The next day I went to the mall to pick up some supplies and look for a new pair of winter boots. I was rounding the corner by the sporting goods store when I saw Kleinschmidt. He hadn't seen me, but there was no mistaking his bulk and the sling on his arm. His good arm was draped over the shoulders of a blonde woman. She was probably his girlfriend.
Don't ask me why, but I spent the rest of the morning following them. They wandered through the stores buying clothes suitable for a camping trip, and a pair of hiking boots for her. My luck was running hot because they had parked two rows from my car. I followed them home. Smitty parked his Explorer in a carport, beside a motorcycle covered with a heavy tarp.
I remembered Smitty talking about going camping and hunting with his girlfriend and some of the trips they were planning. When they entered an apartment building, I ran up to check the mail slots. Two names were on the second floor apartment box, Kleinschmidt and Hatcher. Maybe they lived together, or maybe Smitty had a roommate. I walked back to my Honda, and was about to leave, when the blonde girl came back out. She wore jeans and a down jacket and a pair of bright red sneakers. She took the Explorer and drove away, so I followed her.
"Might as well see it through," I mumbled to my reflection in the rearview mirror. Talking to oneself is okay. Just ask any psychiatrist. Some will even tell you it’s a sign of intelligence. Answering yourself, though, gets you a windowless room in the psychiatric ward with nice padded walls.
She cruised down the road, taking the corners fast and swung the Explorer into a saloon parking lot about three miles away. It was a place called Point, a favorite hangout of factory workers and bikers. She ducked into an employee entrance only a few feet from where she'd parked. I went through the front door and checked the place out.
There was a large wooden bar running at least forty feet, with vinyl stools neatly spaced along the counter. A quick examination of the room showed about thirty tables and a dozen booths. There was a riser at one wall with the setup for a band. Right now there were sixteen customers in the place. I realized the two waitresses and the bartender were only wearing bikinis and heels. Feeling about as comfortable as a preacher, I moved toward the vacant end of the bar.
The bartender had large breasts that defied gravity. Colorful tattoos decorated both arms. "What can I getcha?"
"White wine?"
She choked out a laugh and rested her palms on the counter between us. "Honey, this ain't the Whitney. We’ve got ten kinds of beer and hard liquor, but no white wine."
"Beer."
She sighed and raised her brows. "Want me to name them all?"
I shook my head and leaned forward. "What kind do you drink?"
"I like Sam Adams.”
"Why don't you get one for each of us?"
“The boss won’t let me drink on duty. But you can tip me the price of one.”
“Done.”
In a blink a cold bottle appeared before me. I placed a twenty on the counter and nodded at it. The cash disappeared in a flash.
"I'm Audrey. Who might you be?"
"Jamie. I'm looking for someone."
"Ain't we all, darlin’."
I smiled. "Not like that. There's a woman came in a few minutes ago. A blonde, she used the employee entrance. I think her last name might be Hatcher."
"What do you want with Melissa?" Suddenly Audrey was giving off vibes like a protective mother.
"I'd just like to talk to her about her friend Kleinschmidt."
She relaxed. "Damn shame about him. He's a nice guy. Came in all the time when he wasn't on duty. He met Melissa here. You're not a jilted lover, are you?"
"No, I’m just a friend. Can I see her?" I slid another ten onto the bar and watched it disappear.
"I'll send her out."
Two minutes later Melissa Hatcher came out from the kitchen area and took the bar stool beside me. She was about my height, maybe a little shorter. Her features were plain. I got the sense one of her eyes was slightly off center. She was wearing a bright blue bikini with a pair of golden slave sandals. Her legs were thick and muscular. I noticed several tattoos on her legs and hips. It was hard not stare at them. This was not the type of attire I expected for November.
"Can I help you?" she asked pleasantly.
"I'd like to talk to you about Herman Kleinschmidt."
Her eyes clouded as she looked me over. "Who are you?"
"Jamie Richmond. I was with Smitty when he got shot."
At this comment her face paled. "So you're a cop?"
"No, I'm a writer. I was observing Kleinschmidt during his shift, gathering material for a magazine article and a book I'm working on. Guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Can we talk for a minute?"
"What do you want from me?" She remained defensive, staring through me.
"I want to help. I feel sorry for Smitty..."
"He doesn't need your pity."
I nodded, raising my hands defensively. "Poor choice of words. Bad enough he gets shot and may lose the use of his arm permanently, but getting laid off at the same time really complicates things."
"So why do you care?" Melissa wasn't going to make this easy. She folded her arms over her ample breasts and glared at me.
"I don't know what else to say except I'm sorry it happened. I've tried talking to him about it, but he keeps pretending I don't exist." This was frustrating. "I just want to be his friend."
"Look, if that's what you really want then leave him alone. Smitty's the strong, silent type. He keeps things to himself. He doesn't want a lot of sympathy or attention.”
I got to my feet. There was something unnerving about her. "He told me you two were planning a trip soon. Are you still going?"
"Yeah, we leave next Friday.”
"You're sure there's nothing else I can do for him?"
"I'm sure. He'll work it out. He just needs time."
"If he changes his mind, or if you want to talk to me, I'm in the book."
"I'll remember that." Melissa's voice softened a little, but she still seemed uncomfortable talking to me. "Hey, Smitty will be okay. You just wait and see." Melissa saw Audrey signal her. "I've got to get ready for my shift. In an hour this place will be jumping with horny guys. And the more they drink, the better they tip.”
I left the bar and walked back to my car. Deep down, I had a hard time believing her. Why would she lie to me? For that matter, why would anybody?
Okay, so maybe I’m just a little bit naïve.
* * * *
I fell asleep on, or more precisely, in, the fluffy sofa, watching an old Humphrey Bogart movie. As I drifted off, Bogey was arguing with two police detectives about his partner's untimely demise. My subconscious went for a cruise and drifted back to the night of the shooting. I was helpless to stop Smitty from being shot again, but this time I saw something I'd overlooked before. The arm holding the gun wasn't brown; it was a jacket sleeve. The glove on the hand was black. Something dangled off the sleeve of the jacket and it took me a moment to recognize it. Fringe. I'd had a suede jacket when I was in junior high, with strips of leather fringe along the sleeves and in rows across the back.
I woke up and struggled out of the clutches of the cushions. That style of jacket had been making a fashion comeback in the last year. A lot of people were wearing them now, and it wasn't going to help track down the guy who shot Smitty. Another fabulous clue brought to you courtesy of Ace Richmond, Private Eye.
Malone was working and hadn't called me. I felt sullen and disgusted with myself. Here was a guy I hardly knew, getting my emotions all mixed up, while visions of another guy haunted my sleep. If only Kleinschmidt wasn't trying so hard to tune me out. Maybe he was having problems adjusting to the injury and my appearances rekindled the trauma. Maybe it irked him that I had been there to help. Could Kleinschmidt be such a Neanderthal that he was embarrassed about being saved by a woman? Could his frail ego have been crushed when he was shot in front of me? What if I hadn't been there and nobody came looking for him? I grabbed the phone and called the station.
“State Police, Trooper Rand.”
“Is Sergeant Malone in?”
“Yes, ma’am, hold please.”
I tried to be patient, but it seemed like two hours passed before there was a click on the line.
"This is Malone."
"It's Jamie."
"Hey, Jay, what's up?"
"Just wondering how you're doing. What time does your shift end?" I realized how desperate that sounded after it popped out of my mouth.
"Couple of hours. You okay?" His soft tones warmed me. I’d never known anyone who could have that effect on me.
"Yeah, kind of lonely." Where the hell did that come from?
"I could stop by," he said.
"No, I don't want to bother you, Malone."
"No bother at all. I was going to call you in the morning anyway." Chills of anticipation tickled my spine.
"I'll leave the door unlocked."
"Great. Listen, I have to go. Someone just brought in a kid driving a stolen car."
"I'll be here, Malone."
"Bye, Jamie." There was click and he was gone.
I couldn't believe what I'd told him. And I never had the chance to ask the question I'd called about. I trudged into the bathroom and took a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and puffy, my shoulder length red hair was sticking up every which way, and what looked like a zit was forming on my chin. Swell. I was wearing sweat pants and an old Tigers shirt. Bring on the glamour photographers. One look and Malone would go running for the hills. Forget the fact that we’d been pawing each other like a couple of hormone-crazed teenagers for the last couple days.
A long, hot soak in a bubble bath would help. But first, I decided to shave my legs. I took my time, careful not to nick those troublesome spots around the ankles. I can get by with shaving once a week, but I had noticed Malone’s reaction to freshly shaved legs before and the way he likes to kiss them. Once the shaving was done, I filled the tub and slid beneath the bubbles. I scrubbed my chin until the pimple was gone, washed my hair, and put some drops in my eyes. A little perfume behind the knees and ears made me feel more feminine. A little more on the neck was helpful too. And, yes, a quick spray before I pulled on some black silk panties that were trimmed with lace.
I put fresh sheets on the bed then turned the lights down low. In the bottom of a drawer filled with slightly torn stockings, I found a lacy black negligee my mother had given me last Christmas. I'd never had an occasion to wear it. From the kitchen I got the Dutch oven and filled it with ice. There was most of a bottle of Beringer white wine in the fridge, so I jammed that deep among the cubes. I took two wine glasses out of the cupboard and saw a bright red smudge of lipstick still on one.
By the time I washed the rim and carted the wine and glasses back into the bedroom, Malone was due. The down quilt warmed me as I slid beneath the covers to wait. I was hoping he wouldn't be forced into working overtime.
The bedroom door creaked open and he stepped inside. He moved so quietly that I hadn't heard him come into the apartment. Malone's smile was wide and his eyes were dancing as he sprawled on the bed beside me and gave me a smooch.
"Hey, Jamie."
"Hey, Malone. Want some wine?" I jerked a thumb at my makeshift ice bucket.
"Maybe later," he said as he kissed my eyelids. "How was work?" I gasped.
"Fine." His lips were slowly covering my face. His skin was soft and smooth. He must have shaved when he changed clothes. Malone was on to something. There really is something incredibly sexy about freshly shaved skin.
"Anything exciting?" I whispered.
"No."
"You sure?" It was suddenly very warm under the quilt.
"Jamie?" He was still kissing me.
"Yeah?"
"Hush."
"`kay."
After the first time, we curled together, sharing one glass of wine. And here I'd gone to the trouble of washing both glasses. Malone took one melting ice cube and rolled it down my face, cooling the skin. He held it against the hollow in my throat, and let the water drip its way onto my chest. A trickle slid between my breasts as he began to slide it along my body.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I moaned.
“St. Valentine’s Church.”
“Yeah, right.”
He stopped moving. “I’m serious. A woman I used to date worked at the church. She taught me the ice cube trick. Cools the skin but gets the spirit hot.”
“You’re terrible.”
He moved the ice again. “Why?”
“Talking about another woman when you’re in bed with me.” I pretended to be angry with him, but Malone wasn’t fooled.
"You sounded upset when you called," he said, deftly changing the subject.
"The deal with Smitty still bothers me. I even had a dream about the shooting. Now I'm starting to wonder if I'm imagining things." I burrowed close and felt his arms encircle me. Nice. I didn’t even wonder where the ice cube ended up.
"What kind of things?"
"I think the driver of the truck was wearing a leather jacket, one with fringe on the sleeves."
"Fringe?"
"Yeah, strips of leather. It's decorative."
He gave my ass a playful slap. "I know what fringe is."
"It doesn't mean anything. There must be a million jackets like that in the city. And I'm not even sure my subconscious didn't make it up."
"Hmm." Malone smothered a yawn.
"You shouldn't be tired, unless you're getting old," I teased. "What time did you start work? Three, maybe four in the afternoon?"
"I had to be in court at nine this morning. Then the captain had a staff meeting at one o'clock, and my shift started at three.” He paused and kissed me. “It has been a very, long, day." I was rewarded with a kiss between each word.
"I'm surprised you had any energy left for me."
He flashed his low wattage, killer smile. "It's amazing how the proper motivations can recharge my batteries."
"Are you working tomorrow?" I already knew the answer. I was just trying to keep the conversation going. I wanted him to stay.
"All weekend. I have to be on duty at three. Guess I should be headed home." He made a half-hearted attempt at getting out of bed.
"Stay. We need to talk."
"I'm beat, Jamie. Can it wait ‘til morning? "
"Sure." I dragged him back down beside me. "But I still want you to stay."
"I could never refuse the wants of a lady."
I batted my lashes at him. “And if the lady wants more?”
Malone rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him. The rat must have been feigning tired, because he was certainly ready. “Then the lady gets more,” he whispered as he slid inside me.
His lips on mine silenced any further conversation.
* * * *
It was after ten when we went out for breakfast. My cupboards were barren. I promised Malone I'd go grocery shopping today. Over waffles and bacon he caught me staring at him. I was having grapefruit and coffee. I was willing to control one appetite while the other was being satiated.
"What's on your mind, Jamie?"
"I don't know where to start."
"Make believe it's a book. Try the beginning."
I laughed. "I never start at the beginning. I usually work from the middle, then write the ending and work backwards."
"Okay, start in the middle." I noticed the twinkle had returned to his eyes when he smiled.
"Let's start with you. Do you realize, it's been two weeks since we’ve been seeing each other, and I know more about my dry cleaner than I do about you?" I swiped a piece of bacon from his plate, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"What do you want to know?" He motioned the waitress over to refill our coffees.
"Everything, Malone, I don't even know your first name."
"What’s in a name?” His eyes were turning me on, making it difficult to sit still. “Does it really matter?”
"I guess not."
He chuckled. "How about if I give you a profile? I'm forty-two, divorced, no kids, like skiing, sailing, baseball and football. I've been a state trooper for seventeen years and never wanted to be anything else. I like classical music but not opera, jazz but not reggae. Don't even mention rap. I prefer to sleep in the raw. I drink coffee black, without any fruity flavors in it. Good enough?"
Some profile. My character sketches are more detailed than that. "For now. But you still didn't tell me your name."
"I only use Malone. Your turn."
"For what?"
"Your profile. Pretend it's for a famous magazine ad." He held his coffee cup in both hands as he sipped, letting the steam rise before his eyes.
"Okay. I'm thirty-one, never been married, seven kids by seven different men, I like opera and reggae and some rap. I like almost all sports. I have a degree in journalism. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a writer. I don’t even know where my diploma is. I’m a packrat, but when the seasons change, I make it a point to throw stuff out, like old boyfriends, and get organized.”
The look on his face was a cross between disgust and humor. "Rap music?”
"Some of it’s good.”
"How’d you get the scar on your stomach?"
"Appendix burst when I was a kid." I got serious after the waitress cleared away our dishes. "Tell me more about work. How long have you been on afternoons?"
“Three years. I like it. We can request any shift every three months, depending on seniority. I prefer the afternoon slot. It gives me the mornings and early afternoons free. Sometimes we work seven or eight days straight. But every third weekend, I get four days off in a row.” Malone settled back against the chair and watched me.
“What about court appearances?”
He shrugged. “We go whenever the judge requests us. There is overtime pay for anything not part of your regular shift.”
“What was the big meeting about yesterday with Nowalski?” It felt funny referring to Bert by his last name. As far as I knew, Malone was still unaware of my relationship with his boss. For now, I wanted to keep it that way.
Malone’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t miss much, do you sister?”
“Not if I want to do my job well. Can you talk about it?”
He relaxed and shrugged again. “Don’t see why not. Governor Aikens sent out the new plan for the posts yesterday. In the past, each location has been open around the clock. If you were involved in an accident during the day and stopped in at three in the morning, you could get a copy of an accident report. Now, he’s closing some posts down.”
“Closing them completely?” I was surprised.
Malone sipped his coffee before answering. “The governor’s plan is to close the outskirt locations during the evening. They will be open during the day, from 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. Beyond those times, they will be closed.”
“Are you saying there won’t be any cops in those areas after the posts close?” This sounded crazy to me.
“Relax, Jamie. Patrol cars will continue to make their rounds. Communication will be handled by radio with several main base locations. Our base will control all contact with seven different posts. Each one will be on a different radio frequency.”
This sounded expensive to me. “So how does this help the budget? And what happens when the system breaks down?”
“When a post was open all night, there were five troopers on duty inside. Now, those five will be freed from the paperwork duty and sent back on the road, where they can do the most good.”
“Which is why some guys with low seniority, like Smitty, will get laid off?”
“Right. Troopers with more years in were relocated to different posts.” Malone signaled for the check. “This sort of thing happens all the time in other businesses. Law enforcement’s no different.”
“What about you? Will you be transferred?”
“It’s doubtful. I’ve been here so long I’m part of the building. Occasionally I’ll drive a patrol car, splitting station duties with two other sergeants. The governor doesn’t want to disrupt everything; he’s just trying to make us more cost efficient.”
He sounded calm about the whole program. Perhaps nothing rattled Malone. “I guess it makes sense. But what about people you arrest during the evenings? If there’s no one at the station to watch them, what do you do with them?”
“Good question. There’s always a city or township police department nearby. If we have a prisoner, like a drunk driver, they will be transported to the facility where the arrest was made.”
“So the cars are still on the streets, making the rounds, but the stations are all locked up.”
“Basically, that’s it. It eliminates the need for five men to be holding down the fort. Communications is still done by radio and the dispatchers have a computer system that can locate a residential address and give the trooper directions if needed. It’s as fast as it ever was.”
“Who will be manning the communications?”
“Right now we have troopers doing it, because they are more familiar with the system and the calls. Eventually, they plan to train civilians to handle it. That will help put more troopers back on the road too.”
“Or lay more off,” I said sullenly.
“It’s possible. Look, Kleinschmidt may be recalled if he regains the use of his arm and can pass the physical exam. But he’s still drawing full pay while he recuperates. Until the state has a balanced budget and can afford to pay more troopers, we have to make do with what we’ve got.” Malone finished his coffee and got out of his chair.
“I know, but I still don’t like it.”
He flashed me that gentle smile.
“Neither do I.”