Since Bert knew I was working on the story, I thought I might be able to pump him for information. I offered to treat him to lunch. That was probably my first mistake of the day. He knew right away I wanted something. But Bert agreed to meet me at the Kabob House, the Mediterranean restaurant a few miles from the post.
Bert selected the best booth in the restaurant. He congratulated me on figuring out where the truck was. He was impeccably dressed as always when at work. Today he accented his navy blue suit with a bold tie, filled with bright colors and graphic designs. Bert ran his finger down the menu, making little check marks as he came to different dishes he had tried and liked. I let him order for both of us. Hummus, salads, grilled chicken with rosemary and garlic, coffee.
“You look good, Bert. New suit?”
“Nah, old suit, new tie. What’s going on?”
“Can’t a girl comment on your wardrobe? You always take such care in how you dress. A lot of men don’t go to the trouble.” I stirred my coffee and tried to keep a straight face.
Bert sat there with his hands folded until he had my full attention. For a moment, I was thirteen again. “Jamie, I’ve worn suits to work since before I knew you. I buy maybe three a year. Geoffrey Beene. Blue, black and gray, sometimes a pinstripe. Shirts are always white, with a button down collar. If I want to add some flash, I pick out a Pangborn tie, like this one. We never bother with idle chitchat. So I repeat, what’s going on?”
I started to respond with a typical wiseass answer. Then I stopped. Through all the years, Bert had always been there for me. After I moved out of the house, after college, even after Vera left him. He didn’t even contest the divorce. And here I was, trying to manipulate him. I realized how low that made me.
“I’m sorry, Bert.”
He flexed his hands open at the wrist, as if waving off my apology. “Don’t apologize, Jamie Rae, just level with me.”
Another memory from my teens raced through my head. “Guess I owe you another kiss, huh?”
Bert snorted that laugh of his. “I haven’t heard that in years. How many are you up to now?”
I hesitated, looking up at the ceiling as though pretending to do the math. “Three thousand seven hundred and … eighty-four.”
From the time he’d married Vera, Bert treated me like an adult. He was interested in everything I had done each day. We used to talk as we walked through the neighborhood during the evenings, catching up with each other. One night I apologized three times in a short span. That’s when he pulled me up short and said, “Stop saying you’re sorry and level with me. Each time you say you’re sorry, you owe me a kiss.” He’d tap his cheek and wait for a peck. I hadn’t thought of it in a very long time.
“Over three thousand kisses from a beautiful young woman. Now that’s something an old man could certainly look forward to.”
A reprieve came in the form of the food. We ate the appetizer without further conversation. Bert was patiently waiting for me to start. He looked like he could sit there through the entire meal without uttering another word and it would have no effect on him whatsoever. Men. So I used the time until the salads arrived to put my thoughts in order.
“This whole thing with Kleinschmidt is bothering me,” I said at last.
Bert nodded slowly. “That’s understandable, Jamie. Some officers go their entire career without ever pulling their gun. They never get involved in a shootout. Never end up in the hospital. Never shed blood.”
“But it’s not the shooting per se. It’s his reaction. Why does he hate me?”
“Who said he hates you?”
The words were now coming out in a rush. “Bert, he won’t even talk to me. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t shoot him. I just happened to be there. I was only trying to help.”
“So just because he won’t talk to you, you figure he hates you. C’mon, Jamie, be reasonable.”
“I thought I was.”
Bert slid his salad bowl to the side. “Look, I can give you a dozen reasons why he doesn’t want to talk to you and any one of them could be right. Or none of them. But it shouldn’t matter. You can’t always have it your way, Jamie. Life doesn’t work like that.”
“But Bert…”
The waiter appeared with the entrées. Neither of us spoke until he’d moved on. Bert’s eyes locked onto mine. “Jamie, for as long as I’ve known you, it’s always been full speed ahead. Whatever the prize is in front of you, that’s what gets your attention and you won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’m not that stubborn…”
“Bull. If it weren’t the Irish heritage, the red hair would be enough. It was cute when you were a kid, but you’re not a kid anymore. You need to find a balance.”
“What are you talking about?”
He took a moment to taste the chicken before answering. Nodding, he gestured with his fork for me to sample it. I knew he wouldn’t answer until he was ready. The chicken was moist and tender. Better than I could ever hope to make.
“Life is a balancing act. It’s all about finding the middle ground between the personal and professional sides of your life.”
“Look who’s talking,” I snapped defensively. I wanted to reel the words back in the moment they were out of my mouth. Bert merely winked at me.
“See, there’s that Irish temper. You don’t like what you hear, you get defensive.”
“C’mon, Bert, I’m not that bad.”
He sliced another piece of chicken and popped it into his mouth. I had to wait while he savored it before hearing his response. “I didn’t say it was bad, Jamie. Just that it’s you. There is no middle ground with you. You do need to find that balance.”
“But, Bert…”
“Think for a few minutes. Eat your lunch. Don’t talk, just listen. You are a bright, beautiful young woman. You have talent. You’ve got a good heart and you care for people. Once you let them in. But you tend to bury yourself in your work. And before you compare us, there are a couple of things you probably don’t know. Like the fact that I go to the gym about three times a week, partly to work out but also to socialize. I go to the theater about six times a year, with a very nice lady...”
My eyes widened but he cut me off before I could open my mouth.
“…this is not your concern. And there are a few other activities that I have, like a golf league in the summer, a billiards league in the winter. It gives me a sense of balance, between personal and professional interests.”
“So you think I don’t do enough for myself?”
“I think you try. But you get nervous.”
Lunch was finished and we sipped coffee as the plates were cleared. Sometimes I forget how well Bert knows me. Maybe I try too hard when it comes to dating. If I can keep Malone interested, when do I tell Bert? And if I can’t keep his interest, am I just proving Bert’s point? .
When we were alone, Bert reached over and squeezed my hand. “Look, I think you’re great. You have a lot to offer someone in a relationship. But Vera’s track record probably scares the hell out of you. She’s been through more marriages and relationships than a Hollywood actress. But that’s her, Jamie. Not you.”
“But what if it’s hereditary?”
He snorted that laugh and shook his head. “Not a chance. You need to experience life, Jamie. Don’t be afraid to let someone into your heart. It might just help you find some of the balance.”
“But what if I fall in love with the wrong guy?”
“Jamie, we don’t have any control over who we fall in love with. All we can do is let it happen and if we’re very very lucky, they end up loving us back. That’s just part of life.”
* * * *
I didn't hear from Malone until Wednesday afternoon. There had been nothing in the papers or on the news about Smitty's case. Not knowing what was happening made me irritable. The least Malone could do was call. What an ingrate! Dammit, I’d found that truck! The last thing I wanted was to look anxious and start hanging around the station like a groupie. My stubborn streak prevailed. At last I got the call.
"Hey, Jamie."
His deep voice tickled my ear on the phone. "Hey, yourself. What's happening?"
"The truck you found was reported stolen over a year ago. The last owner died about the same time."
"Was he shot?" I asked.
Malone chuckled softly. "Heart attack. The guy was in his eighties. Nobody noticed when the truck disappeared from the old man's driveway. He was a loner, never had many visitors, or friends."
"What about forensics?"
"Nothing definite yet, except several strands of blonde hair. There's no telling exactly how old they might be."
My knowledge of forensic work is pretty limited. "Can you match the hair to the shooter?"
"It’s possible. But first we need a suspect. A DNA comparison would have to be done. Right now, all we know is they were found in the truck. They could have been the old man's girlfriend or a kid he picked up hitchhiking."
"Not much of a lead," I said.
"Finding the truck was quite an accomplishment. You should be proud of it."
I shrugged away the compliment. "Catching the bad guy would make me proud. Finding the truck was a fluke."
"Better leave that to us, Jamie. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."
I did a lousy impersonation of Scarlet O'Hara. "Why, Sergeant Malone, I didn't know you cared."
"Shucks, ma'am. T'weren't nuthin." He covered the mouthpiece and said something I couldn't hear. Then he was back. "Got to run, Jamie. I'll call you."
"Bye, cowboy." But he was already gone.
After I talked to Malone, I went to visit Kleinschmidt at the hospital. I didn't care if he wouldn't talk to me. At least he'd see me and I could see him. We nearly collided outside the door of the physical therapy room. I'd forgotten he'd been discharged last week and was surprised to see him, especially in jeans instead of a hospital johnny.
"Hey, Smitty. How's it going?"
"Hello, Jamie," he said woodenly. His right arm was still in a sling, and he shifted it around, trying to make it comfortable.
"Anything I can do for you? Buy you dinner? Any place you like," I offered.
"No thanks. Just leave me alone." He turned away and started down the hall.
"Did you know they found the truck?" I called after him.
He stopped and turned back to face me. "Yeah, Captain Nowalski called me Tuesday morning. But they haven’t learned anything from it. I'd just like to forget it ever happened. Get on with the rest of my life."
His statement puzzled me. "How can you do that, Smitty? How can you forget being shot? About losing the use of your arm?"
He covered the gap between us faster than I would have thought possible for a guy his size. With his left hand he clutched my coat, and dragged me to the wall. Smitty jerked me up until we were face to face, my feet dangling in midair.
"Let it go, lady. I can't be a cop anymore. That's all I ever wanted to do. I don't care about anything else. They'll never find out who shot me. I just want to get better. I want to get on with my life." Smitty's face was only inches from mine. I could smell the anger seeping from his pores. I tried my best not to look scared.
"Put me down, Kleinschmidt," I pleaded. Where were all the nurses and orderlies when I needed them?
"Leave me alone. Forget about me." He shook me once against the wall, as easily as snapping a towel. My head thumped on the plaster and a thousand little stars began to dance before my eyes. He was starting to make me mad.
"Let me go, Smitty."
"What's going on down there?" A nurse the size of a battleship appeared at the end of the corridor and headed our way.
Kleinschmidt relaxed his grip enough for me to slide down the wall until my feet touched the floor. Then he pushed away from me with a scowl on his face.
"No more. Don't bother me no more."
He stormed away before I could regain my composure. The nurse hooked an arm around my waist and guided me to a chair. She brought an ice pack for my head. I had to wait until my vision was clear. Only after I recited the alphabet backwards did she agree I wasn't injured.
Stumbling out the door, I struggled to figure out what had just happened.
* * * *
Early Thursday afternoon, Malone invited me over for lunch. He cooked almost as well as he made love. Almost. He made broiled chicken, roasted potatoes, salads and lemon chiffon pie. I felt embarrassed at my own meager culinary talents. We didn't talk about anything relevant until after we were sprawled on his sofa. It wasn’t as plush as the aunt, but it was still pretty cozy.
"I hear you visited Kleinschmidt," Malone said as he snuggled beside me.
"Good news travels fast."
Malone kissed my ears. "I understand it wasn't all good news."
"He's so damn angry. I was just trying to be his friend. Why did he have to be so rough?"
"He’s a private guy. Kleinschmidt wants to be left alone with his troubles. He'll work them out, just him and his girlfriend."
"Maybe I could talk to her. She might tell me if there's anything I can do."
"I think you're trying to make something happen because you need it, not because of Kleinschmidt," Malone said.
"Now you’re a psychologist on your days off?" I found a finger stroking my cheek and turned to nibble it.
"Only on special occasions, like when the potential fringe benefits are right." His other hand had magically gotten under my sweater and was caressing my lower back.
"You think I wanted Smitty to get shot, so I'd have something spectacular to write about?"
Malone was trying to distract me with his attentions. He was doing a pretty good job of it too. "What happened is not your fault, Jamie. If you hadn't been with him, Smitty might be dead. Why don't you let it go?"
"I can't. I don't know why, but I just can't." His kisses were making conversation extremely difficult.
“You can play ‘what if’ until next Thursday and it’s not going to change things.”
“What do you mean?”
Malone pulled me closer, if that was possible. “What if Smitty wasn’t on duty that night? What if a local cop had cruised through there first? What if he took a more direct route back to the freeway? Or what if there was some other traffic on the road?” He paused to kiss his way down my neck to my collarbone. “Get the idea?”
Talking was becoming impossible. Thinking was about to give way to pure animal reactions. My own body was rapidly responding to Malone’s attentions. I shifted, pressing my hips against him and confirmed that his body was definitely aware of mine. “Uh huh.”
"Put your mind to work on something else," Malone suggested as he nuzzled my neck. “I’m sure you can think of something.”
Any further attempts at discussions faded rapidly. "What the hell."