Steeled for Murder (23 page)

This is someone I work with,
I reminded myself.
Someone who has been kind to me when she didn’t have to be. What would she want me to do?

First, I gathered all the wrapped gifts together. They could go under the tree. Then I rolled Kelly over and pulled the blankets out from under her. Grabbing her feet—one bare and one still wearing a warm thermal sock—I tried to swing her around so she’d be lying lengthwise on the bed. She shouldn’t be left on her back. Drunks sometimes threw up; she could choke on the vomit. Or swallow some and drown in it.

She had to be really drunk. She hardly stirred when I moved her.

I maneuvered her onto her side and shoved a pillow under her head. I took the extra pillows and stuffed them down along her back. Maybe they would keep her on her side. My hand burned where it brushed against her skin. It seemed to have developed a mind of its own and wanted to pull her panties down farther. They were already partway down. Fighting the urge, I snatched my rebellious hand away and covered her with the blankets.

I made a few trips downstairs with the packages, piling them under the tree. I was pleased with how festive it looked. I hoped it would look magical to the kids in the morning.

I went back upstairs to check on Kelly one more time. She was sleeping soundly, still snoring. I made sure the covers were tucked around her. I was tempted to give her a good night kiss, too, but I didn’t. Turning off the light, I pulled the door almost closed.

I went downstairs and unplugged the tree lights. I should leave. I knew I should leave. I looked out the front window. A soft snow was drifting down, covering the ice and frozen slush.

I always found snow falling in the night to be mesmerizing. For my last few years in prison, I’d had a cell at the far end of the honor tier, overlooking the perimeter fences and service road, past the coils of razor wire and the guard tower, into the woods. When it snowed, I’d stand at my cell window for hours and watch it drift down. Buried a multitude of ugliness. This snow wasn’t even covering razor wire. And it wasn’t criss-crossed by roving security spotlights.

The long walk home might be treacherous. Sidewalks and roads would be slippery.

Would the kids be able to cope in the morning if Kelly were really hung over?

I was making excuses to stay. Wasn’t like the kids were babies.

I had never made it to the grocery store. I went to the kitchen. I didn’t think Kelly would mind if I made a couple of sandwiches to take with me. Her refrigerator and cabinets were loaded with food. I took a few pickles from a big jar, too. And two cans of soda.

Shoving them all in a plastic bag, I grabbed my jacket and the library books. The bag with the damp sweater and shirts was still in the pocket. I fastened the jacket, snugged up the hood, and pulled out the gloves.

Thank you, Mitch, for the gloves. And the sweatshirt. Although I was going to ditch the sweatshirt as soon as I had something else to put on.

Stepping out into the quiet night, I inhaled fresh, frigid air. Some of the houses had Christmas lights twinkling through the snow. Walking wasn’t so bad. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.

After all this, I knew I was going to feel very alone in my room. But I had my books and the sandwiches. And I didn’t have to follow the numbing prison routine. That should be enough.

Maybe I’d managed to make the holiday better for two sets of kids. I’d tried. That was a big deal for me. Mrs. Coleman always tried to make Christmas special for the little kids who came into her home at Christmas time, almost always on an emergency basis.
Mrs. Coleman, you’d be proud of me.

I relished my ten days of unaccustomed freedom. I took long walks around town, looking at Christmas decorations in the store windows. I read my library books. Twice, when the sun shone weakly in the morning, I hiked the roads into the hills.

On Thursday after New Year’s, I headed out to the parole office. Even if Mr. Ramirez weren’t there, I had to report and pay the monitoring fee for two weeks.

I left enough time to stop by the library to drop off the books I’d read.

Mandy was working at the front desk. She was wearing the brave red reindeer top again. But she looked pretty glum. I looked more closely. She had a white turtleneck under the red fleece. More dark marks on her neck peeked above the shirt collar.

I piled my books on the desk and grinned. “Have a good holiday?” I asked.

She tried to smile. “I guess,” she said. “Every holiday can’t be the best one ever.”

“I spent Christmas by myself in my room, mostly reading. I had a day-old, slightly squashed ham and cheese sandwich for dinner.”

She did smile at that. “Watch all the Christmas TV specials?” she asked. “I did.”

“Don’t have a TV. Otherwise, I might have.”

She laughed at that. “No TV! I thought everybody had a TV.”

“Guess I’m not ‘everybody.’”

“I fixed a turkey for dinner. All the trimmings.”

“Invite a bunch of people over?” I leaned on the counter.

“Nope. Was just supposed to be my husband and me. He doesn’t like a lot of company.”

Her husband was Sterling Radman. I can’t imagine that too many people would want to come over. But then, maybe he was perfectly charming to people of his own social class. “Just the two of you, huh. He like the dinner?”

“He was…busy. He didn’t get home until late. Then he wasn’t hungry. Just as well. The turkey was dried out.” She adjusted her glasses.

What could he be doing on Christmas Day? Surely he wouldn’t be needed at Quality Steel. But what did I know about how to run a business?

I smiled at her. “And we survived.”

“That’s so. But sometimes I think that’s all I do. Just barely survive,” she said.

“Sometimes that’s enough.” I thought of the years in prison.

She seemed to think better of sharing her problems with me. Probably a smart move.

“I was just about to put out a bunch of books on the new book shelf.” She indicated a book cart next to her. “Want to take a look?”

“I got to go,” I said. “I got an appointment with my parole officer. I’ll be back afterwards, though, and get a few books.”

Her eyes opened wide. Had she forgotten that I’d used a prison ID to get my library card? If so, I was sorry that I’d reminded her.

“See you later.” I waved and moved toward the door.

I arrived at the parole office a little early again. The dingy basement waiting room was empty. I signed in on the clipboard, sat down, and waited.

The lady who came to check the clipboard was someone I hadn’t seen before. She was a large woman, her enormous bosom encased in a voluminous blue sweater with two snowmen who stood with the tops of their brooms pointed at snowflakes in the “sky” above them. The positioning was unfortunate; they were also pointing straight at the woman’s nipples, which showed clearly through her sweater.

Rattled, I directed my gaze away from her chest.

She stood there holding a mostly eaten bagel spread with cream cheese. She took a large bite as she surveyed the room. A dab of cream cheese landed on her chin. My stomach grumbled. All I’d had before I came was a cup of instant coffee.

She crammed the rest of the bagel in her mouth, shut the door, and went back into the offices.

Fifteen minutes later, she came out again. She’d wiped the cream cheese from her chin. She had another bagel in her hand. Again, she surveyed the room, taking a huge bite as her eyes swept over me and the other benches. I was still the only one there.

The bagel looked really good. I swallowed. I wondered if I could afford a package of cream cheese and a few bagels. Maybe not the bakery kind—they were really expensive—but didn’t they sell frozen ones?

Finally, without looking at me, she called out, “Jesse Damon” and opened the door that led to the offices.

I got up and followed her, trying not to stare at her rear end, which was of the same epic proportions as her bosom. She lifted the bagel toward her mouth.

A clean soap smell lingered in the air behind her, along with a whiff of cream cheese.

She seated herself at her desk. A half-empty box with donuts and more bagels stood open by her telephone. Next to it was a container of cream cheese with a little plastic knife. She typed away at her keyboard. When she’d stopped chewing, she said, “Mr. Ramirez is not in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She peered at the computer screen and frowned. “Forty dollars monitoring fee. You have to pay it even though you’re not actively being monitored this week. Looks like that’s it. No urinalysis or restitution that I see.”

I took out two twenties and handed them to her. Her pudgy fingers smoothed them lovingly on her desk. She turned back to her keyboard and typed again. Sitting back, she reached a large hand toward the printer as my receipt came out and then gave it to me.

Glancing sideways at me, she reached for the phone. “Have a seat in the waiting room. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I felt my throat begin to close. I managed to rasp out, “I thought Mr. Ramirez wasn’t in.”

“He isn’t,” the lady said. “But someone else will be with you. Just go have a seat in the waiting room.”

I glanced back as I left the office. She was spreading cream cheese on another bagel. Then she picked up the receiver of her phone.

The heat in the waiting room seemed much worse than it had been before. A few other people were waiting now; they looked up listlessly as I came in and then returned to staring at nothing. I folded my jacket, careful to tuck the gloves and watch cap deeply into the pocket. Weak sunlight shimmered on the worn floor like a mirage. I fought down the temptation to leave; they’d just have me picked up, and then I’d be in worse trouble. I forced myself to sit down.

I didn’t have long to wait. The door to the offices swung open, and two uniformed police officers stomped in. One looked bored, the other, annoyed.

They surveyed the now almost full waiting room. The bored one fixed his eyes on me. “Jesse Damon?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand up and face the wall. Interlace your fingers behind your head. Spread your legs.”

I could see panic and relief warring on the faces of the others who were waiting. Wasn’t them being hauled off. They looked away, distancing themselves from what was happening to me.

My stomach in a knot, I complied with the orders. I knew the routine.

Maybe I should have just left. Gotten a few more minutes of freedom, anyhow.

One cop held his hand over mine on the back of my head while the other frisked me. He removed my wallet from my pocket.

“That your jacket?” he asked, nodding toward the bench where I’d been sitting.

“Yes, sir.” I tried to keep all expression off my face and out of my voice.

He tossed the wallet on top of the jacket and ran his hands between my legs. He’d missed my keychain. I was glad I hadn’t gotten any library books.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back and picking up the jacket and wallet.

At least they weren’t going to just leave them sit there. Wasn’t really safe leaving stuff around a lot of the people who hang out in parole offices.

The other officer pulled my hands down behind me, one at a time, tightening cuffs on my wrists.

“Let’s go.” With a firm hand on each elbow, I was propelled through the door and down the hallway, to an elevator. We stopped to wait for it.

“Am I gonna be locked up?” I managed to ask.

One of the cops shrugged. “Not our call. We was just told to go down and get you. Somebody wants to talk to you. A detective. Up to him, or maybe your parole officer, whether you get locked up or not.”

A detective. Belkins. Left word to hold me when I showed up for the parole appointment.

I ended up in the same interrogation room as before. I slumped in the same hard chair next to the same battered table, wishing they had gotten a waist chain and moved my hands in front of me. A lot more comfortable.

Someone—Belkins, I was sure—would be in when it suited him. Not a minute sooner.

I knew the room was being monitored. I couldn’t lean back against the back of the chair without cutting off the circulation to my hands. I let my head fall forward on my chest and closed my eyes. Let them think I was calm enough to drift off for a nap. They wouldn’t like that at all. Might hurry them up.