Joel Goldman - Shakedown

“About what?”

“About what Colby said. You know, about me shaking.”

“She asked about you so I told her. I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“I didn’t say it was a secret, sweetheart.”

Wendy let out an exasperated sigh. “You two are amazing. You’re going to screw up being divorced as much as you screwed up being married. You’re perfect for each other.”

“Yeah. A match made in heaven. Listen, instead of breakfast, maybe you, Colby, and I can have dinner tomorrow night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll check with him. I’d like that.”

I had never asked Wendy to bring Colby anywhere, including to dinner. She couldn’t keep the happiness out of her voice. I was glad that she didn’t ask me why I had made the invitation. She wouldn’t have liked the reasons.

With Troy’s gag order, I was reduced to relying on the media to keep up with my case. I knew that press coverage was often sketchy and slanted, whipsawed by selective leaks and pressure to goose ratings with sensational stories, but it was all I had for the moment. My DVR allowed simultaneous recording of two stations. I set it to tape the news broadcasts on two of the local network affiliates that had built their audiences with ceaseless coverage of grisly crime.

The murders were a big enough story to warrant team coverage. The station I’d been watching was still working its way through its roster. One reporter had just finished interviewing Marcellus’s mother when I hung up the phone, the woman dissolving in tears when asked how she felt after discovering that her son was one of the victims. I wondered who she’d be crying for when we searched her house, as we certainly would before the sun set. She had cooked both his dinner and his crack and would end up serving time that should have been his.

The camera cut to another reporter standing in front of three people, turning to them for comment, the name of each appearing on the screen as they answered the reporter’s questions. LaDonna Simpson, the white-haired, elderly neighbor who lived next door clicked her tongue in regret about the decline of a neighborhood she’d lived in for over fifty years. Tarla Hicks, the girlfriend of the jailed neighbor on the other side of the house, posed for the camera like she was auditioning for the pole position at a strip joint, describing the Winston brothers as good dudes she’d partied with in the past and would miss.

Latrell Kelly, who lived in the house directly behind the victims, was the last one to be interviewed. He had round shoulders, a pudgy middle, and a soft voice. Ammara’s description of him had been dead-on. Mass murderers came in all shapes and sizes. Meek and mild didn’t rule anyone out. I turned up the volume when the reporter asked Latrell what upset him most about what had happened, keeping the microphone close to his mouth to make him heard.

“That little boy,” Latrell said. “Nobody takes care of a little boy, you see what happens.”

It wasn’t a confession. It was a reminder, his words pricking the dull ache I carried for my dead son. The reporter threw it back to the anchors, who nodded somberly and promised to stick with the story, telling viewers to stay tuned for Triple Action Weather with ESP Doppler and the latest from the RV show. I turned off the TV as the phone rang. Kate’s name popped up on the caller ID.

“Welcome home.”

“Thanks. I haven’t had time to unpack,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I need your advice on something. Wendy already turned me down for dinner. I’m hoping you won’t make me zero for two. I can only take so much rejection in one day.”

“Second choice has never sounded so good. How about one of those soulless chain restaurants that you suburbanites find so sophisticated?”

“You mean like IHOP?”

“I have visions of a Belgian waf?e with my name written on it in whipped cream.”

“There’s one at 119th and Metcalf. I’ll call ahead and have them reserve our usual booth. I should warn you that the violin players are off tonight.”

“We’ll make our own music. I’ll see you in an hour.”

After Joy moved out and filed for divorce, my phone conversations with Kate had edged into a new intimacy, both of us saying that we missed the other and looked forward to being together again. There was no heavy breathing, no suggestive questions about what she was wearing, just a quiet acknowledgment that things had changed. She was on the road, in the middle of a trial. I was here, in the middle of an investigation, both of us feeling the pressure of getting it right. If this was to be our first date, neither of us had said so. I arrived ten minutes early, found a booth along the windows facing 119th Street, and took deep breaths every few minutes, hoping that would keep the shakes off the table.

Kate was on time, stopping for a moment inside the door until she caught my wave from across the restaurant. She was wearing her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, a lime green tank top under a black jacket and jeans. A tremor shook both of us as we embraced. She pulled back and searched my face for an explanation.

“This isn’t about one of your cases, is it? This is about you.”

“Let’s at least order our waf?es first.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll lose my appetite?”

“You live downtown. I’d hate to make you drive all the way out here and then cheat you out of your waf?e. We’ll eat. Then we’ll talk.”

She kept her eyes on me while we ordered. It was like being x-rayed. The tremors were humming just under my skin, waiting for their cue. The waitress left and they took center stage doing a one-minute number that rivaled the latest hip-hop moves. I tried to talk as I shook, my words garbled in a strangled stutter.

Kate studied me like I was a test subject. “How long has this been going on?”

I shrugged and took a deep breath. The tremors became distant ripples, my voice tripping over them until they faded.

“Like this, about a week. It started a couple of months ago, low key at first but lately it’s been picking up steam.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“No. Didn’t think I need to until now. I’m off duty until I can walk and chew gum at the same time without shaking. I was hoping you’d know a doctor I could see.”

“The University of Kansas Hospital has a movement disorder clinic. I’d start there. You said the symptoms started two months ago. That’s when Joy left, isn’t it?”

“You think there’s a connection?”

The waitress delivered our waf?es. Kate paid no attention.

“It’s possible. Stress aggravates everything, including movement disorders. And, there are a lot of those to choose from, like Parkinson’s, ALS, MS, myoclonus, dystonia, Tourettes, and tics. The psychology journals I read usually have a few articles each year about them, but it doesn’t come up in my jury work, so I’m not a student.”

“It’s more annoying than anything else,” I said.

“Are you lying to both of us or just yourself?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that ordering a mocha at Starbucks and the barista doesn’t stir the chocolate so you end up with a latte on top and a layer of chocolate on the bottom that drips on your chin when you try to get it out-that’s annoying. Loss of control over your body, which, by the way, is an apt metaphor for losing control over your life, together with worrying whether you’ll lose your job are definitely more than annoying. And, if they aren’t, fear of dying beats annoying any day of the week.”

I leaned back in the booth. “Which of the wrinkles in my face told you that?”

“All of them. Your eyes are wide, your brow is raised, and your lips are set on full-time quiver-classic expressions of fear. I’d bet you’d rather bust down a door blindfolded than shake and not know why.”