I talked to Bert on Sunday. Since the whole gang had been to see him, Smitty was now pulling a Marlene Dietrich. He wanted to be left alone. Bert thanked me twice for my efforts Friday night.
“If you need any details for the story you’re working on, just call me. It may be hard for you to believe, but I used to do uniform patrols too.”
I tried to downplay the concern evident in his voice. “Wow. Did they have cars back then, or did you patrol in a horse and buggy?”
“Don’t be a wise ass, little girl. Your mother didn’t raise you to be so sarcastic.”
“Where do you think I learned it?”
He snorted laughter over the line. “You have a point.”
“Don’t worry about me, Bert. But keep me informed about Kleinschmidt. I’d really like to know how he’s doing.”
“I’ll call you if there’s any change. But don’t beat yourself up on this, Jamie. It would have happened no matter what. Kleinschmidt’s lucky you were there.”
I wondered if I would ever be able to put the shooting out of my mind that easily.
* * * *
For three days I couldn't write a damn thing. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, all I could think about was Kleinschmidt, leaping backwards in the glow of the headlights as the gun went off. I'd never seen anyone shot before. It's not the same as in the movies, where you know the guy is going to get up and walk away when the cameras stop rolling. This was for keeps. And it scared the hell out of me.
It turned out Smitty wasn't as lucky as the doctors originally thought. When the bullet entered, it began to tumble and turn, causing a lot of nerve damage. Unless physical therapy was extremely successful, Kleinschmidt might never recover full use of his arm. Even additional surgery might not restore the arm to full working order. Ironically, with the governor’s cutbacks scheduled to start in January, Smitty’s career with the state law enforcement could very easily have ended anyway.
I visited him a couple of times at the hospital, but he refused to talk to me. The nurses said he was trying to stay positive about his situation, but it wasn't easy. As a joke I sent him a box of donuts, hoping to ease the tension. No luck. Apparently Smitty couldn’t find anything funny right now. I went for a drive and realized I'd been circling the state police post. Maybe someone here would be willing to talk to me about Kleinschmidt.
Malone was in the lobby when I walked inside. He offered me that glimmer of a warm smile as I approached.
"How are you doing, Jamie?" Once again I was surprised at the melodious softness of his voice.
"Okay, Malone. Is there anything new on Kleinschmidt's shooter?"
He shook his head once. "Forensics came up empty. The little bit of tire tread they were able to lift from the scene is too worn to make a match. We found no shell casing at the time of the shooting, but Smitty said the gun was a revolver, maybe a .38 caliber."
"Didn't you find the slug?" I asked as he led me to the coffee machine.
"Yeah, but there's nothing we can do with it until we find a gun to run comparisons. Either that, or another bullet to match it with." Malone grimaced as he sipped the vending machine coffee.
"What about the truck?"
"Nothing's turned up. It's almost as if the thing disappeared into thin air." Malone made a face and dumped the remainder of his coffee down the drain. "Waste of money."
I fought the urge to smile. "What's going to happen to Smitty? The doctors won't tell me anything in detail"
"Because he was injured in the line of duty, he'll receive his regular pay until he recovers. If he never regains full use of the arm, he wouldn't be able to pass the physical. In which case, he'll be medically retired and receive two thirds of his pay, tax free, for life. Financially, Smitty's got nothing to worry about." Malone guided me back to the private office and closed the door behind us. "I understand he won't talk to you."
"I've been to the hospital a couple of times. What's he got against me?" I took the extra chair and slumped into it, crossing my ankles before me.
"Maybe he's embarrassed. Quick thinking on your part may have saved his life. There isn't a hell of a lot of traffic on that stretch of road at night." Malone leaned against the edge of his desk
"So why won't he talk to me?"
"Maybe he just wants to be left alone. As far as I know, the only one he'll see is his girlfriend."
I was surprised. "He won't talk to you either?"
Malone shook his head. I studied the cool shade of his blue eyes, reminding me again of cobalt. I wondered what happened to the humor I'd seen when we'd first met. It hadn't been visible since. Maybe I'd imagined it. But there was something else now, hiding in the corners. It felt like he had x-ray vision. He didn’t need to undress me with his eyes. He could see right through me.
"Kleinschmidt isn’t talking to anyone else. Even Captain Nowalski gets nothing more than grunts." He checked the clock and pushed off the desk. "Sorry to cut this short, Jamie, but I've got roll call in thirty seconds. If I learn anything else, I'll let you know."
"Thanks, Malone." He held the door for me as I went down the hall toward the main entrance. When I glanced back, he was standing there, watching me. I waved. He waved back. I haven't waved at a guy since high school. Was he flirting with me? I could only hope.
* * * *
One week after the shooting I was still in a rut. Work was impossible. No matter how long I sat before the keyboard, nothing flowed from my fingers. After an hour each morning, I gave up and puttered around the apartment. The plants got watered, the laundry not only done but neatly folded and put away. When it came down to cleaning the oven, I knew I'd crossed the line. A lunch date with Bert was pretty much the first time I left the house in a while.
He took me to Rocky’s, a great little tavern not far from the post. The owner had previously been a top chef with a local chain of upscale seafood restaurants. He liked to experiment with unusual combinations. The special on Friday was lobster ravioli in a light cream sauce. It was accompanied by a mixed green salad including dried cherries and pecans. A small loaf of freshly baked cheesy garlic bread completed the feast. We both had the special and could hardly move after the meal.
“You eat this well all the time?” I asked.
“Hell no. I haven’t been here a dozen times in five years. But how often do I get to sneak away for lunch with a lovely young woman?”
“You feed me like this I’ll visit you for a meal every day.”
Bert sipped his coffee and nodded. “Yeah, and within two weeks, you’d be running for the border. Don’t kid yourself, Jamie Rae. You like that independence.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. Since I’ve known you, it’s been only a matter of minutes before you wanted to be on your own. You’ve got a touch of your mother’s free spirit. That’s why you preferred freelancing. You can change your directions at a whim. There is nothing to tie you down.”
Silently, I considered his observation. I did like being on my own. There were no pets at the apartment, just a few plants for atmosphere. More often than not, two weeks went by before I remembered to water them.
“You think I really prefer being on my own?”
Bert gave me a muscular shrug. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it. I’m sure you’ve had your share of romantic relationships. Maybe someday, you’ll find a guy you can tolerate who can tolerate you.”
“You’re starting to sound like a social worker with a twenty-two-inch neck.”
“I don’t get the chance to talk to you that often. I know it’s not easy to hear, but you might benefit from seeing things from my perspective.”
I lowered my gaze to the coffee cup. “Shut up, Bert.”
“Now there’s the Jamie I know and love. But don’t think I’m some kind of expert. The longest relationship I had was with your mother. That should tell you something.”
I didn’t comment while he paid the bill. Only as we were gathering our coats did I zing him back.
“I think what that tells me is that you’re a hopeless romantic. You fell in love one time with Vera and even though you’ve been divorced all these years, you still have feelings for her.” I linked my arm with his.
“Now who’s the social worker?”
“You still love her.”
It was his turn. “Shut up, Jamie,” he said with a playful smile on his face.
Bert walked me to my car. The wind was gusting, yanking the last remaining leaves from the trees. The temperature had dropped dramatically. Soon winter would be upon us. I leaned against Bert, stretching up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“After high school and those teenage crushes, I’ve only loved three women my whole life. Not a lot, but enough for me. One was Elaine, my first wife.”
I nodded with the memory. Bert kept a small portrait of her on his dresser, even when he’d been married to Vera. Elaine had died from an aneurysm. No warning at all. She was twenty-seven. One moment, she was walking down the aisle of the grocery store. The next, she was dead. “She was lovely. I remember her picture.”
He opened my door and waved me inside. “Still hurts sometimes, just thinking about her. Then there was Vera. And we all know where that went.”
Bert ducked his head inside my car and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Be good, Jamie.” He pulled away and firmly closed my door.
He was almost to his car when I realized what he’d said. I drove across the parking lot and lowered my window. “You said three. Who else?”
“That’s you, Jamie Rae.”
Sometimes, I can be so dense.
* * * *
I turned down a dinner invitation from my aunt and theater tickets from an old girlfriend. I still couldn’t focus on my work for more than an hour at a time. Friday night at ten-fourteen, I went back to the scene. I sat in my Honda and stared at the space where my life came apart. Why was I so upset? Smitty didn’t die. The bad guy had split when I hit the siren. Maybe he'd never be whole again, but it's better than being dead. That should count for something. At least, I thought so.
Without the engine running, the cold crept into my car. Winter was coming. I closed my eyes and saw the shooting again. It happened in vivid slow motion, with Kleinschmidt moving toward the truck then floating backward like a gymnast on a tumbling mat. Blinking, I swore the gun roared again as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was nothing out there, just an instant replay on the theater screen in my mind, complete with surround sound and dazzling special effects.
Who would do such a thing? Nobody could have known Smitty would be patrolling this area after dinner. He had mentioned earlier that he seldom ate at the same place two nights in a row. Variety helped break the monotony of any job. Work wouldn’t be a problem for him anymore. I wondered what kind of routine he might become accustomed to now. Would he survive as a one-armed man?
Kleinschmidt just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What would have happened if Smitty hadn't stopped the truck? What if we'd gone for pizza? What if he'd taken an earlier dinner break?
After a while I drove away from the scene and cruised. I went west in the same direction the truck had taken, away from the interstate and the city. A couple of curves around a grove of trees and I was on a gravel road I didn't know existed. This was part of the industrial complex Malone had mentioned. Factories lined the right side, backing up to the interstate. A self-storage facility was on the left, next to a huge auto parts yard. Old cars were stacked ten high, reaching into the dark night, like shaky offerings to a prehistoric god. I turned around and drove home. Something crept across the back of my mind but I couldn’t quite grasp it. I stopped by the factories and stared at the surroundings for a few minutes. Nothing was clicking. Frustrated, I gave up and headed for home.
Cops put their lives on the line every day they put on their uniforms. Maybe they’re fearless, or ready to die. Maybe it’s part of their training, to be ready for such situations. Maybe there’s a psychological test they have to take, before going to the academy, to make sure they can deal with situations like this. Even though I’d known what Bert had done for years, I was developing a new respect for him and all the other cops I knew even casually from my time as a reporter. They are a tough breed. I was only a witness to a shooting. It hadn’t even been a fatal shooting, but it was enough to haunt me. I was beginning to wonder if it would haunt me the rest of my life.
Early Saturday morning, I awoke with a start and couldn't fall back to sleep. I waited until dawn broke, then dressed and retraced my route.
I managed to drive past the scene of the shooting without shaking, an improvement over yesterday. My brain kept trying to point something out, but I was too groggy to see it. I rounded the second curve, past the grove of trees. The road splits there. The right fork takes you to the industrial area, the left swings back to the south, circling toward the freeway. I went to the right.
Despite the early hour, the auto parts yard was open for business. As I parked beside the gate, the meanest dog I’ve ever seen greeted me. It was one part Doberman, one part German shepherd, ten parts ugly. In case the dog was as smart as he was ugly, I locked my door and stayed inside.
A shrill whistle broke the morning air and the dog quickly retreated to a pen near the office building. A burly man wearing farmer's overalls and a purple tee shirt dropped a bowl of food inside the cage for the dog, then swung the gate shut on the pen. I stepped out of the car as he approached. I hoped he was friendlier than his four-legged friend.
"Morning, Miss. Hope Brutus didn't startle you," he said as he drew alongside.
"Just caught me off guard. Are you the owner?"
He grinned widely, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. "That'd be the bank. I just run the place. Name's Joe Garibaldi. What can I do for you?"
"I was looking for a pickup truck. My uncle owns one, and it's falling apart. I wondered if you had anything for sale."
Joe grinned again and swept his arms wide. "Everything's for sale. But I can't guarantee anything here's in better shape than what your uncle's already got."
I followed his gesture and took a closer look at the cars. Most of them were missing fenders or hoods. Some were mere shells, even the upholstery, doors and windows gone.
"This is more of a graveyard than a used car lot. People bring their wrecks in, and we strip `em down for working parts. When we get down to the bare bones, we crush `em and sell the scrap steel." Garibaldi led me a few steps farther into the yard. "What kind of truck does your uncle have? Maybe we can fix him up with the parts he needs to keep it running."
"That would be cheaper than buying a new one," I said thoughtfully. "Does it make any difference between model years?"
"Nah, not if you're close. Trucks don't usually change much from year to year. Find out what he's got, and the kind of stuff he needs. We’re bound to be able to help him out."
"Thanks, Joe." We had wandered over to the dog's cage. He was curled next to the empty bowl, sleeping peacefully. "So long, Brutus."
"He'll sleep like the dead, `til closing time. Nobody gets past Brutus."
"I'll take your word for it.”
Garibaldi walked away as a wrecker pulled into the yard with a badly damaged Plymouth van. I slipped back into the Honda and drove away.
I stopped at a diner for a breakfast that would make a cardiologist cringe. After consuming a sausage, mushroom and Swiss cheese omelet, toast with jam and hash browns, I felt considerably better. Once home, I sacked out on the couch and took a long nap. It was early afternoon when the phone woke me. I tried to sound healthy and coherent, but the receiver was upside down in my hand.
"`lo."
"Hi, Jamie. Got a minute?"
"Whozzit?"
"Malone. Did I wake you up?"
I shuddered and rubbed my face with both hands, squeezing the phone against my ear. "Yeah, I must have dozed off. What's up?"
"I was wondering if you're free this evening. Maybe take in dinner and a movie, or something." His mellow voice was hypnotic.
"Thought you worked nights," I mumbled.
"It’s my weekend off. I get one every three weeks. What do you say? I know this is short notice and all, but..."
I wasn't letting him off that easy. "Sure, Malone. What time's good?"
"Six-thirty. I'll pick you up. See you later."
"See ya."
* * * *
Malone was punctual. Normally I'm always early, because I don't like to rush. If I have a business meeting, I pick out the outfit I’m going to wear the night before. Otherwise it makes me uncomfortable. Tonight, I must have changed clothes ten times, trying to pick out a suitable outfit. What does one wear when dating a cop? Leather and handcuffs? Mirrored sunglasses? A battered fedora with a trench coat? I settled on a denim skirt and a thick cotton sweater in a soft lavender shade. Underneath was a matching lavender ensemble. Tan pantyhose and comfortable black pumps with two-inch heels. I’d picked out one thin gold necklace and small dangling earrings. Malone was wearing a sport shirt and slacks, with a pair of boots and a leather jacket.
"Hi, Malone."
"Hi, Jamie. Hey, you've got legs," he said with a smile. The combined effect of his smile and killer voice weakened my knees.
"Some say they're my best feature."
"They're nice, but I don't know if they're your best."
I blushed. Now I wondered what he was referring to. "Come on in. Is there anything new on Kleinschmidt?"
Malone nodded as he sat on the sofa. I tried to hide my grin as the cushions swallowed him up. "He started physical therapy last Monday. Captain Nowalski talked to him this morning. Kleinschmidt says he wants to concentrate completely on his rehabilitation."
"That sounds antisocial to me. Was Kleinschmidt ever a hermit?" I opted for the bentwood rocker. The sofa has a tendency to push two occupants together, like a persistent Jewish aunt.
"Smitty's just a private guy. He never hung out with the others at the post, didn't show up for the poker games or the bachelor parties. Kind of a loner."
"That reminds me of a caveman's attitude." I thumped my chest with a forefinger. "Big man take care of self. No need others."
"You always make fun of cops?"
"Only when I'm nervous. And it’s not just cops. At times, I make fun of everybody. I’m just having a hard time understanding Smitty. If the situation was reversed, I'd expect everyone I've ever met to come visit me."
"People deal with problems differently." He shifted on the cushions. I wondered if he was going to disappear.
"You want a drink, or some coffee?"
"I'm fine."
"So what's up for this evening?" I realized my legs had crossed on their own accord. From Malone's position on the sofa, he could see right up my skirt if he wanted to. But his eyes were on my face. Maybe not all men are sleaze.
"Care for Italian food?"
"Are you kidding?" I rolled my eyes in delight. "I’m a sucker for calamari, antipasto salad, veal piccata, pasta primavera, eggplant parmesan. Did you have a particular place in mind?"
“Dominic's?"
"That sounds great. It's bound to be crowded."
He smiled, all the way to the eyes. "I made reservations. Ready?"
"You're pretty sure of yourself, Malone." I held back a giggle as he struggled out of the clutches of the sofa.
"Not really. I made reservations at three restaurants, Italian, Japanese and vegetarian." He helped me on with my wool coat.
"Vegetarian? A cop who's a vegetarian?"
"Not me. But I'm always open to new experiences. After hearing you recite the menu, I realized how long it's been since I've had good Italian food."
I linked my arm in his. "You've got me salivating, Malone. Let's go."