All Sales Fatal (16 page)

“Trust me: I’d walk away from Fernglen tomorrow if a police department called. So far, they haven’t.” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I knew Mom heard it. “I’ve only been there a bit over a year; I don’t think it’s quite fair to say I’m in a rut.”

“A rut,” Mom insisted. She carefully reapplied the rose-colored Chanel lipstick she’d been using as long as I’d known her. Smooching her lips into a tissue, she said, “You need to challenge yourself, EJ, go out on a limb, get your mojo back, as Clint would say.”

I stared at her. “There’s nothing wrong with my mojo! In case you forget, I’m the one who broke out of the daughter-of-Hollywood-superstar rut and joined the military. I had enough ‘mojo’ to go head-to-head with the Taliban, to lead—”

“That was before,” Mom said, her voice quiet and as steady as the heater’s hum from the vent above us.

Before. Before the IED. Before my injuries. Before the cataclysmic event that divided my life into before and after. I swallowed. Blood thrummed in my ears and I felt a little dizzy. “What are you saying? That I’m a coward?”

“No, oh no, honey. Both you and Clint have always had more courage than I thought was good for you. Certainly more than was good for me, being your mother.” Tears glinted in her eyes, but she gave a husky laugh. “And you’re still the most courageous woman I know. I’m just afraid that it’s taking you too long to give up on an unrealistic dream and find another dream. I’m afraid you’re going to
settle
for a job, an environment, a life that is so much less than you deserve and are capable of.”

“You’re saying I’ll never be a cop again.”

After a brief hesitation, she nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“You and Dad didn’t raise me to give up.” It came out like an accusation.

“No, we didn’t. ‘Giving up’ was the wrong phrase. I should have said ‘reevaluating your options’ or ‘coming to terms with new realities.’”

“Being a cop is my reality. It’s who I am.”

“No.”

Anger infused the word, made it brittle enough to shatter into a thousand tinkling, crystalline pieces on the marble floor.

“You are not your job,” Mom said, gaining control again. “What you do is
part
of you; it doesn’t define you. When you limit yourself so needlessly, it makes me… makes me want to spank you.”

Her words startled a reluctant grin from me. “You never spanked me.”

“Well, I should have,” she said tartly.

“So I should—what? Take Dad up on his offer to make me a VP in his production company? No thanks.”

“Have you ever thought about owning your own business?”

“Selling cookies?” It was the first thing that popped into my head.

She looked at me strangely. “You’re not the cookie type.”

Neither was Jay Callahan, I thought but didn’t say.

“What about a security business? Your father and I could bankroll you, help you get started.”

I’d never thought about going into business for myself. I didn’t know exactly what all a security firm did, but it sounded intriguing. “I’ll think about it,” I said, feeling emotionally bruised and too confused to think clearly.

“Wonderful, dear.” With a final pat to her immaculate blond hair, Mom glided to the door with the air of a tycoon successfully concluding a multibillion-dollar deal or a magician pulling off a new and dangerous illusion.

With a rueful smile, feeling half-grateful and half-resentful, I followed her.

Thirteen

After the heavy
meal and heavy conversation, I felt logy and unmotivated when my folks dropped me off. I wanted a nap but knew some exercise would be much better for me. Grabbing my swim bag before I could cave in to the bed’s siren call, I drove to the YMCA. I was a little later than usual, and there were more people in the pool than I was comfortable with when I walked onto the deck from the locker room with a towel tied around my waist. Moist air heavily scented with chlorine steamed the natatorium’s windows. Steeling myself, I dropped the towel and immediately slid into the water, looking around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed my leg.

“Hey, EJ!”

I turned, startled, to see Joel Rooney approaching, a broad smile on his chubby face, a roll of fat hanging over the waistband of his Hawaiian-print swim trunks. His bare feet slapped the damp tile, and he plopped into the lane beside me, displacing a wave that earned a glare from a lap
swimmer breaststroking past us. I was glad to see him. Somehow, working out with Joel, coaching him as he swam, kept me from being quite so self-conscious about my leg. Maybe, I thought with a little thump of realization, because I was focused on
him
and not
me
. Hm. Something to think about… later, like maybe when the time for New Year’s resolutions came around.

“I didn’t think I’d see you,” Joel said.

“Good for you, coming to work out on your own,” I told him.

He beamed. “Sunny and I are going to a movie this weekend.”

“You asked her out? Way to go! I told you a few pounds wouldn’t matter to someone who liked you.”

“She asked me.”

He seemed a little sheepish, so I said, “That’s even better. Ready?”

We swam for nearly forty minutes. Joel’s stamina was improving, and he was able to do two whole laps now before stopping for a breather. I felt tremendously better by the time I’d showered and changed and left the Y. So much better, in fact, that I swung by the grocery store and then drove to Grandpa Atherton’s, planning to make him dinner. “Surprise,” I said when he opened the glossy blue door to his townhome.

“Why, Emma-Joy,” he said, kissing my cheek, “that’s very thoughtful of you. But I was just about to go bowling. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Bowling?” I stared at him. Instead of his usual crisp shirt and slacks he wore dark gray sweatpants and a striped rugby shirt whose shoulder seams fell two inches below his bony shoulders. His white hair was slightly mussed and he patted it down with one hand. “You don’t bowl.”

He brushed away my observation. “Of course I do.
Everybody bowls. In fact, your grandma and I used to belong to a league. Come on.” He shoved my grocery bags into the fridge, herded me out the door, locked it, and headed for a gold Cadillac parked at the curb.

“Whose is this?”

His blue eyes twinkled. “A friend’s.”

“You’re making a drop, or whatever you call it, at the bowling alley, aren’t you?” I said, comprehension dawning.

“Nonsense,” he said, opening the door so I could slide into the luxurious leather interior. “I might be meeting someone for a brief exchange of information—simple, fast, discreet. You won’t even notice.” He thunked the door closed and got in on the driver’s side, shooting me a grin.

When we walked into the bowling alley, to the sound of clattering pins, a short-order cook yelling about fries, and the
ping
of pinball machines, I said, “I can’t bowl.” I patted my leg.

Grandpa said, “Those jeans’ll work fine, Emma-Joy. We’ll rent some shoes.”

He was being deliberately obtuse and I glowered at him. “Not my clothes—my knee.”

Proceeding to the counter and asking for size-ten shoes, Grandpa said, “Last time you bowled—what was your score?”

I gave him a puzzled look. “It was years ago. Ninety-five or a hundred and three, maybe.”

“So,” he said triumphantly, “you’ve always been a lousy bowler. Your knee’s not going to make a difference. What size?”

We had a
surprisingly good time, and even though I didn’t see him meet Jason Bourne or the spy who came in from
the cold or whoever, I knew when he’d done it because the slight tension I’d felt from him all evening disappeared. “Everything go okay?” I asked when he returned from the bathroom.

His smile acknowledged my instincts. “You can rest easy tonight knowing that the fate of the free world is in good hands.”

I snorted and picked up my bowling ball. My approach was lousy and I lofted the ball so it slammed into the lane, but I knocked over nine pins, so I was happy. “Tomorrow’s the memorial service,” I told Grandpa when I returned to my chair. He’d been eating French fries and wiped his hands on a napkin before rising to get his ball.

“Want me to come with you?” he asked over his shoulder, crouching for his approach.

By virtue of his earlier career, Grandpa was an acute observer. “Sure,” I said, thinking he might spot someone whose behavior was a little off. “I’ll pick you up at eight thirty.”

Moving with surprising fluidity for an octogenarian, he stalked forward and released the ball with a funny upward flourish of his hand. “Strike!” he announced, pumping his fist.

I rolled my eyes.

Captain Woskowicz’s memorial
service was being held, strangely enough, on a tennis court in a downtown park in Vernonville. Metal chairs had been set up on the court, the net had been removed, and a folding table laden with candles, flowers, and photos of Woskowicz was at one end. A sparse crowd sat in the chairs, huddled into their coats against the fifty-degree chill, which was magnified, I discovered, by the cold metal of the chairs. Several people cast uneasy glances at the overcast sky.

“Why this place?” I asked the woman seated beside me when Grandpa and I settled two-thirds of the way back. “Was it special to Captain Woskowicz?” Maybe he was a huge tennis buff and I hadn’t known it.

She sighed heavily. “Nina’s Catholic, Paula’s Baptist, and Aggie’s Buddhist—this was the only site they could agree on. As far as I know, Dennis wasn’t anything.”

A sad epitaph, I thought as the memorial commenced with each of the ex-wives going forward to the makeshift—altar?—to lay flowers in front of Woskowicz’s photos. The rest of the service was a strange amalgam of traditions with prayers, candle lighting, incense burning, and eulogies in which the three redheads shared their special memories of “Beaner,” “Wosko,” and “Denny.”

“When I go, Emma-Joy,” Grandpa whispered to me, “just set my body adrift on a burning boat. Nobody gets to say anything.”

I choked on a laugh and hunched my shoulders against glares from the couple in front of us. As it started to drizzle, I looked around, spotting Curtis Quigley seated behind the ex-wives near the front, and several other mall denizens: Starla, Mike Wachtel, Kyra, Dusty Margolin from Nordstrom, and most of the security office staff. A glance over my shoulder showed me Detective Anders Helland and another officer standing in the back, studying the attendees. Helland gave a tiny nod when he caught me staring at him, and I turned around, flushing.

The service ended with a bang—literally—when Aggie tried to plug in a boom box to play John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” and the rain shorted it out. Jumping back from the electric fizzle, she smoothed her damp skirt and began to sing the song herself in a thin soprano. She gestured for everyone to join in, and several people did, sending the phrase “Rocky Mountain hi-igh, Colorado” quavering over
the park. Grandpa Atherton enthusiastically contributed his strong baritone to the mix until I elbowed him. Somehow, I couldn’t see Captain Woskowicz as a John Denver lover and suspected he would have made gagging noises or booted the boom box to the other side of the park if he’d been there.

People edged awkwardly away from the tennis court, clearly uncertain about which of the three ex-wives, if any, deserved a widow’s condolences, and broke for their cars when the rain began to pound down in earnest. I had beeped open the Miata’s doors when Paula Woskowicz caught up with me, rain darkening her coppery hair and anxiety darkening her expression.

“Miss Ferris,” she said, casting a curious look at Grandpa where he sat, warm and dry, in the passenger seat. “Could I come by your office later to talk to you? It’s important.”

“Sure,” I said, curious but anxious to get out of the rain. “Any time. I’ll be there until four or so.”

I hopped into the car and shook my head like a dog, spraying droplets of water onto the windshield and Grandpa.

“Emma-Joy!”

“Sorry,” I said, putting the car in gear. I had almost reached the parking lot entrance when a figure appeared in front of me. I hit the brakes hard. Aggie—I realized I still didn’t know her last name—stood there, wet as a chunky mermaid, hand extended in a “stop” signal. When I rolled down the window with an exasperated, “What now?” she scurried over and hunched down to stare in at me. Raindrops glinted on her stubby lashes, and she flinched as a rivulet squiggled between the breasts displayed by the deep and unfunereal V of her blouse.

“I called the mall and they said you’re head of security now that Wosko’s gone. Is that right?”

“For the moment,” I said, wondering why she cared. “They’ll advertise for a permanent—”

“And you’re using his office?”

The words “Not really” hovered on my tongue, but she didn’t pause. “He might have left something there. Something important. Something I need. I’ll come by this afternoon to look for it.”

Before I could ask what the item was or why she thought it was in his office—could she know about the gun?—she darted away, splashing up gouts of water from the puddles already forming in the pothole-pocked lot.