a pair of trilling rings, the phone was answered by my wife’s tranquil voice. The evenly spaced, rattling noises in the background told me she was in the darkroom, probably processing the film she had shot on her outing. We exchanged greetings, and then I relayed a sketchy outline of the morning’s events before filling her in on the plans for the evening. I had gingerly talked around the incident involving the table lamp and my forehead but knew that I had better warn her before she saw me. I had to pull the phone away from my ear quickly to protect my hearing as soon as I uttered the words x-ray and stitches. A moment or two later, I held out the handset to Ben.
“She wants to talk to you,” I told him.
CHAPTER 4
Fortunately, Ben knew Felicity well, and as a cop, had dealt with distraught individuals a number of times before. He allowed her to decompress and simply listened as she vented her feelings regarding the circumstances of my injury. Just as fortuitous was the fact that Felicity was not one to hold a grudge and worked through her anger very quickly. By the time we pulled into the driveway of my Briarwood home, they had both apologized to one another, and the entire incident had somehow become my fault for having my face in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ben dropped me off and headed, I assumed, to his own home in order to spend what little time he could with his family. He planned to return for the meeting somewhat earlier than the rest and had told me he was still trying to figure out how to make it up to his wife and son. Something told me he would be taking time out to visit my father along the way. After a quick wave, I ambled up the stairs to my front porch and was greeted by Emily, our calico cat, who leapt lithely down from the window ledge and began weaving herself about my legs, purring madly.
“Yes, I missed you too,” I told her as I stooped to pick her up.
Emily continued her throaty trill as I allowed her to drape herself across my shoulder, then lifted the lid on the mailbox and retrieved the contents. There was the usual mix of bills and junk mail, as well as a yellow pickup slip for a package that had needed a signature-most likely one of my client’s software in need of modification or repair. Felicity had probably been in the darkroom ever since returning from her photo expedition and had missed the postal carrier. I resigned myself to picking it up at the branch office on Monday since it was already after noon. Besides, my evening was already booked, so working was out of the question anyway.
I twisted my key in the deadbolt lock of the heavy, oak front door and pushed it open, following it inside then closing it behind me. I lifted the rumbling ball of fur from my shoulder and gently placed her on the arm of the couch then tossed the mail in the small wicker basket Felicity kept by the door for just such a purpose. Fatigue washed over me, and the sofa was all but screaming my name. I sat down and within moments became horizontal on the soft cushions. Emily remained perched on the arm, near motionless, her ears at full attention, as if she were a small furry gargoyle watching over me. Scarcely had I reclined that I heard my wife’s footsteps as she came up from the basement and into the living room.
“I thought I heard you up here,” she said softly, seating herself on the edge of the sofa next to me.
I looked up to see her lightly freckled face, framed by her auburn hair wrapped loosely in a Gibson Girl about her head. It never ceased to amaze me how this woman I had married could easily slide from hippie activist to china doll in the blink of an eye. Her bright green eyes stared back with concern as she reached out and lightly touched my forehead near the stitches.
“How are you feeling?”
“Physically or spiritually?” I asked, weakly smiling back at her.
“Both.”
“Physically,” I told her, “like I’ve been hit by a truck. Spiritually…drained, but still grounded.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do these things to yourself,” she gently admonished, lightly placing her hand over the wound on my head. “A person can only take so much.”
“I’ve got to be honest with you.” I relaxed, feeling the healing energy she was directing through her hand. “I
