After five steady hours of concentrating on rewrites for my persnickety editors, I needed a break. Malone had fed me breakfast in bed, but that had been eons ago. All I'd had since then was a mug of Earl Grey tea. I left the apartment in search of something substantial and nutritious.
There's a little bakery down the block from my place, where they take huge chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and surround them with a heaping scoop of French vanilla ice cream. Then add gobs of hot fudge and more chocolate chips. So sinful. They even let you sit in the back, away from the store window, and devour it. I hadn't indulged in one in months.
I washed it all down with a cup of coffee and waited for my system to explode from the sugar shock. Surrounded by the aromas of bread baking and cinnamon rolls, I probably gained five pounds by osmosis. I wondered how long I could continue to eat like this before my figure went to hell. I’m not scrawny like a fashion model, but I am slender. I like the shape I’m in. And apparently, so does Malone. One of these days, I’ll get back to my yoga classes.
After the feast I went for a long walk, bundled inside my down coat. Yesterday's heat wave had been Mother Nature’s cruel trick. Today was typical November weather, cold and blustery with a snappy wind. Even in the frigid air, it felt good to stretch my legs and let my mind wander. I walked about two miles, circling back toward my apartment. As I approached my building, two people came out of the entrance and trotted over to the parking lot. I froze.
One of those two was Herman Kleinschmidt. Even if I hadn't been close enough to see his face, there was no mistaking his bulk. The right sleeve of his jacket flapped loosely at his side. His arm was still in the sling. The other person was nondescript, smaller than Smitty, wearing a nylon parka with a hood.
Don't ask me why I didn't hurry after them instead of stepping back behind an oak tree. Maybe it was something about the way they moved, or the way Smitty kept looking back over his shoulder. Either way, it made me uncomfortable. I waited until I saw them drive away together before I went inside.
My apartment building isn't fancy. It's part of a complex where six rental units make up each three-story structure. I've got the east side of the top floor, with a nice view of the park. I'm the only person who works at home. Chances were nil that Smitty was visiting one of my neighbors.
I'd been gone over an hour. Since I hadn't taken my car, I hadn't taken my keys, which meant I hadn't locked my door either. My heart was thumping erratically as I reached for the doorknob. The door swung open at my touch and I remained in the hall, afraid to go inside. Where the hell was Ace Richmond, Private Eye when I needed her?
When no one jumped out from behind the towering pile of magazines in the corner, I took a cautious step inside. Everything looked the same as when I left. The handmade quilt from my cousin Linda remained draped sloppily off the bentwood rocker. Someone could have been hiding inside the Jewish Aunt, but it would take them ten minutes to struggle free of the cushions. Okay, so I’m not Holly Homemaker.
I went down the hall to my bedroom. The blankets and sheets were in the same twisted clump I'd left them in after attacking Malone's naked body over the dirty breakfast dishes. My clothes from the New York trip still protruded from the closet door.
"Anybody here?" I whispered foolishly. I don’t know what I would have done if someone had answered.
That left the bath and the spare bedroom. It's not really a bedroom, since there's no bed in there. I use it as my office. A desk, two file cabinets, a bookcase and some plants make up the majority of the furnishings. My computer dominates the room, with cables running everywhere. Printer, monitor and keyboard are perched precariously on various parts of the desk.
If I hadn't already been nervous, I certainly was now. My computer was on. Not just the hard drive or the monitor, but the entire system, even the printer. I never leave the system on. Call it being economical or superstitious or environmentally concerned, I don’t care. I never leave the system on, because I never know how long I'll be gone. And I hadn't been using the printer. There’s an independent switch for it, used only when needed.
"You bastard!" I slammed my hand on the desk. Too late now, I ran to the front door and latched the bolt. Then I grabbed the phone and started to call Malone. I got through six numbers before hesitation settled in. Nothing was moved. Nothing was stolen. What exactly did I expect Malone to do? Swoop over to protect me?
I went back to the computer and began checking the data. Every file I could remember was still there. I'd been working on the revisions earlier and all of my changes were intact. Nothing had been disturbed. What could he have been doing? I keyed in the directory and scrolled through a list of all my files. At first I didn’t notice anything wrong.
I sat back and closed my eyes, concentrating. Like most writers, I use code names for the files in my computer. Since there's no master list that will reveal to anyone what each file actually contains, the only way to discover the contents to any particular file is to call it up on the screen. For the project I was considering about the state trooper, I had named the file Licorice. There's no connection between that and the story, it's just what popped into my head. Beside the file name is the size of the file in bytes, and the last dated entry. My system automatically creates a backup whenever a file is changed, sort of a fail-safe system. I hadn’t been in the Licorice file recently. My first and only entry had been on Monday, before my trip to New York City.
But the directory showed activity today. The main file showed a slightly different number than the backup file. I swallowed hard and punched in Licorice.
Four pages of notes lit up the screen. There was my own unique style of speed typing for rough drafts. No care with regards to spelling or punctuation, just rambled lines of words with an occasional break for a new paragraph or thought. My notes ended in the middle of the fourth page. There was a gap of five or six lines then this message appeared.
LEAVE IT ALONE BITCH! IT'S NOT WORTH DYING OVER.
* * * *
Malone's tapping at the door roused me from the couch. He looked surprised when I opened the locks and let him in.
"When did you become security conscious?" he asked as he hugged me.
"Since about seven-thirty." I felt so much better with him here.
Malone held me at arm's length. The concerned look on his face made me feel even safer. What better protection could a girl have than her very own police sergeant?
"What's going on, Jay?"
"I'll show you. It's easier."
Malone looked over my shoulder as I keyed in the file name. I jumped to the end of the fourth page and leaned back so he could read it.
"What's this mean?"
"I didn't type it. Kleinschmidt did." He was no longer Smitty, the friendly trooper. He'd invaded my home. He’d played with my computer. I felt violated. I described to Malone about seeing him and someone else leave my building as I returned from my walk, and how I'd searched the place when I got inside. Malone turned off the computer and led me back out to the living room. We sat and let the Jewish Aunt push us together.
"Why would Kleinschmidt break into your apartment?" Malone asked.
"I don't know, Oscar. Maybe we should go ask him."
He gave me a brief smile, very low voltage. "He'd probably deny coming here. It would be your word against his."
"What about fingerprints?"
He shrugged. "Chances are, if he did leave any, you probably obliterated them when you went through the place."
I felt like a schmuck. "I should have thought of that."
"Forget it. Kleinschmidt would have worn gloves anyway."
"Why is he so upset about my story? I haven't even written anything yet, just a bunch of notes from the night we were on patrol." I snuggled closer to Malone, feeling his warmth through his sweater. "It's all in rough form, just observations. There's nothing worth getting angry about."
"Maybe you should forget it, Jay. It could have been Kleinschmidt's idea of a joke."
"Not funny, Oscar," I said into his chest.
"I didn't say it was."
Malone probably didn’t enjoy Friday night very much. All I did was cling to him. I wasn’t interested in sex, movies or anything else. I just wanted to hold him and have him hold me. Even when we woke up in the morning, I was still hanging onto him.
“Morning, Oscar.”
“Not even in the right part of the alphabet. How you doing?” He was slowly sliding his fingers through my hair, letting my locks pass gradually between them.
“Better. Sorry I was such a sissy last night.”
“Forget it. We can’t behave like wild animals every night we’re together. It was a nice change just to cuddle.”
I peeked to see if he was serious. He was. “How did you ever get away from all the women in this town with an attitude like that?”
“Usually I have to beat them off with my nightstick,” he said with a grin.
“Sounds too kinky for me. I thought cops were supposed to be macho men, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Only when we’re in uniform. We must follow the union’s behavior rules. Cuddling is a violation of the by-laws.”
“What’s up today?”
“The usual grind. Work at three. My schedule’s fairly open until then. Got any ideas how I should occupy my time?” He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him.
I pushed him away and slid out of bed. “Yeah. Let’s go visit Kleinschmidt.”
Cold rain was falling heavily, accompanied by gusting winds. The roads were slick and nasty. Already the forecast was calling for ice and mixtures of snow for the evening. I didn't envy Malone or the guys on his shift who would be out on the streets.
There was no answer at the apartment when we rang the bell. None of the neighbors were home either. Malone thumbed the button for the apartment manager and finally got a response. We went inside. The manager’s rooms were on the first floor, at the back of the building. A scrawny man in baggy work pants and a worn sweatshirt poked his head out into the hallway as we came through the security door.
“No vacancies! The waiting list’s been full three months now.” His voice was high pitched and nasal, as if he’d been cheated out of puberty. I wondered when the last time he’d stepped out of that apartment and engaged in a real conversation. Probably back when Roosevelt was in office. Teddy Roosevelt.
Malone dug out his badge and introduced himself. The manager’s demeanor changed slightly.
“Whatcha want?”
“I’m looking for one of my guys, Herman Kleinschmidt, from apartment 502. Seen him around lately?”
“Nah, I don’t bothers people and they don’t bothers me. But I did see his girl, early yesterday.”
Malone looked at me.
“Melissa Hatcher?” I offered.
“Yeah, that’s her. She said they was gonna be gone for a week or so, going off camping. Seems kinda late in the year for that, if you asks me,” the manager said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. A class act.
Malone stepped a little closer to him. “When was this?”
The manager pulled back and used the door as a shield, impeding Malone’s progress. “’Bout three. Said they was leaving right away. That’s all I know.”
Malone nodded and stepped back. “Thanks.” The door swung shut before he could say anything else. We both heard the bolt slide into place on the other side.
“Now what?” Malone asked.
“C’mon, Oscar. I’ll spring for lunch.”
He slid an arm around my waist and hugged me. “There’s nothing quite as refreshing as a liberated woman.”
My taste buds were screaming for bagels and lox, or hot pastrami with crunchy dill pickles, so I took Malone to my favorite delicatessen. He eyed me suspiciously when we parked the car, but I refused to let him drive somewhere else.
“I’ve seen trucks bigger than this place,” Malone grumbled.
“No derogatory remarks until you’ve tasted the food. By keeping the exterior grungy, it keeps the prices down.”
“Great. You save money. I get food poisoning from Gertie’s discount house of botulism.”
I elbowed his ribs and marched inside. A heavyset woman with sparse white hair was behind the counter, beefy hands deftly wrapping a sandwich in thick waxed paper.
“Jamie! How come you stay away so long?”
“Hey, Toots. Meet Malone.”
She stepped out and gave me a fierce hug and pumped Malone’s hand vigorously. “Always glad to see friends of Jamie’s. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starved.” I noticed Malone massaging his hand, trying to restore the circulation. “What’s fresh?”
“Everything!”
I caught Malone’s eye. “Do you trust me?”
“Mostly.” There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. The rat was using my own expression against me.
“Be that way.”
He shrugged and moved down the counter to one of the high backed wooden stools. Toots wiped her hands on a fresh towel and beamed at me expectantly.
“Pastramis on rye with Swiss cheese and hot mustard, a couple of old dills and two Cokes.”
Toots shook her head. “The pastrami’s gone. No more until Monday.”
My mind whirled as my stomach groaned in disappointment. “Onion bagels with cream cheese and lox, capers and tomatoes on the side, coffee, black.”
Another shake of the thin white hair. “No lox.”
“You said everything was fresh!”
Toots grinned, revealing her mail order dentures. “Fresh out of lox, fresh out of pastrami, fresh out of ham.”
I puffed a breath in desperation. “What do you have?”
“Lean corned beef on onion rolls with Munster. Roast beef with horseradish sauce on French. Smoked turkey with Monterey Jack and Bermuda onions on pumpernickel. Potato salad and new dills.” Toots spread her enormous hands and shrugged in a form of apology. “It’s been quite a week, and a very busy Friday. Who can predict these things?”
I sighed. “Roast beef, twice with Cokes.”
Toots smothered me briefly in another hug and disappeared beyond the counter. I wandered down to join Malone. He was giving the place a critical inspection. There are no tables at Toot’s, only twelve wooden stools beside the old Formica counter. Another counter runs along the window facing the street, but there’s no room for chairs or any more stools. During the week it’s not uncommon to see executives in designer suits standing beside deliverymen at the window while they scarf down Toot’s fare. She decides what goes on each sandwich. Substitutions are forbidden. If you don’t like turning over the controls to your meals, eat somewhere else.
“Where did you find this place?” Malone asked.
“I took a blood oath never to reveal the source.”
He was about to comment when Toots emerged from the kitchen and laid two heavy platters before us. I can barely hold half of one of her sandwiches in both hands, so I knew Malone would not go hungry. He offered Toots a thin smile and she scooted away to take care of someone else.
“What is this?” Malone tentatively prodded his sandwich with a finger.
“It’s food. Shut up and eat.”
He was trying hard not to laugh as he lifted a corner and took a big bite. That was all the encouragement he needed. Between mouthfuls of succulent rare roast beef, we discussed the timely departure of Herman Kleinschmidt.
Just like his landlord said, the idea of camping at this time of year seemed ridiculous to me too. It was cold and damp no matter where you went in the state. Deer-hunting season started in less than a week, though. This was not a fact I knew, but one Malone explained to me. Thousands of people, not just cops, wait all year to take their vacations during hunting season.
"People actually live in tents when they do this?" I asked. The idea didn't appeal to me at all. Being frostbitten and wrapped in layers of nylon or canvas did nothing for my creature comforts. I prefer cotton and satin, flannel jammies and warm cozy beds.
"Some do," Malone said. "Most people use campers or stay in cabins. It depends on how rugged you are, and how rugged you want to be."
“How about you, Oscar? No desire to go traipsing through the woods, trying to kill innocent creatures?”
“No, but you’ve got the wrong idea about hunters. It’s an opportunity to test their skills with their weapons, but they’re also doing a service. The deer population keeps growing and there’s never enough food for them to survive the winter months. By thinning the herd, it gives the others a better chance at survival.”
“Sounds like you’re justifying slaughter,” I teased.
“It’s more humane than letting them all run free and starving to death.” Malone leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Besides, I like venison.”
I polished off the last of the potato salad and tried changing the subject. “I always wondered why people would name their daughters Bambi, after the cartoon character. Bambi was a male deer, the young prince.”
He relaxed. “Next time I meet a Bambi, I’ll ask her. I would be willing to look around. For comparative purposes, I could do a survey. You could consider it research.”
“Forget it. Research is my department. Ever go hunting?”
“A few times. But I never had any luck. Guess I’m too much of a city kid. How about you, Jamie? Any cravings to get away from the city and experience rural life?"
I smiled. "Only if we got a cabin with a big stone fireplace. That's one thing I wish my apartment had. I love to snuggle in front of the fire and watch the flames."
"Sure that's all you want to do by the fireplace?" Malone asked quietly.
"That depends on who I'm with."