The Last Clinic (24 page)

He walked to his car, passing a young couple who were too into each other to notice him, and drove to a gas station west of the Chicago River. He changed back into his regular clothes and dumped the bag that contained his costume in a dumpster he saw in an alley. He caught a couple of hours' sleep, which he needed, especially after the struggle. He checked out of the motel at five a.m., telling the girl at the desk that he had an early flight out of O’Hare to Boston. She wished him a safe flight.

He pulled off the interstate, parked in a forest preserve outside the city, and changed the tags on his car.

The way he figured it, even if Joe had a meeting in the morning, the earliest the hotel would agree to check his room would be somewhere around noon. By then he’d be halfway down the state headed for his next appointment.

The TV and the papers would run a story about the murder of a Dr. Joseph Morrison from Cincinnati, killed in his hotel room while attending a convention of ob-gyns in Chicago. The story would note that the murder had a similar pattern to three unsolved serial slayings in Chicago’s gay community two years earlier. The police would be unwilling to confirm or deny that Dr. Morrison’s murder was committed by the same individual who committed the previous murders. Eventually, the CSI people might find some sort of forensic evidence to indicate that it was a different killer. So what? They’d assume it was a copycat crime, which would lead them nowhere. The Chicago Special Crimes Unit would work the case for a week or two until all the leads went cold.

He hoped Joe had plenty of insurance. The brief had said that he had a wife and three kids back in Cincinnati.

Once again, everything had gone as well as could be expected. Only thing was, he was running low on cash and he wasn’t wild about having to use his own money for travel expenses. Luckily, he’d get another expense deposit come Monday.

23

    Confessions of a Different Sort.

Shelby drew up the paperwork, and Darla deposited the next three thousand dollars on Monday. On the same day, six hundred was withdrawn at a gas station ATM outside of Kankakee, Illinois, an hour or so south of Chicago, and the next day, another six hundred, this time at a bank near the Illinois state capitol, Springfield, as though nothing had happened.

Darla, Shelby, Uther, even Tommy had come to the same conclusion. The person making the withdrawals hadn’t gotten word of the murder, nor had he or she made any attempt to get in touch with Reverend Aldridge. There were no calls, no emails, and no text messages.

It was up to Uther to find the so-called pattern or they would be back asking for another three grand, something Shelby didn’t want to do. Worse, aside from the money, they were at a dead end—no leads and no suspects. Tommy had his singing. For Darla there was nothing to do but wait.

She sat in her office and filled the empty afternoon fuming over Marietta Simmons. The jealous, lying socialite had tried to frame Dr. Nicoletti for murder and was going to walk away with clean hands. Once Dr. Nicoletti had been released, Tommy had simply called Marietta back in. Would she like to amend her statement? he had asked, meaning, did she want to write a new script for herself and reshoot the video? Did she ever.

“I’ll wear the same suit if you like, Detective Reylander. That way you can easily edit my corrected statements into the existing video so that the affect will be seamless.”

The new version had it like this:

 “Now Ms. Simmons, are you certain it was Dr. Nicoletti you saw through the rearview mirror?”

“Well, it was a little dark, and well, I only got a look at him for a split second, and I’ve only seen Dr. Nicoletti a few times. When one stops to think about it, there are quite a few tall blond men around, so maybe I can’t be totally sure of who it was. You know, one’s eyes can play tricks on one.” Blah, blah, blah.

Darla called Shelby to complain about how Tommy ought to be fired, at the very least, or better yet, brought up on obstruction of justice charges.

Shelby was in his backyard playing tee ball with his grandson. It took him four rings before he answered.

“Lookie here, Miss Darla. Tommy’s probably violating some kind of departmental code, editing the DVD. I can call him and smack him around good. I’ll even let you listen in if it will make you feel better. I know it would improve my spirits. As far as Marietta Simmons is concerned, ain’t nothing I can do legally. Of course, we could go out of our way to embarrass her by leaking the story about her affair to the press. You could do that, if you had a mind. I can’t stop you. But then it would embarrass Dr. Nicoletti as well, which I don’t think either of us is anxious to have happen—an honorable man like that.”

“Plus, it would cost you the coming election,” said Darla.

“Hard to get elected to anything in this state if you spit in the face of Magnolia Digital. It’s up to you.”

“When you put it that way…”

Still pissed, she left her office and rode around the city looking at nothing, going nowhere, thinking maybe she’d head home and check the mail. She was due a copy of
LA Confidential
from Netflix. Instead, she wound up in the parking lot of the Jackson Women’s Health Clinic. It was seven p.m. Dr. Nicoletti’s SUV was the only other car in the lot.

After a minute of getting up her courage, she told herself to go ahead.
This is what you want
, she thought.
Well, isn’t it?

She rang the bell. Dr. Nicoletti answered the door. He didn’t act surprised to see her, but not like he expected her either.

Standing in the doorway, she became aware of feeling chilled and then remembered the newspaper saying a late spring cold front was coming and that there might be an ice storm. Her body let loose a shiver.
If he would just hold me right now
, she thought.
That would be enough
.

“The reason I’m here…” she started, but couldn’t find the next few words.

“Please,” he said, inviting her in.

She shivered again as she stepped in.

 “I should have brought a sweater. The weather I mean.” She knew she was sounding stupid.

It was quiet and empty in the reception room. They sat on couches facing each other.

He waited for her to begin, but without seeming to wait.

“I guess everybody has gone for the day,” she said, filling in the silence.

“We had surgery this afternoon. I usually give my assistant the rest of the day off.”

More silence.

“This isn’t a professional visit. I mean, I’m not here for an examination. There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“I would concur. Nothing at all wrong,” he said, playful as before.

She shook her head left to right a couple of times, as if she was trying to jar herself out of a drunken stupor.

He just waited.

She put her hand over her mouth and cleared her throat.

“What you did was very brave, keeping Beth’s confidence like that.” But that wasn’t all she wanted to say. She could see in his eyes he knew she wasn’t sure how to get where she wanted to go.

“Can I get you something?” he said.

“Can we go in your office? I feel funny out here—like I’m waiting for a bus or something.”

He held the door for her, and she walked in, just a step or two. She turned and waited until he closed the door. The blinds were drawn. She felt silly but saw that he was willing to indulge her mood.

They were standing nearer to each other than they had ever been.

Yes
, she thought.
Just like this. This is where. Right here
. She felt like a tightrope walker about to take the first step off the platform.

“Are we totally alone?” she said, eyes darting around the room, as nervous as a little girl.

“Yes. Just you and I.”

Now! Do it
, she urged.
Don’t wait for him
.

She took his right hand in her left, opened it, and lifted it to her face, holding his palm first to one cheek and then the other, waiting for his warm skin to heat her. Then moving the pads of his fingers over to her mouth and kissing each finger with parted lips, her tongue—just the tip of it—barely tasting the tips of his fingers, but hungry enough to gobble them up.

He kissed her on the lips, softly, and so quick it felt stolen, and he drew her body to his for an embrace.

The next kiss was breathless, with him lifting her and twirling her around.

Then they couldn’t get enough of each other, their movements swift and precise. The grabbing and the unbuttoning punctuated the kisses, long and probing. Her body trembling, everything flowed past, as they moved down a long tunnel, with all her nervous energy rushing to her extremities. She opened her palms, fingers outstretched, toes curled up to release the force of life in her.

Where was she now? She lost track. Yes, there, still standing, he on his knees. Her hands in his hair, caressing—his mouth exploring her nakedness.

She stopped him. “No,” she said. “Your hands first. First with your hands.”

The rest felt like music happening inside her.

And when her crescendo came, she wept, her tears on his cheek, his neck, his shoulder, sobbing as she clutched him to her.

Time passed. She lost track of place. She found herself next to him on the couch in his office. A thin blanket covered them. She thought about lifting it to look at their naked bodies twined together, but didn’t. Shy still, but curious like an animal.

“Shall I make us some coffee?” he asked.

What was with this guy and his coffee?
she wondered.

“Yes,” she said. It was a chance to see him naked. She grinned and bit her lip. “I’d like that.”

He stood, looked at her, and smiled his usual smile, which she now believed he meant only for her.

She watched as he bent over and put on, not his shorts but only his trousers. Hugh had done that too, the pants, but not the briefs. They were the only men she could remember doing things that way.

 She kept her eyes on him all the time he made the coffee. His back, his chest, shoulders, his neck, and arms. He was lean and supple, an athlete’s body. He exercised, she was sure, but not jogging. Something that used more of his upper body. Not weights. His muscles were not a body builder’s muscles. She decided it was swimming and pictured him in the pool, those long arms reaching out, those long fingers joined together cupping the water, his body gliding like a dolphin.

He sat on the couch next to her, and they sipped at their espresso from little demitasse cups without speaking. She finished first, waited until he finished, and kissed him to taste the trace of coffee in his mouth. Every kiss tasted different than the last.

The thought came to her that she wasn’t a cop tonight, and he wasn’t a suspect. She could talk to him without interrogating him. She knew where she wanted the conversation to end but wasn’t sure where to begin.

Finally, she asked, “Were you closer to your mother or your father?”

“My father, though I wasn’t especially close to him.”

She realized she had not touched his face since the beginning and ran the back of her hand along his cheek, enjoying the rough stubble of early evening.

“I thought you’d say you were closer to your mother, the way you seem to empathize with women.”

He ran his hands though her hair, exploring the texture, smoothing the snarls, just the way she did to herself in the morning.

“I did not know my mother well. She died when I was…” A second or two later he added, “She died in childbirth.”

She weighed the statement, flattered that he was willing to share something so personal.

After a silence, she said, “So she gave her life for you to be born?”

“That was how my father and my relatives explained it to me. My mother was not conscious at the time. My father was not consulted. It was the doctor who chose. This was Italy. We were Catholics. They chose to save me over my mother.”  

He looked at her with a different smile, and she knew that this secret was the source of his sadness and that he had not revealed himself this way before.

“And now you will tell me this is why I chose the profession I did. Why I perform abortions. To give women back their lives.”

“Is it? A form of penance for you?”

“I suppose. I perform abortions, don’t I? So maybe that’s it. Understand though, I do not recommend for or against them, except in the case of women’s health. I encourage women to make the choice neither my mother nor my father got to make.”

“Are you still a Catholic?”

“I haven’t consulted a priest lately. I doubt you’d find many who’d tell you I was welcome in the church. Still I think of myself as a Catholic.”

She rolled from her back onto her elbows, the blanket slipping down to revel the slight curve of her spine.

He traced the curve with his fingers, those long nimble fingers.

“Did you know my husband?”

“I have seen his statue. I never met him.”

“You may be the only person in Mississippi who hasn’t.”

She turned away from him, feeling embarrassed about what she was going to say next. “You’re the first, you know, the first since my husband died. The first man I’ve been, you know….”

“Been out with?”

“Well, we haven’t actually been out yet.”

Gentle teasing—gentle like it used to be with Hugh.

“I could call you, if you like. I have your card,” he said.

“Only, don’t expect too much on the first date. I like to take things slow, get to know someone first.”

“You mean in the biblical sense?”

This is good
, she thought, their sense of humor the same.

“I guess you haven’t gone out with a lot of Catholic girls. Are you prejudiced against us?”

“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“Parochial school until fifth grade. My parents ran out of money. I was baptized, but not confirmed. Only halfway to heaven.”