J Ward - Crave

She headed downstairs to the kitchen and stopped in the archway.

Well, turned out he had left one thing behind: On the counter was the plastic bag of cash.

“Damn it. Goddamn it.”

She stood there for a time, staring not at the twenty-five grand, but at the Birkin he’d tried to clean up for her.

Eventually, she went and got the home phone. The number she dialed was one she’d memorized two years ago.

The public defender’s office always had someone on call, because crime, like illness and accidents, didn’t recognize any distinction between weekdays and weekends. And the guy who answered was an attorney she knew well. Although her resignation from Isaac’s case was a surprise to him, when she stated that she had approximately twenty-five thousand dollars from the cage-fighting racket on her kitchen counter, he got on board PDQ.

“Jesus.”

“I know. So I have to resign.”

“Wait, he left that cash at your house?”

Might as well practice her stab at revisionist history. “Last night, Mr. Rothe came over here. I’d posted his bail and he wanted to pay me back-and I got the impression it was because he was thinking of running. I didn’t notify the police because I thought it was my duty to talk him out of taking off and I believed that I’d dissuaded him. Except then I found what he’d left for me this morning on my back porch.” She drew a deep breath, the weight of the lies not sitting well on her empty stomach. “Given the money, I feel strongly that he is going to leave the state immediately. I’m calling the police next and I’ll drop the cash off at the precinct house as evidence when I go there to give a statement this morning.”

“Grier-”

“Before you ask, I’m listed in the white pages, which is how Mr. Rothe found my house, and no, I didn’t feel threatened at all. I asked him to come in and he did for a little while-and he left without a fuss.” At least that part was the whole truth.

“Well, hell…”

“Yes, I do believe that covers it. I wanted you to know what I was going to do and I’ll keep you posted. I don’t know where this is all going, to be honest.”

Ding, ding, ding, another truth.

Her colleague made a dismissive sound. “Look, you’ve never had a blemish on your record and you’re keeping it all aboveboard. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

No comment on that one. No reason to ruin the veracity trend.

“You are getting independent counsel, however?” he said.

“Of course.” Fool for a client and all that stuff. Just like she’d told Isaac back at the jail.

After she got off the phone with the other attorney, she was on with the cops moments later. And they, of course, fit her right into their schedule.

In hopes of bracing herself, she fired up the coffee machine-and then realized she wasn’t alone.

Hanging her head, she wondered what if anything Daniel had seen the night before in the guest room.

Nothing, her brother said. I know when to leave.

Thank God, she thought to herself as she hit the power button. “I wish I could give you some of this. I loved when we could have coffee together.”

It smells good.

She usually sought him out with her eyes whenever he appeared, but not this morning. She really couldn’t face him, and not because she’d hooked up with someone. Well, the sex was part of it. The real driver, though, was that reckless burn; it was just too close to what had destroyed him.

Yeah, you and I are the same. We got it from Dad.

“You know, you never talk about your death,” she said as the Krups machine burbled and hissed.

His voice got hard. What’s done is done, and that score needs to be settled between other people.

“Score?” When he said nothing more, she gritted her teeth. “Why won’t you ever answer anything? I’ve got a list as long as my arm of things I want to know, but all you do is deflect or evade.”

The further silence had her glaring over her shoulder: Daniel was leaning against the stainless-steel refrigerator, his translucent form throwing no reflection in the buffed finish. His blue eyes, the ones that were an identical color to her own, were staring at the floor.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said. “Especially if we can’t really talk about the things that matter. Like how you died and-”

This is about your life, Grier. Not mine.

“Then why did you tell me to take that soldier home,” she groused.

Now Daniel smiled. Because you like him. And I think he’s going to be good for you.

She was not sure about that at all. She was feeling shattered already, and she’d known him for only a day. “Do you know what he’s done? Who he’s trying to get away from?”

Her brother’s frown was not encouraging. That I’m not talking about. But I can tell you he’s not going to hurt you.

God, she was tired of being surrounded by men who had duct tape over their mouths.

“Will I see him again?”

Daniel started to fade away, which was what he did whenever she put him on the spot about something.

“Daniel,” she said sharply. “Stop running out on me-”

When all she got back was a clear shot at the refrigerator door, she looked up at the ceiling and cursed. She never had any control over when he showed up or how long he stayed. And she had no idea where he was when he wasn’t haunting her.

Did he hang out at the undead’s equivalent of a Starbucks?

Speaking of coffee…

Determined to follow through on something, anything, she got a mug and the sugar bowl and went to town on the hot and steamy-all the while wondering whether caffeine was a good idea given her nerves.

At nine o’clock, she left the house with the cash and a headache that seemed to have put its feet up on her frontal lobe and had plans to stay the day. After initializing the ADT system, she stepped out, closed the door and turned the dead bolt with her key-

Frowning, she stared up at one of the two wrought-iron lanterns by the entrance. A small strip of white cloth had been wound around its base.

Pivoting on her heel, Grier looked all around and saw nothing but parked cars she recognized… and a neighbor walking a chocolate Lab… and a couple strolling arm in arm…

Get a grip, Grier.

She was not in a Hitchcockian world where people were followed and planes dive-bombed from midair and secret signals were left on light fixtures.

Unwinding the scrap of fabric, she shoved the thing in her coat pocket so as not to litter and went over to her Audi. As she walked off, she engaged the big alarm-even though she didn’t usually do that if she wasn’t in the house.

Down at the police department, she met with a detective, turned the money over, and gave a statement. Attorney-client privilege did not extend to ongoing criminal activity, so she was required to say what she knew about the fighting ring, Isaac’s participation in it, and the location where she believed they would still convene out in Malden.

While time passed and she talked, she had a growing conviction that Isaac was far gone by now-and chances were good no one from Boston would find him.

She had to wonder who would, however.

Two hours later, she stepped out of the precinct and stared up at the yellow sun in the cloudless spring sky. The warmth on her face made the cold breeze feel even more frigid, and the rest of the day loomed over her.

Her car didn’t take her home.

It was supposed to. She sent it in the direction of Beacon Hill with the intention of crawling back into bed and getting some more sleep.

She ended up on Tremont Street.

As she went around the block where Isaac’s apartment was, naturally there was no place to dump the Audi, and it was probably a sign for her to stay away. Persistence got her into trouble, though, when a VW Bug shuffled out and left a void. After wedging in, she locked up and went over to the house.