Things You Won't Say (14 page)

She should upgrade her car, Christie thought as she took the keys out of the ignition. Her Miata was cute, but it was
seven years old, and now that she had a real job—something thrilling and well paying—she might need to invest in a Mercedes or at least an Audi. Maybe she’d go test-drive some at the dealership tomorrow. It would be a perfect way to celebrate her first case. To kick off her new life.

Christie locked her car, then slung her purse (fake, but a good Chanel copy) over her shoulder and walked toward the salon. It didn’t officially open for fifteen minutes, but she could see employees inside, setting up the coffeepot to brew and stocking their stations with hair spray and brushes for the day ahead.

“Hey,” she called as she pulled open the heavy glass door.

“Shhh!” someone chided. The flat-screen television toward the back of the room, which was usually turned to music videos, was showing the news. Two stylists stood in front of it, rapt.

“Well, excuse me,” Christie said. She walked over to the receptionist’s desk and tucked her purse in a lower drawer. Slowly she became aware of the topic of the news report, and without moving her head, she raised her eyes toward the television.

A woman with a helmet of auburn hair and an intense expression was standing outside what looked like—what
was
—Mike and Jamie’s house. Christie blinked and took a step closer to the television. The newscaster was saying: “. . . killing an unarmed Hispanic teenager, just a few months after the fatal shooting of Officer Larry Prichard in front of police headquarters. Officer Richard Crawford was also injured in that same shooting and remains on indefinite leave. Officer Crawford was Anderson’s longtime partner, and, sources say, Anderson was deeply upset after witnessing the shooting . . . Anderson is currently on paid administrative leave.”

One of the stylists flipped the channel to a Christina Aguilera video and moved back to her station, but Christie felt rooted in place.

Mike had killed someone?

Last night, after Henry had come into the dining room with his cell phone containing the text from his friend, Jamie had leapt to her feet to reassure him. Jamie had woven what Christie now understood was a truncated story—Mike had fired at a young man who was holding a gun, it was unclear exactly what had happened, but the details were all being sorted out. Mike was perfectly safe and hadn’t done anything wrong, Jamie had repeated at least twice.

“Your dad will explain everything when he gets home,” Jamie had said, reaching for the phone and tucking it into her pocket. “Can I hold it for you, honey? It’s probably best if you don’t talk to anyone until your dad gets here.”

Christie had believed the story—and Jamie hadn’t bothered to clarify anything to her privately. Did she think Christie was a child, too?

When she’d first arrived at the house, Christie had been shocked by Jamie’s hug, but then she’d found her own arms winding back around Jamie’s neck. Jamie had seemed so distraught and lost, and Christie had felt proud that she’d been the steady one in the crisis. She’d found a mostly full bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge and had poured them both generous glasses while Lou checked on the kids. They’d talked for a little while, but then Mike had come home, and Jamie had shooed her out of the house, saying she was sure Christie had things to do. Christie had taken the hint; Jamie didn’t want her around Mike.

Jamie had also made the decision that Mike should be the one to tell Henry what had happened. But she, Christie, was Henry’s mother! Shouldn’t she have a say? True, maybe she wouldn’t have done anything differently—she probably still would have left Henry in Mike and Jamie’s care last night—but it irritated her not to have been given a choice. Not to be included in the family crisis.

Throughout the rest of the day, Christie checked in custom
ers, collected tip envelopes for the stylists, and logged new appointments in the computer, keeping a smile affixed to her face and trying to hide the turmoil brewing within her. How was she supposed to know what to say to Henry, when she didn’t even know what Mike had told their son? She was sure everything would blow over in a day or so—the media always tried to dramatize stories, and Mike was a great cop—but it rankled her to be shoved to the outside when all she’d wanted was to help.

At five o’clock, she was packing up her things to go when she heard the sound of a gunshot. She spun around, her heart rate accelerating, but it was just the cork escaping from a bottle of champagne.

“Go get ’em, Charlie’s newest angel,” said Rita, the stylist who’d given Christie a farewell haircut during her lunch break. Rita filled a bunch of Solo cups and handed them out as the other girls crowded around, touching their cups to Christie’s. Everyone seemed in awe of the job Christie had landed, which lifted her mood. She didn’t protest when someone upended the last of the champagne into her cup.

“Let me know if you need a sidekick!” Rita offered, and Christie hid a smile. Rita was in her early fifties, with a body that seemed to belong to two different people—a slender top affixed to a huge bottom and chunky legs. She was always complaining about being single. Did she really think she’d be catnip to men with wandering eyes?

But Christie just promised, “I will.”

She hugged everyone good-bye, promising to stay in touch, and headed out the door. The moment she climbed into her car and sat down, her worry came rushing back. She couldn’t stop hearing the sound of that champagne cork. She wondered what was happening with Mike. She called Henry, but he didn’t answer his phone.

She tried to push her unease out of her mind so she could focus on her new job, but instead her anxiety began to spread.
What if she blew her first case? Maybe she should’ve waited to hand in her notice until she was sure the P.I. gig was working out. But planning ahead had never been her forte.

She rapped her fingertips against the dashboard a few times, then checked herself out in the rearview mirror. Her blue eyes were outlined by smudgy kohl liner and three coats of mascara, and her lips were painted a soft pink. She’d gone into the salon’s bathroom to change into the dress before leaving, and her tanned skin showed through the openings in the fabric. Everything was going to be fine, she told herself. She drained the champagne from the cup just as her phone rang.

“He told his wife he’s leaving within the hour,” Elroy said. “But he’s going to stop at the store for her to pick up milk and diapers on his way home.”

“Should I head there now?” Christie asked.

“Yep,” Elroy said. “Keep your phone close.”

“Okay,” Christie said. She’d already MapQuested directions—she had a terrible sense of direction and couldn’t risk getting lost—and despite the rush-hour traffic, she made it to the supermarket quickly. She parked by the entrance and waited, watching customers disappear through the electronic doors. She tried Henry twice more, leaving bright, upbeat messages, but he didn’t pick up the phone. She contemplated phoning Jamie and Mike’s house but didn’t want to have to end the call abruptly if her mark showed up. Her phone finally rang just as she was regretting drinking the second cup of champagne and debating whether to duck into the store and use the bathroom.

“He’s on the move,” Elroy said.

Christie felt a little thrill. Even the lingo of her new job was exciting.

“I’m here,” she said.

“He drives a 2010 blue Toyota Camry with a dent in the front bumper,” Elroy said.

“Sexy,” Christie said.

“Can you see the entrance of the parking lot from where you are?”

“Yep,” Christie said.

“When you see his car pull in, go into the store.”

“I’ll put a little extra wiggle in my walk,” Christie said.

“Are you sure you can fit any more in there?” Elroy asked.

It took a few seconds to realize that Elroy was making a joke.

She smiled. “I’ll call you as soon as I have a date.”

She kept vigil, trying to ignore her increasingly full bladder and her worry about Mike’s situation, and sure enough, Freckles rolled in exactly eighteen minutes later. Elroy hadn’t given her his real name, in case Freckles used an alias for his extracurricular activities, so she wouldn’t accidentally slip up.

Christie took a deep breath, doubled-checked that her handbag was unzipped, and strolled toward the supermarket entrance, swaying on her three-inch heels. Milk and diapers, she mused. The dairy section would be better for seduction.

She wondered what would happen if Freckles ignored her spilled purse, or simply handed her a runaway lipstick and went on with his manufactured errand. Sure, guys hit on her all the time—but what if at the moment it mattered most, one didn’t? She looked down at her dress. Would pulling the hem up a bit higher be overkill?

Either her heels slowed her down or Freckles was in a rush, because just before she stepped on the mat that signaled a trigger to open the supermarket’s doors, Freckles came up behind her. She sensed his presence—she couldn’t have said how she knew it was him—but she didn’t turn around. Better if he made the first move, she thought.

She scanned the store’s layout and moved toward the refrigerated section. She sensed Freckles was still directly behind her; the fine hairs on her arm were standing up. She found the milk and stood there for a moment, studying the selection in the glass case.

“Are you a one percent or a skim girl?”

Seriously? Freckles thought
that
qualified as a pickup line?

Christie made herself smile as if it was the wittiest comment she’d ever heard. She turned to face Freckles, keeping her chin low and looking up at him from under her fringe of eyelashes.

“Skim,” she said.

Freckles was sliding his hand into his pocket. His
left
hand. Probably trying to hide a wedding ring, she thought.

“But only in the morning, in my coffee,” she said. “At night I’m a champagne girl.”

Freckles smiled, as she’d known he would.

“Champagne, huh?” he said. “A woman with classy tastes.”

“Only the best,” she said. She let her eyes linger as they moved down his body, then rose back up to his face.

“I know a place that serves champagne,” Freckles said importantly.
Where, Mr. Man-About-Town—every bar in D.C.?
Christie wanted to ask. “I’m Doug, by the way.”

“Christine,” she said. It was close enough to her name that she wouldn’t blow her cover, but it gave her a little layer of protection. Elroy had advised her to give a completely different last name, if asked. But she was counting on the fact that most men wouldn’t care enough to ask. They usually didn’t.

She grabbed a small carton of milk from the case. “I’m just in town on business for a few days, and there’s nothing but powdered creamer in my hotel room,” she said. Maybe her sentence was a little clunky, but she’d managed to work the mention of a hotel into the conversation, which might steer Doug in the right direction.

She gave him a final, lingering smile, then began moving toward the checkout aisle. Let him take up the chase, she thought.

“Christine?” He was frowning. “I thought you said you drank skim . . . you just got two percent.”

She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a mock angry look. “I blame you for distracting me.”

He guffawed then—actually guffawed—and she walked back to switch out the milk cartons. She hoped she didn’t have to spend long with him in the hotel room. She could expire from boredom.

“So maybe we should check it out, as long as you’re in town,” Doug was saying as he walked her to the cashier station. “The champagne bar.”

“Maybe,” Christie said, throwing him another flirty glance. She could do this in her sleep—and she might have to, if Doug kept up his corny lines. She put her milk on the conveyor belt.

“Any chance I could get your number?”

She smiled and pulled her phone out of her purse. “Give me yours,” she said. He rattled off the digits, and she programmed them into her phone, then hit the “Call” button. A second later, Doug’s cell phone rang.

“You’ve got my number,” she said. She’d left her real phone in the car. This was a cheap throwaway cell Elroy had given her. She’d get rid of it, and be given a new one, for the next job. An expense account was a wondrous thing. Maybe she should’ve picked up some Diet Coke and Lean Cuisines along with her milk, she thought.

“Two forty-nine,” the cashier said. Christie started to pull out her credit card, but Doug was faster.

“Allow me,” he said, swiping his through the machine with a grandiose gesture, as if he was paying for a diamond. “Next time I’ll buy you a real drink.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said. “But I’m only in town for a couple days.” Elroy wanted to close this deal quickly.

“Then I better call you soon,” he said, putting his gallon of milk on the conveyor belt. He hadn’t even picked up the diapers. What a jerk. He deserved everything that was coming to him, Christie thought as she walked away.

This job was almost too easy. Tomorrow or the day after, she’d suggest meeting Doug at the hotel. As soon as the job
was done, she’d get paid—probably three or four hundred dollars, when all her hours were tallied up. It would be almost as much as she made in a full week at the salon.

Christie got into her car and turned up her radio, singing along with Adele as she sped toward the nearest public bathroom. There was a Starbucks on the next block; she’d stop there.

At the end of the song, just as Christie turned into the parking lot, the radio announcer began to speak, his voice deep and stern. “Sources say a special Metropolitan Police Department investigative team is collecting evidence in the shooting of a fifteen-year-old boy by veteran police officer Michael Anderson. Sources say several eyewitnesses report the teenager was unarmed when shot by Anderson. The MPD will bring the evidence to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, which could decide to take the case to a grand jury for an indictment. We’ll have another update on the hour.”

Christie slammed on her brakes just in time to avoid hitting a car that was pulling out of a parking spot.

She picked up her phone and dialed Mike. The media loved to play stuff like this up. Surely once the facts were sorted out, it would blow over. Still, he might welcome a little support. But it was Jamie who answered. “Hey,” Christie said. “I just heard the news . . . Wow, what a bummer.”