Malone stayed with me for the first week. The cast restricted my movements, a form of plaster related bondage. Malone was very inventive in new ways to make our nightly sexual activity enjoyable. I awakened each morning to the warmth of his body wrapped around mine.
Early the second week, Malone poked his head in my office before leaving for work.
"How's it going, Jay?"
"Just hobbling along, Francis." I'd gotten back into the game of giving him a daily first name.
"Think you can get along without me tonight?" He stood in the hallway, reluctant to invade my space.
"Sure. Is anything wrong?"
"Just kind of miss my own place. Thought maybe I'd spend the night at home, if you think you'll be okay. I don't want to give you the wrong impression, Jay."
I stopped typing and looked at him. "And what impression might that be?"
"You know, about us living together. You gave me keys to your place, and I've been here every night since we got back from Boyne. I prefer to take things slow."
"That's the best way with me too, slow and easy. I'll be all right on my own. When will I see you?" Today was Tuesday. I almost dreaded his answer.
"How about Thursday, before my shift?"
Inwardly I sighed. "Okay, but how about Thursday, after your shift too?" It was easy to become greedy when it came to spending time with Malone.
My favorite smile arrived, just enough to touch the corners of his eyes. "Sounds good. Call me if anything comes up in the meantime."
I batted my lashes at him. "That should have been my line, sailor."
He came over and gave me a kiss, soft and gentle on the mouth. "See you Thursday."
"I'll be here."
Confusion overtook my brain for an hour after he left. Part of me was glad to have my own place back again. No more guilty feelings over not sharing the last scoop of Guernsey's peppermint stick ice cream. Or about my lack of culinary talents. I like cream cheese, pickle and hot sauce sandwiches on dark rye, but it’s an acquired taste, definitely not for the faint of heart.
But another part of me was a little sad. Playing house with Malone was enjoyable. It was also comforting to have his warm body sharing my bed. Curling up together against winter’s chill had quickly become one of my all-time favorite pastimes. Something about the way our bodies naturally fit together made the thought of his departure much harder to accept.
Was Malone the guy I'd been looking for? Or was he a convenient stand-in until Mr. Right found me? That was one question I couldn’t honestly answer.
Thursday was light years away.
* * * *
A week later, I went to see my own physician and have my body checked out. Vincent Schulte has been my doctor since I’d gotten out of diapers. I used him as a reference source when I want to kill somebody in a story and make it medically accurate. In many respects, he’s a surrogate father figure. Doc Schulte has always been there to give thoughtful, unemotional advice.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still closer to Bert than any of my mother’s husbands or boyfriends. But Doc Schulte has been around me a lot longer than any one of Vera’s revolving spouses. A widower for over twenty years, he took more than a casual interest in me since my father passed away. He knows more about me than anyone else in the world, my mother included.
Doc Schulte is pushing sixty, but I could never tell from which side. He’s got most of his hair left and a pair of busy gray eyebrows that draw your attention away from his tiny brown eyes. He’s around six feet tall, but stoop-shouldered, probably from too many hours bent over patients. He’s always neatly dressed in a starched white shirt and a bow tie. The ties are his trademark. He must own over a hundred of them. He was clucking his tongue at me over my physical condition.
“Jamie, you shouldn’t be overdoing it. Your body needs rest to recover from the shock. Take some time off work. Keep that foot elevated and cut down on the walking.”
“I haven’t been walking on it, Doc.”
He stopped probing my ribs long enough to look me squarely in the eyes. “You’ve always been a terrible liar. Your cast is badly scraped along the bottom.”
He had me. “So I’ve been walking a little.”
“Bull. You’ve been walking a lot.” His concerned look melted into a grin.
“Gonna spank me for being bad?”
“I leave disciplinary actions to the parents. I know you’re a fast healer, but you should still take it easy. Rest. You’re not in training for a marathon.”
“Okay, so I’ll take it easy,” I said, without much conviction.
Doc raised his eyes from my ankle without lifting his head. He briefly tried for a stern expression then gave up. “Gee, what a surprise, a stubborn redheaded female. That’s very uncommon for this time of year. They usually migrate south for the winter.”
“Way my luck’s been going I’d get stung by a jellyfish if I headed south.”
He prodded me some more while waiting for the x-rays to develop. The ribs were healing nicely and my ankle was almost back to normal. Doc seemed pleased. He persuaded me to discuss some of my current projects and offered a few suggestions for exotic murders.
“You need something more bizarre, something that won’t turn up so easily at the crime scene. Something to make the readers think,” Doc said.
“You make it too bizarre and you won’t keep the reader engaged. Nobody wants a know-it-all coming in at the end of the story, pointing out teeny-little clues that normal people would overlook.”
“Hey, you can still make it interesting. You take a pastry chef who kills off her cheating husband with a poisoned rhubarb pie. Or a chemist who smears a solution made from soggy cigarettes on an embezzling business manager. My personal favorite is oleander. It’s a very pretty flower that’s common in California, but it’s extremely toxic. Or…”
“Geez, Doc. I hope you don’t get this weird with all of your patients. You’ll be scaring business away.
He gave me a leer worthy of Groucho and patted my knee. “That’s what keeps the good patients in line.”
“I’d hate to see what you tell the bad ones.”
* * * *
After Malone stopped spending every night at my apartment, my concentration grew progressively worse. I finished the outline for Shannon and was trying to work on my cop story, but I kept getting distracted. A few stray thoughts couldn’t be ignored anymore, so I switched off the computer and rolled over to my phone. I called the nearest gun shop and asked a few questions about permits and purchases. He suggested I come in to browse and ask my questions in person. I was getting cabin fever anyway.
I stumped my way down to my car and drove over. The weather had turned from cold to frigid, with temperatures hovering around twelve degrees. Petrified gray piles of snow lined every curb, making walking difficult even for the sure-footed, of which I was currently not one. It had taken me two trips around the parking lot to get comfortable driving with my left foot. Good thing the Honda is an automatic. Doc Schulte had given me a temporary handicapped sticker for my car. Knowing I could never sit still for long, at least I had the option of special parking privileges.
The guy I'd been talking to on the phone met me at the front door. He was shorter than me, with the bulky shoulders and arms of a body builder. Thick brown hair cut short and a small gold earring in the left lobe. His name was Tony.
"Are you looking for an automatic or a revolver?" Tony asked casually.
"Don't really know. What's the difference?" I pretended ignorance. He might offer a lot more information if given the chance to show his expertise. Most people love to talk about their work. Tony was no exception.
"Automatics are more popular. Lightweight, good action, capable of a lot more rounds than a revolver. Some hold as many as seventeen."
"What about that revolver?" I pointed at a small one in the glass cabinet.
"Good choice. 38 Smith and Wesson with a two inch barrel, it holds six shots. One thing about revolvers, they never jam. Always got another bullet coming up when you pull the trigger. Up to six anyway." His enthusiasm for his work was evident.
"What's your preference?"
"Beretta 93 R. 9 mm with a fifteen round clip. It’s accurate as hell, and lightweight." Tony tapped the counter beside the one we were looking at A row of automatic pistols gleamed beneath the store's fluorescent lights.
"How do I go about buying one?"
"First you need a permit. You can apply for one here. It varies from city to city. As long as you don't have a criminal record, you should get it back shortly. Some places take as long as a month. Then you choose the gun and we go from there. Ever fired a pistol before?"
"Once. It was a big automatic. I don't remember the name."
Tony drew a revolver and a small automatic from the case and held them up before me. "Want to try them out?"
I looked around the display cases of the crowded showroom. "Here?"
Tony grinned widely, showing a neat row of clear braces on crooked teeth. "We've got a range downstairs. C'mon. Give them a try. You can't make a decision without firing them."
I shrugged. "What the hell."
To my surprise, there was an elevator behind a curtain we took to the basement level. Tony turned as we left the car and entered a locked room beside the elevator. A steel door across the hall was the only other exit. I waited, balancing on my cast. A steady popping noise was faintly audible from the other side of the steel door. He came out with two sets of headphones draped over his arm, and two pair of protective glasses dangling from his hand. Tony also carried two boxes of shells. I gimped along behind him through the steel door.
“Why the elevator?” I asked.
“Some of our regulars are handicapped. Wheelchair bound. This makes our facility more accessible for them. There’s even a league for wheelchair shooters. They meet here twice a month and compete. We give them a discount on ammunition.”
“You guys think of everything.”
Tony grinned again. “Got to cover all the angles. I’d rather have them ripping hell out of a paper target than taking out their frustrations on the street.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
The room was broken up into twelve little alleys, with wooden dividers between the shooters. Paper targets hung at various stages. About half of the stalls were in use. Tony passed me a headset and settled the other one over his ears. Then he led me to an empty stall.
I watched Tony efficiently load the revolver. He snapped the cylinder back into place and spun the chamber. This was more for my benefit than anything else. We put the protective glasses on and he handed me the gun.
"Stand with your feet apart a little more. It will help your balance." He stood behind my shoulder as I leveled the gun at the target. Gently I squeezed the trigger like Malone had shown me and watched the little gun roar to life. The paper target jumped as the bullet passed through.
"Not bad," Tony nodded. "Rock your hand back a little, to bring the barrel up. Not too much."
I did as he instructed and slowly squeezed off the rest of the shots. When the gun was empty, I handed it back to him.
"You're pretty good. Want to try the Beretta?"
I shrugged. “Might as well. Do you have a lot of women buying guns?"
He nodded. "A few buy them for protection, but a lot of them are getting interested in target shooting. We recommend if you're going to buy a gun that you learn how to fire it properly. Also, it's a good idea to practice with the gun often, so it feels comfortable to you. If you are buying the weapon for protection, it shouldn't be something you are afraid of or don't like to handle."
“Guess it’s not just a macho thing anymore.” I took the offered automatic from him and swiveled around toward the target. I noticed Tony hadn't worked a round into the chamber, so I deftly racked the slide as Malone had shown me.
"You've been watching too many movies," Tony said with a grin.
I steadied the gun with both hands and knocked off a few shots at the target. The automatic jumped slightly in my hand but it was easy to make the adjustment. I brought my eyes around to question Tony and he nodded.
"Go for it."
I emptied the gun into the target and handed it back. He knocked the empty clip out of the handle and laid it on the counter before me. Both guns sat there, patiently waiting. They looked harmless, despite what they were capable of doing.
Tony stepped back, and I caught a glimpse of something in the next stall. What I saw caught me so off guard I started to lose my balance. The plaster weight on the bottom of my leg was momentarily forgotten. Tony grabbed my arm as my crutches went out from under me. It was too little, too late. I ended up on my ass. But my eyes never left the next stall.
There was a black arm, leather clad arm holding a small revolver. The hand clutched the gun and fired it steadily, evenly spacing out the shots. A neat row of leather fringe dangled from the arm of the jacket.
"Let me help you up," Tony offered.
"Three weeks in this damn thing, and I'm still tripping over it." I took his hands and was surprised at how easily he lifted me to my feet. All those hours spent pumping iron had served Tony well.
"Decide on a piece?"
"I'll have to give it some thought." My mind was on the arm I'd seen sticking out of the next booth. I accepted my crutches and hobbled around the partition.
I don't know what I expected to see. Maybe the guy who had tried to kill Smitty would be standing there, wearing a ‘I Hate Cops’ tee shirt. What I did see when I turned the corner was enough to give me culture shock.
He stood there in profile, right arm extended like a gunslinger. I took the whole picture in while struggling to regain my composure. He wore jeans and boots. A heavy denim shirt was visible beneath the leather jacket. The jacket was trimmed in fringe along the sleeves and shoulders. He finished the rounds in the revolver and flicked open the cylinder with a nonchalance that only comes from plenty of practice. He tipped the gun up, letting the empty shells tumble to the floor. He turned to face me, bowing slightly, as Tony joined me at the end of the stall.
"Mr. Nakajima. How are you today?"
"Very well. Is something wrong?" The man smiled briefly, his almond shaped eyes darting between the two of us.
I was dumbfounded and could only shake my head. Tony bowed from the waist. "Please, do not let us interrupt your practice. My friend was merely admiring your jacket."
He beamed and inclined his head toward us. "It was a gift. They seem to be very popular here. We don’t see clothing such as this in Japan." Nakajima loaded the revolver and turned back to the range. Tony and I headed for the door.
"The Japanese are some of our best customers. They find a great deal of pleasure in owning guns while they are here. Many of them compete in small tournaments. Nakajima practices several times a week. He’s a hell of a shot. Do you know him?"
I shook my head. "He reminded me of someone else."
Tony trotted ahead of me and swung the steel door wide, giving me a chance to escape the noise of the range. We stopped by the elevator. He returned the headsets and the glasses along with the extra ammunition to the secure room. We rode upstairs in silence.
"What do I owe you for the bullets?" I asked when we were back on opposite sides of the display counters.
He raised a callused hand before I could dig my wallet out of my purse. "It’s on the house, Jamie. If you do decide to buy a gun, I'll throw in a box of shells and a cleaning kit. Then I'll give you a lesson on maintaining it."
"Thanks, Tony. I'll be in touch." I flipped him a wave and hobbled back out to my car. My mind was reeling with information. Never for a moment did I consider the Japanese man to be a suspect in Kleinschmidt's shooting, but the way my heart had jumped just seeing his arm beside the partition was enough to bring the whole night back in vivid Technicolor. I sat in the car, trying to calm down.
And that's when things got even more confusing.
Coming out of the gun shop was a blonde in jeans and a brown suede leather jacket with fringe along the sleeves. Suddenly these jackets were popping up everywhere. I wondered if there was a sale I’d missed. Not likely. She carried a brown paper bag to a Ford Explorer and swung in behind the wheel. As she bounced across the parking lot, she passed within five feet of my car, and I got a good look at her. Melissa Hatcher. I slouched low in the seat and waited until she rounded the corner before stumping back inside.
"That was fast," Tony said with a grin.
"I thought I recognized somebody, a blonde girl, late twenties or so."
Tony nodded. "Melissa. She was picking up some target loads."
"What's that?"
"Rounds we repack for target practice. They're not as expensive as fresh rounds. She dates a cop. I guess they spend a lot of time at the range."
My eyes went to the elevator. "Here?"
"Once in a while. There's an outdoor range for everything from bow and arrow to rifles. I think they shoot there every week."
"So what did she buy? Shotgun shells?"
Tony flipped open a log book beside the register and ran his finger down the page. "Two boxes of .38 caliber and two boxes of 9 mm. Target loads all the way around."
"Do you know if Melissa is any good with a gun?"
He shrugged. "She's been at the range a couple of times when I was there, but usually she just hangs around and watches her boyfriend.” His friendly manner stopped as if someone had put on the brakes suddenly. Maybe he realized he had said too much. “Why all the questions, Jamie?"
"Just curiosity, Tony. I'm always getting ideas for stories. The more details I can gather at the time one hits, the better chances I have for making something out of it." I adjusted my crutches and turned to go.
"Now that you mention it, I do remember her shooting out there once. She was using his revolver. I don't think she was too comfortable with the gun."
"Thanks, Tony."