Chapter 15

 

           

            There are a lot of ways to kill a person. He'd been taught that many years earlier.  Especially a person in A.J. Simon's current position.  He might take a nasty spill down the stairs that resulted in a broken neck. Or perhaps his body would be found floating in the swimming pool. Or maybe he'd be injected with a drug so potent it would stop the beating of his heart in mere seconds.  A drug so potent and untraceable the medical examiner would be at a loss as to what to put on the death certificate.

 

            He thought of these things every time he searched the man's room, or stood at the door listening to the conversations being carried on between Simon and his older brother.  He had never taken another person's life, but knew he could for the right cause.

 

            The intruder eased the door closed as he slipped inside.  As usual, Simon's room was neat and orderly, despite his disabilities.  He crossed to the work counter, devoid of anything at the moment except a picture of Simon's family, and a battery operated pencil sharpener.  He slid open a cabinet door he was more than eye level with, and peered inside, looking for just the right spot.  The upper shelf held board games, puzzles, and books brought in for Simon by his family and friends.  The lower shelf contained his Walkman, two tidy stacks of cassette tapes, a writing tablet, pencils, pens, and a folder.  He leafed through the folder, spotting A.J.'s attempts at the alphabet.  Like Rick, the intruder briefly wondered why the letters B and L were consistently circled, or in some cases, singled out and written together as LB in remote corners, or written on the flip side of a completed assignment.  He filed that oddity away in his mind, wondering if it would come to mean something, or if it was just the scrawling of a brain injured man.

 

             The intruder returned the folder to the exact place he'd found it.  Using his fingers, he felt up and down the four inch wide wooden support beam that ran up the inside center of the side-by-side cabinets.  He reached into the front pocket of his brown uniform trousers and pulled out a small, delicate object.  The silver disk was flat and no bigger around than a woman's fingernail.   Even those who considered themselves experts in the field of espionage would find it hard to believe something so minute could be so powerful.   But, then, unlike him, they didn't have the latest in technology at their disposal.  Even here, secreted behind closed cabinets doors, the bug would pick up any conversation that ensued within twenty feet of it. 

 

            With just the tip of his finger the man gently fastened the delicate object in place on the wooden beam above the cabinet's top shelf.  Satisfied that there was no way A.J. Simon would accidentally spot it, the intruder silently slid the door closed and moved on.  Another tiny device was placed on the curtain rod above the window, its shiny silver metal blending in perfectly with the drapery hooks.  The next disk was attached to the back of the nightstand in a far bottom dusty corner by the floor, while the next one went inside the telephone receiver. 

 

            He froze in the act of putting the receiver back together, hearing voices coming from the hallway.  He tracked their progress until he was able to discern the conversation coming from the room that butted up to A.J.'s, where a nurse had to shout to be heard by her half deaf charge.  No doubt some old man was being returned early from afternoon sessions like elderly patients often were, simply because their stamina didn't allow for an eight hour day of rehabilitation therapy.  

 

            He quickly finished what he was doing, put the receiver back in its cradle, and then waited until he heard the nurse push the wheelchair from the old man's room.  As soon as he was relatively certain she'd returned to duties elsewhere on the floor, he slipped into the bathroom.  He had two disks left in his pocket. One was placed in the dark recesses of the linen closet, while the other was attached to the underside of the silver showerhead.  Though that last spot might have seemed foolish to some, he'd been in this business long enough to be well-aware that many productive conversations take place in bathrooms.  Yes, even in shower stalls without the water running, and sometimes even with the water running.  It was amazing how creative a person could be if he believed he had reason to fear his home or office was being bugged.  He hoped Simon, given his head injury, didn't think to go to creative lengths to keep his conversations from being overheard.  The guy had been enough of a pain-in-the-ass as it was.  He'd already been forced to sneak around and hide these same listening devices when Simon was sharing a room with George Middleton.  He didn't appreciate having to retrieve them, test them to make sure they were still in good working condition, and then go through the process of planting them again. 

 

            "Middleton sexually assaulted him my butt," the man muttered as he stepped into the shower stall to hide his last disk.  "Good story, and it sounded pitiful enough when tearfully told to dear old big brother, but as far as I'm concerned it was an act on the part of both Simons in order to get Pretty Boy moved to a private room.  What better way of being able to talk 'business' without having to worry about unwanted visitors, or a roommate. wandering in and out in the middle of your conversations."

 

            Satisfied with his work, he stepped out of the stall, making certain he hadn't left any telltale boot prints behind.  Because he was still in the bathroom, he almost didn't hear the distinct 'click, click, click' of heels in the hallway that were rapidly approaching the room.

 

            Oh shit.  Just my luck, baldy would decide to show up early today of all days.        

 

            His huge feet crossed the main floor of A.J.'s room in three strides.  His eyes darted about the area, finally lighting upon the sturdy pencil sharpener that was ten inches long by eight inches wide.  With the four 'D' sized batteries it took to run it, the handy little office utensil would do serious damage to that macho cowboy's skull if the need arose. 

 

            The man secreted his bulk as best he could between the small junction of the closet and closed door.  He gripped the pencil sharpener firmly, holding it above his head.  Without consciously thinking about it, he flexed his knees as the door was opened.

 

            The woman stepped all the way in the room before she felt his presence.  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the massive figure lurking behind the door.  She screamed, her body reflexively plastering itself against the wall.  The bag she was carrying fell at her feet as her hand flew to her hammering heart.

 

            "Oh, Mike!"  Cecilia Simon gasped as recognition dawned. "You startled me!"

 

            The man dropped his left hand, hiding it behind his back.  "Sorry, Mrs. Simon Ma'am, I wasn't expectin' you.  You're a little early today, huh?"

            "Yes, I am."  When Cecilia's heartbeat had slowed to a more comfortable rate she bent down, grasping the fallen sports bag by its handles.  "I made a reservation to have dinner with my son.  I thought I'd put his clean laundry away before I meet him in the cafeteria."

 

            "Oh, hey, good idea."  The man eased along the frame of the door.  "There's nothing like the smell of fresh laundry to make a guy happy, that's for sure.  Especially when done by the hands of his own loving mama."

 

            Cecilia eyed the tall man, whom she'd always found to be a little strange.   And, like Rick, she often noticed him lurking outside A.J.'s room at the oddest times.  She pulled some hangers out of A.J.'s closet, hoping her question sounded innocently nonchalant.  "What exactly is it that brings you to A.J.'s room this afternoon?"

            "Routine maintenance."

 

            "Routine maintenance?"

            "Yeah, you know.  Fixing a little bit of this, repairing a little bit of that."

 

            Cecilia retrieved three pairs of pants from the bag she'd carried in and began laying them over hangers.  "I wasn't aware anything was in need of repair."

 

            "Oh sure, several things.  The overhead light wasn't working, there was a leaky faucet in the bathroom, the window wouldn't open--"

 

            "Really?  Goodness, that's odd.  The overhead light was working fine when I left here yesterday.  And A.J. never said anything to me or his brother about a leaky faucet in the bathroom, or problems with the window."        

 

            "Is that a fact?  Well, let me tell ya', Mrs. S., this building is older than my grandmother's bunions and in twice the need of attention. Stuff just seems to break," the big man snapped the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, "like that.  Quicker than you can say red rover red rover let Michael come over."  The janitor looked up at the faint sound of pounding hammers coming from overhead.  "Good thing they're giving this old woman a major overhaul, that's for sure.  Uh...no offense meant there, Mrs. S."

 

            Before Cecilia could ask any further questions of the man, he made his escape, slipping backwards out the door until he was in the hallway.   "Gotta be goin' now, Mrs. S.  See ya' round."       

 

            "Yes, Mike," Cecilia murmured to the now empty room, "I'm sure I'll see you around."

 

            With a preoccupied mind Cecilia made quick work of hanging up the remainder of A.J.'s shirts and pants.  She crossed over to the dresser and placed socks, handkerchiefs, underwear, and pajamas in various drawers, then returned to the closet where she deposited the sports bag on the floor next to her youngest son's slippers and extra pair of tennis shoes.   The entire time she went about her tasks, Cecilia wondered how a janitor could do 'routine maintenance' without a tool or toolbox on his person.

 

            Cecilia shut the closet door, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed the room.  About the only items A.J. had here she could imagine someone being interested in stealing was his Walkman, cassettes, or the watch he'd asked Rick to bring him the previous week now that numbers were beginning to mean something to him again.  Cecilia knew the watch wouldn't be in the room at this time of day.  A.J. would be wearing it.  He removed it only when he showered or went to bed at night. 

 

            Cecilia kicked off her red pumps and climbed on the chair sitting at the work counter.  She peered in the overhead cabinet, seeing A.J.'s Walkman in its usual spot.  She saw at least two dozen cassettes sitting next to it.  She shuffled through them, mentally taking stock of the ones she knew A.J. had on hand.  As far as she could tell nothing was missing, but for a more accurate assessment she'd have to ask Rick, since he was the one who brought them in for his brother.  Actually, for the most accurate assessment, she should ask A.J., but she wasn't going to do that.  She didn't want to upset him, or cause him to worry every time he left his room.  If something was missing, she and Rick would take care of it.

 

            There was nothing else Cecilia Simon could think to check for.  She wasn't aware of the pencil sharpener Brendan had given A.J. the evening before when Rick had brought him for his second visit, so didn't take note of its absence.  A.J. didn’t take note of its absence either, because by the time he returned to his room from having dinner with his mother, the pencil sharpener was back where it belonged.    

 

            Later that night, Cecilia talked to her oldest son on the phone.  When she relayed her odd encounter with the big janitor, Rick swiftly put her concerns to rest.  "Oh, you mean Mike?  No need to worry about him, Mom.  He's an undercover cop Abby's got keeping an eye on A.J. just to be on the safe side."

 

             Cecilia slept easier that night, knowing someone besides herself and Rick was watching over her youngest son.

________________________________

 

 

            Abigail Marsh was sitting by herself in a booth at the Squire, a restaurant two blocks south of the police station.  It was a place the lieutenant occasionally sought refuge within during a hectic day when she felt the need for more than a quickly gulped tuna sandwich at her desk in-between interruptions.

 

            Abby sipped a steaming bowl of beef barley soup while studying the file folder she had laying in front of her.  Although she knew she deserved to leave her work back at the office for one short hour, new cases continually cropped up that demanded her attention.  She smiled at her waitress as the woman refilled her glass with iced tea.

 

            "Thanks, Carol."

 

            "You're welcome, Lieutenant.  Your food should be ready shortly."

 

            "That's fine.  I need a few minutes to relax today anyway."

 

            The heavy-set ash blond cast a doubting eyebrow at Abby's folder. "Doesn't look like you're relaxing to me."

 

            "No, I guess it doesn't, does it?  Well, you know what they say, a woman's work is never done."

 

            From across the room a table of rowdy male construction workers beckoned,  "Hey, Carol!  Carol, we're ready to order, sweetie pie!"

 

            The woman shared a smirk with Abby.  "You can say that again."

 

            Because Abby's back was to the door, she didn't see the man enter the bustling restaurant that catered to blue collar workers, cops, and local office people during lunch time.  He tugged briefly at the cuffs of his dark suit coat and reached up to straighten his slate gray tie.

 

            Abby looked up when she felt the man's presence at her right elbow. 

 

            "Lieutenant Marsh?"

 

            "Yes?"

 

            The man extended his right hand while fumbling for his inside breast pocket with his left.  "I'm Agent Dan Phillips, Lieutenant.  With the FBI."

 

            He produced a thin black wallet which he flipped open to a badge and ID photo.

 

            Abby glanced at the photo as she attempted to stand.  Her efforts were thwarted by the table that hit her thighs, leaving her in a very awkward and unbecoming squatting position.  She felt like she was seated on an imaginary toilet and hurried to rectify the situation by side stepping out of the booth. 

 

            "Nice to meet you, Agent Phillips."

            The man smiled.  "Call me Dan, please."

 

            "Only if you'll call me Abby."

 

            "Abby it is."

 

            Abby indicated to the booth across the table from hers.  "Have a seat, Dan.  Would you like to order some lunch?"

 

            The agent slid into the offered booth while Abby returned to her own seat.  "No, thank you.  I finished eating right before I went to the station in search of you.  One of your men told me I could find you here."

 

            Before the conversation could continue, Abby's broiled cod arrived.  Carol put the woman's plate in front of her, then turned to the new guest.

 

            "Can I get you anything, sir?"

            "No, thank...well, yes, on second thought, I would like a piece of that cherry pie I see on the shelf over there and a large glass of milk."

 

            Abby glanced up from putting a small dab of butter on her baked potato.  "Put it on my tab, Carol."

            The waitress walked away amidst the man's protests.  "That's not necessary, Lieutenant.  I can certainly pay for my own dessert."  He leaned forward and whispered with playful conspiracy,  "Besides, the government does give me an expense account."

 

            "As the city of San Diego does me," Abby countered in the same light tone the man used.

 

            "Yes, I'm sure a woman of your position does warrant an expense account, Lieutenant."

            Abby wasn't sure what to make of the man's open admiration.  If he got anymore enthusiastic he'd be like a puppy slobbering in her lap.

 

            "I assume there's a reason behind your visit, Dan, other than to watch me eat my lunch."

            The man gave a polite chuckle.  "Yes, there is unfortunately.  I'd like to ask you some questions about an ongoing investigation I'm involved in."

 

            "Certainly, though I can't imagine how I can be of help with a bureau case."

 

            "I hope more than you think, Abby."

            Abby's brow furrowed, but she kept her inquiries on hold until Carol had placed the man's pie and milk in front of him.  He forked off an end, chewed for a moment, and then washed it down with a swallow of cold liquid.  He leaned on the table, bringing his body closer to Abby's, giving her the impression he didn't want to be overheard.  With the noise level in the restaurant continuously on the rise as more and more people arrived she hardly thought that was a concern, but then what few FBI agents she'd encountered in her career always seemed to have an aura of intensity about them that bordered on paranoia. 

 

            "I'm the lead investigator on a case you were involved with about six weeks ago.  At the old city morgue?"

            Abby paused in the motion of reaching for a napkin.  "Yes?"

 

            "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to reveal many details surrounding the case, but I do need to know what your people uncovered."

 

            Being well aware of how mysterious this case had been right from the start, Abby proceeded with caution.  "I find it rather odd, Agent Phillips, that I wasn't contacted ahead of time regarding your visit today.  It would have given me the opportunity to review my notes before speaking with you."

            The man sat back in his seat, his expression one of open befuddlement.  "You weren't contacted?  But my secretary made an appointment with someone at your end named Hanrahan.  I thought it was a little strange that you weren't at the station when I stopped by, but because I was running about thirty minutes late, I assumed you'd gotten fed up with waiting for me."

            Now it was Abby's turn to be contrite.  "No, I didn't get fed up with waiting, I was never told..." to cover Hanrahan's uncharacteristic inefficiency, Abby finished with,  "regardless, obviously somehow the message your secretary gave Sergeant Hanrahan got misplaced.  I apologize for the inconvenience."

 

            Dan smiled while lifting another fork full of pie to his mouth.  "Believe me, Lieutenant, this is not an inconvenience.  Mix-up aside, is it all right with you if we continue our interview here?"

 

            "That's fine.  Though, if I could review my notes, I might be able to tell you more."

 

            "I'm on a fairly tight schedule today, so for now let's see how we do.   I can contact you at a later date if I have more questions."

 

            The man pulled a notepad out of the right pocket of his suit coat.  Abby could see he had something written on the page he flipped it to, and assumed it was filled with the questions he wanted to ask her.  He took a pen from his shirt pocket and used it as a marker while proceeding down his list.

 

            "In general, I'd like to know what your investigation wrought."

 

            Abby was honest and frank with her statement.  "It would help if I knew what was going on, Agent Phillips, because to tell you the truth, my investigation wrought very little.'"

 

            The man's smile was full of unspoken apologies.  "And I wish I could share those things with you, but I can't.  Orders from above you, understand.  But I will break the rules long enough to tell you the man who was killed was a Federal agent."

 

            "What happened to his body?"

            "We took care of it."

 

            Abby had to remember where she was to keep from shouting when she spoke.  "And the FBI is allowed to do that?  To tamper with a murder investigation that happened in my jurisdiction?"

 

            "I know, I know," Dan crooned sympathetically, "it's frustrating.  But, we're already aware of who murdered our agent.  Now it's a matter of finding him."

 

            "So this involves some type of sting operation you guys had in place?"

 

            "Yes, it does.  Though I can't--"

 

            "Say anymore."  Abby beat the man to the punch.   

 

            "I'm sorry," Dan smiled again,  "I really wish I could give you all the details, but right now I can't.  When I'm at liberty to, I promise I'll call and fill you in."

 

            Although Abby didn't want to, she grudgingly agreed.  "Fair enough.  Just answer one question for me and I'll be happy.  Or at least be able to quit spending my time scouring the records of every convicted felon, past or present, in San Diego."

 

            "A beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn't be scouring anything, Lieutenant, so ask away."

 

            Oh, brother.  And here I thought I'd heard every line of bull crap a woman in my position could possibly be subjected to.

 

            Abby ignored the man's charm.  He was suddenly starting to make her think of a snake oil salesman.  Smooth and slick on the outside, but possessing only empty promises within.  "Is there someone named White connected to this case?"

            "White?"

 

            "Yes, as in the color white.  W-h-i-t-e."

            If Abby had been sitting next to the man she might have detected the jittery bobbing of the tassels on his Italian loafers.

 

            "No, no one named White."  Dan recorded the word on his pad.  "What significance does it have for you?"

            "Not much.  It was mentioned as having been overheard in the course of a conversation.  Obviously, it's not much of a lead."

 

            "No," the man quickly agreed, "it's not."  The agent glanced down at his notes, feeling a sudden rush to change the line of questioning.   "What I need to know, Abby, is who was following our agent?"

            "Your agent?"

            "Yes, I've been told by my people that a man was tailing our agent.  Possibly a police officer."

            "No, there weren't any police officers tailing your agent.  At least none that I'm aware of."

 

            "No one who worked for you?"

            "No."

 

            "What about the man who was hit by the truck?"

            "The man who was hit by the truck?"  Abby echoed the question as though she'd almost forgotten this detail of the case.

            "Yes.  He was one of your officers, wasn't he?"

            "Oh no.  No, he wasn't.  He was a private citizen.  We have yet to figure out exactly what it was he was doing in the building to begin with, other than to say robbery might have been the motive."

 

            "Robbery?  Robbery of whom, or what?"

            Abby gave her shoulders a casual shrug while squeezing the last bit of juice out of a lemon slice and trickling it over what remained of her fish.  "I really don't know.  The man was a burglar by profession, with a list of convictions a mile long.  He was fairly well known to our department, actually."

 

            "I see.  Regardless, I need to talk to him.  I'd like you to set up an interview for me.  Or better yet, if you'll just give me his name, I'll contact him myself."

 

            "That would prove an effort in futility, Dan."

 

            "Why's that?"

 

            Abigail Marsh didn't even blink when she looked straight into the agent's eyes, noticing for the first time they were two different colors. 

 

            "The man you want to contact is dead."

________________________________

 

            Abby accomplished little more than pacing her office floor in the hour since she had returned from lunch.  The first thing she had done upon her arrival was grilled Hanrahan as to the supposed appointment set up by Dan Phillips' secretary.  Hanrahan swore he hadn't taken such a call, and Abby had no reason not to believe him.  In the two years he'd worked for her, he'd never done anything that would cause her to doubt his competency.

 

            But certainly it was possible the secretary had talked to someone else covering John Hanrahan's desk the day the appointment had supposedly been made.  Someone else who wasn't as conscientious as John was.  However, trying to find that someone would prove next to impossible.  As soon as word got out Abby was after blood, everyone would disavow all knowledge of the phone call in an effort to save his or her butt.

 

            On the other hand, hadn't Abby herself lied to Dan Phillips?  When she asked herself why, she really didn't have an answer.  Maybe it was because he caught her by surprise when he started asking for information regarding A.J., or maybe it was because, deep down inside, she was doubtful of portions of his story.

 

            But why, she wondered.  The man had shown her legitimate ID.  Or at least what looked like legitimate ID.  The FBI never had been an agency she'd wanted to be involved with.  While they had a wonderful track record of solving crimes, the best technology at their fingertips, and some of the brightest people working for them, they also used their position within the government to blanket investigations in secrecy, and to cover up things the public had the right to know.   

 

            Still, Abby understood why they'd be upset, and maybe even a little secretive, in this situation.  After all, it was one of their agents who was killed.  Abby had to acknowledge that if she was on the trail of the man's killer she wouldn't give out much information either, not even to a fellow law enforcement officer, for fear word would somehow get back to the perpetrator of the crime.

 

            Therefore, had she made a fatal error because she hadn't revealed A.J.'s name?  Because she had, in fact, lied and said he was a career criminal, and dead to boot? 

 

            But A.J. can't tell them anything anyway,  the woman attempted to justify.

 

            Right, Marsh, like that's going to make any difference when you're pulled into the Chief's office, stripped of your rank, and arrested for hindering a federal investigation.

 

            Abby was just about to pick up the phone and call the FBI's regional office in Los Angeles, when Hanrahan knocked twice on the door, then peeked his head in.  "There's an Agent Matthews here to see you, Lieutenant.  He says he's with the FBI.  And believe me, he doesn't have an appointment."

 

            Abby looked out her picture window to see a black man in a nondescript dark suit waiting on the other side of the counter top.     

 

            How could they have found out so fast?

 

            Abby was certain she was about to be read her rights and led away in humiliation when she told Hanrahan to show the man into her office.

 

            The black man extended his hand.  "Lieutenant Marsh, I'm Agent Ted Matthews with the FBI."

 

            "Agent Matthews."  Abby's handshake was brief.  "Would you like a seat?"

 

            "Thank you."

 

            Abby moved to sit behind her desk, the fish she'd had for lunch swimming crazy circles in her stomach.

 

            "Lieutenant Marsh, I'd like to speak with you regarding an investigation you led about two months ago."

 

            "The one involving the death of the FBI agent down at the vacant morgue?"

            "Uh...yes, ma'am.  That would be the one.  But, did you say the death of an FBI agent?"

            "Yes.  Coincidently enough, I spoke to one of the bureau's people earlier today.  An Agent Phillips.  Agent Paul Phillips."

 

            "Oh.  I see."  The black man stood, looking uncomfortable and out-of-place.  For some reason Abby didn't think his uneasiness was simply because a mix-up had occurred somewhere in the FBI's administration.

 

            "I won't keep you then.  If Paul has already talked to you, it would be a waste of our time for me to repeat the same questions, now wouldn't it?"

            Abby stood.  "Yes, Agent Matthews, it would.  Especially given the fact Paul has previously spoken to me."

 

            As the man sidled for the door, Abby lunged for his legs, only to land hard on her stomach.  She paid no attention to the skirt bunched up around her hips as she hollered,  "Stop that man!"

 

            Later, she would wonder how a man could flee out the door of a crowded squad room and make it all the way to the street without anyone being able to catch him.   She said as much at the top of her lungs to the staff members she assembled in her office thirty minutes later.  When Abby had no voice left, she dismissed them with a thunderous slam of the door.

 

            Abby personally picked up the phone when the call came in from Los Angeles at four o'clock that afternoon.  It only confirmed what she suspected.  No Agents Dan Phillips or Ted Matthews were employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Nor was there any type of on-going investigation in process regarding Abby's case.  When she mentioned it was possible an FBI agent had been killed, the man on the other end laughed.

 

            "I can assure you, Lieutenant Marsh, if one of our agents had been killed in San

Diego, you'd know about it."

 

            Abby sat behind her desk long after the first shift of police officers had given way to the arrival of the second shift. For now, there was little else she could do but make certain all her notes were well guarded.

 

            The lieutenant saved every bit of information she had on her computer regarding the troubling case on two discs.  When she was certain the files had copied completely, she deleted everything from her hard drive.  She took her paper notes out of her desk and placed them in her briefcase along with one of the discs.  From this day forward they would not be left in her office when she wasn't present.  The remaining disc she locked in her small personal vault in the records room.

 

            As she left the building that night, Abby was thankful she'd listened to her gut instinct at the restaurant.  God knows if she hadn't, A.J. Simon might be dead by now.

 

__________________________

 

            If Abigail Marsh had been patrolling the streets of Brendan's neighborhood two days later, she would have recognized the black man dressed in the blue uniform of a United States Postal employee.  The shorts that came to his knees were neatly pressed, as was his shirt with the postal insignia on the right sleeve.  Bright white socks rose to cover his shins, a comfortable looking pair of thick soled black walking shoes were on his feet.  He pushed the lightweight mailbag stroller along in front of him, smiling at the children who passed on their way home from school.

 

            Brendan's bus dropped him off at the corner.  He walked with a group of his buddies, but one by one they parted ways as each came to his own home, until only Brendan was left. 

 

            The boy made a wide circle around the mailman, walking on Mrs. Cannelli's lawn in order to do so.  This was the fourth day in a row he'd noticed the postal worker.  Brendan had mentioned the man's presence to his mother the evening before, but she'd dismissed his concerns with a preoccupied,  "Well of course he's hanging around the neighborhood, honey.  He is the mailman, after all."

            "But, Mom, no.  He's not our regular mailman.  This one's black, and I never actually see him delivering any mail."

 

            Linda chuckled while running a hand through her son's hair.  "Sweetheart, I think you've been spending too much time with Rick and A.J.  Now you're looking for an adventure around every corner."

 

            Before Brendan could say anything more on the subject, his

stepfather bellowed from upstairs.   Her lips compressed tight with anxiety, Linda hurried off as if she was Mark's handmaiden.

 

            "And he's always watching me," Brendan had mumbled to the empty kitchen, finishing his story as the sound of another argument drifted through the house.

 

            Brendan's eyes flicked up to meet the black man's as he passed.  As usual, the youngster wasn't acknowledged with more than a tight nod. 

 

            Brendan could feel the man's eyes on his back as he continued toward his house.  He was glad Heather's bus dropped her off right in front of the Milligans', and that Cheryl babysat for her until their mother arrived home.  At least the man wouldn't have a chance to hurt her, nor would Heather's presence hinder Brendan if he was ever forced to run.

 

            The boy hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder.  The mailman was pushing his bag now, slowly ambling along twenty feet or so behind Brendan.  He was looking at the houses across the street, as if in search of an address.

 

            Maybe Mom's right.  Maybe I'm just imagining things.  Why would the guy be interested in me anyway?

 

            Before Brendan's mind could come up with a plausible answer, a blue Chevy careened to the curb.  It fishtailed to a stop with a squeal of rubber.  A woman with frizzy, two-toned hair and a blouse so tight the buttons gapped where they tried to close around her full breasts, shot out of the vehicle.  She grabbed the startled Brendan by the arm, whipping him around to face her.  She jabbed him in the shoulder with two-inch blood-red nails manicured to a razor sharp point, causing him to stumble backwards. 

 

            "Listen, you little bastard, you quit hangin' around with them nosy dicks, you got that?  What the fuck have you been tellin' 'em, boy?  Huh?  What have you been tellin' em?"

 

            She snared one of the shoulder straps of Brendan's backpack, jerking him forward.  He was so close now he could smell the alcohol on her breath, and see the angry red streaks that lined her eyes.

 

            "Cat got your tongue, huh, pretty boy?  Well, you better know how to keep your mouth shut, 'cause we can make things a whole lot worse, sweet face.  I promise, we can make things a whole lot worse!"

 

            When she threw her head back and laughed like a crazy witch, Brendan saw his chance.  He jerked himself free of her grasp, running for all he was worth.  He didn't see the black man chase after the woman's car in an attempt to get her license plate number.  He didn't see anything.  He ran without stopping to his house, fumbled to let himself in with his key, then slammed the door behind him and throwing the deadbolt for good measure.

 

            The twelve-year-old leaned against the door panting for breath.  His heart raced more from fear than exertion.  When he worked up the nerve, he cautiously moved to the living room window.  Brendan peered out from a corner of the draperies, but didn't see anything.  He risked exposing more of his body, until finally he was standing in front of the window.

 

            All was quiet in the neighborhood.  The boy saw no sign of a blue car, or of the black mailman.  He could almost make himself believe he'd dreamed the entire incident if not for the pain his felt in his right shoulder where the woman had stabbed him with her fingernails.

 

            Twenty minutes later, Brendan mulled over the unsettling events while sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of milk and nibbling on a cookie.  A lot of things had changed recently, and other than Brendan's new-found diligence in school, few of those changes were for the better.  Something weird was going on between his mother and Mark.  They were fighting now like his mom and dad used to, only when they had argued it had always been behind closed doors, and in hushed tones in an effort to keep their disagreements from him and Heather. But it was different this time.  The fights were loud, and the kind of words that were shouted by Mark would have gotten Brendan's mouth washed out with soap if he ever used them.  His father had never even used that kind of language in their home, and never had Brendan heard his father call his mother nasty names, no matter how mad he was at her.  Never had he heard anyone call his mother a dumb bitch, or a damn whore, like he'd heard Mark scream the other night.  He wanted to make the man stop, had even gone to his mother's bedroom doorway, only to have her frantically wave him away before Mark became aware of his presence. 

 

            Now Brendan wondered about the woman who had accosted him this afternoon.  Was it simply a case of mistaken identity, or maybe someone who was too drunk to know what she was doing?  But it was funny, in an odd sort of way; that she told him to stay away from those nosy dicks.  He wouldn't have known to what or whom she was referring, if he hadn't heard Mark yell at his mother the other night after Rick dropped him off from a visit with A.J.

 

            "I told you I don't want him hanging around those damn nosy private dick cousins of yours, woman!"

 

            Why would it matter to Mark whether or not Brendan spent his time with Rick and A.J.?  His stepfather had always made it clear he didn't want Brendan around, so he should be happy he had some place else to be. And most of all, why would some woman Brendan didn't even know have the same concerns?

 

 

Chapter 16

              

            In the two weeks since Rick and Troya Yeager had first eaten together at Marty's Café, they met for dinner three more times.  They giggled like kids as butter ran down their chins while dining on lobster, they got to know one another better at the Steak Pit while T-bones sizzled in the background, and they talked far into the night over lasagna and red wine on Rick's boat, the meal cooked by the captain himself.

 

            It had been a long time since Rick Simon had fallen head over heels in love with a woman.  He found himself thinking about Troya at all hours of the day and night, just as she found herself thinking of him.  If they didn't happen to run across each other at the rehab center while Rick was visiting A.J., then their nights were capped off by a phone call placed from Rick's boat to her house. 

 

            As much as Rick sensed a sexual attraction between them, he had yet to try to maneuver her into the bedroom, which only emphasized more to the detective how serious this relationship was.  He'd be the first to admit he'd dated a number of women over the years with the only intention on his part being that the night end with a round of playful sex.  Not that those particular women didn't want the night to end the same way, but with Troya it was different.  He wanted to wait.  He wanted their first time together to be special.  He wanted it to be a significant step in their relationship, and one they both desired to take.  He didn't want either one of them waking up with regrets the next morning.

 

            For despite his strong attraction to the woman, Rick readily acknowledged the vast differences between himself and Troya Yeager.  First of all, she was a well-educated woman of culture and class.  More A.J.'s type than his.  She had attended only the best private schools since kindergarten, traveled abroad for a year after college, and even been a debutante; though she'd wrinkled her nose in distaste when she told Rick that had not been her idea, but rather, her mother's.  Still, he found it hard to believe she could be so taken with him, an earthy guy who said exactly what he was thinking regardless of the circumstances. A guy who rarely employed the art of tact. A guy who often allowed his temper to do his talking. A guy to whom money and position meant little.  But then, those last two items didn't mean much to Troya, either.  Or so Rick was beginning to learn.

 

            The detective was thinking of all these things while in the swimming pool at the rehab center on Friday night.  A.J. swam beside him wearing his life vest.  They had found the pool was generally empty on any given night after eight o'clock, so tended to plan their visits accordingly.