Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

“Who’s this person?”

“I think he’s the victim of an extortion scheme, probably perpetrated by a hooker named Monica. Monica Russeau. She might have been sending demands through e-mail. Do you think you could get into his computer through his e-mail program?”

“I’ll check it out. If he has DSL, I might be able to get in and scope it out.”

“Look for anything from, to, or related in any way to Monica Russeau.”

“Okay. I might be able to track back to hers, too. Would that help?”

“Anything helps at this point, Felix.”

After we hung up, it was quiet. There wasn’t much going on in my building at three in the afternoon. I reached up and probed the tender areas of my throat. When I touched all the places Mr. Lemon Chiffon had squeezed so effectively, it took me back to the moments before I lost consciousness, the paralyzing fear, and the feeling of being completely overwhelmed and helpless.

Maybe Harvey was right. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe this case was already as good as it needed to get. Maybe my deepest, darkest fear was not a fear at all but a fact: I was already in way over my head.

I sat back, drank my shake, and felt at least a partial rejuvenation from the infusion of protein. I thought about what Felix had said, and another interpretation occurred to me. If, indeed, I was already in over my head, perhaps the key phrase was that I wasalready in, and the only way to get to the other side was to keep swimming.

I went to my desk, dug out my base roster, and looked up Monica Russeau’s home phone number. I didn’t expect to get an answer, and I didn’t. I hung up without leaving a message. I wasn’t about to give her fair warning. She hadn’t given any to me.

THE STONE STEPS ON THE BANK OF THE Charles River were dark and deserted. Jamie wasn’t there yet. I had gotten a good night’s sleep and rolled out of bed with a lot of energy. The fresh air felt good.

In the early-morning darkness, all the sounds were magnified. Early-fall leaves drifted across the stone steps, dead and dried, pointed tips brushing the ground like fingernails. Across the river down at the salt-and-pepper bridge, the sound of the red line blasted through deep quiet that seemed to rise up from the river like fog.

Stretching would have been a good idea. On a cool morning like this, my perennially tight hamstring had the feel of hardened chewing gum. But I hated stretching, so instead I watched the rowers out on the water. I loved to watch them on the river early in the morning, knifing through the black water in their thin slices of boat. The solo rowers seemed especially peaceful.

I glanced up and saw Jamie coming over the footbridge. It wasn’t light enough to see his face, but I recognized the way he walked. When he got closer, I saw that he was elegantly disheveled, as if he’d reached into a dark closet and pulled out whatever was on top of a pile of really nice running gear.

“It’s cold,” he said. He bounced on the balls of his feet, hands squeezed into fists at his side, shoulders pulled forward. “Which way do you usually go?”

“West. This way.” I pointed us in the right direction, and we were off. He ran faster than my normal pace; his legs were longer. I was huffing and puffing before we even got to the Mass Avenue Bridge, and even though I didn’t want to, I had to give in.

“Jamie, we have three and a half miles to go. Can we ease off the pace?”

“Oh, sorry.” He slowed, and I felt better as we crossed the river, running through the pools of light draped around the bottom of the streetlights. The wind, as usual, pushed hard against us on that stretch.

It felt strange being with Jamie. Or maybe it was the strangeness that felt strange. I wanted to try to make it go away, maybe by telling him what I was really doing, that I was starting a new career. I wanted to share my excitement with him. But I had to find just the right approach, just the right-

“Za, what’s going on with you?”

I reached up and wiped the moisture from my cheek with the back of a dry hand. The cool air in the morning always made my right eye tear up. Never my left, only my right.

“What do you mean?”

“How’s this flight attendant thing working out for you? Do you like it?”

“Yeah. Sure. It’s okay.”

“How long do you think you’ll do it?”

“I don’t know.” We hit the other bank of the river. The second we made the turn east, the wind disappeared.

Jamie cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be patronizing. I really don’t, but are you doing it because you couldn’t find anything else?”

“No, I found a job. A management job earlier this year, but-”

“You did? That’s great. What was it?” Something snapped into place for him as he went from uncomfortable uncertainty to relief. It was in his voice, as though we could now be friends again. We were back on the same page. My eye would not stop tearing.

“VP of operations with a start-up carrier.”

“Impressive. I guess it depends on how big, though. Could be a big title with no responsibility. Stock options?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Salary increase?”

“It was, but-”

“Bonus?”

“Yes, but obviously I didn’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, it was in Detroit, but that wasn’t-”

“I can remember when you’d move anywhere for the right opportunity.” We were passing the Harvard boathouse and the boats that were docked there. In another month or two, the plastic coverings would come out, and they would spend the coldest months of the winter shrink-wrapped. “But,” he said, “I’m sure that gets old. I can see why you wouldn’t want to live in Detroit, anyway.”

He was quiet after that. All I heard was his steady breathing and his feet hitting the pavement.

“Look,” I said, “I know it seems strange to be doing something so different, but isn’t that okay? We don’t have to keep doing the same thing just because we’ve always done it, right? That’s what we said the other night about respecting each other’s choices?”

I kept my eyes on the path in front of me. It was still dark, and I didn’t want to trip and fall down.

“Are you gun-shy? Is it because of the Logan thing?”

“I am not gun-shy. This is my choice.” I started to run faster. He caught up easily.

“Because that would be perfectly understandable if you needed a break.”

We made the turn at the Museum of Science, and I was running full out, setting the pace the way I had when we were kids and I had been the one with the longer legs. Jamie wasn’t even breathing hard, but I knew I was reaching my limit. I made it around the next corner and down to the boathouse before I gave out.

“I’m stopping.” I bent over, breathing hard, and put my hands on my knees. Sweat clung to the underarms of my running suit and dripped from my face. The cool morning air gave me a chill.

Jamie walked in circles, hands on his hips. He seemed to be winding himself tighter with every revolution.

I took a few more deep breaths and stood up. “Why are you being this way?”

“What way?”

“Why can’t you be excited for me, no matter what choice I make, and not make me feel ashamed for wanting something different from you? You’re just like Walter.” I paused to let that sink in. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. He crossed his arms, and his neck stiffened. “These past few years, Jamie, I feel around you exactly the way I used to feel around him. I expected it from him. I never expected it from you.”

“How do I make you feel?”

“Disappointing.”

With his arms still folded, he shifted his weight back and stared across the river at the gorgeous canvas of lights that lined the Cambridge side. He came back and leaned over the way I was. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying any of this right. I’d like to see you do what you want to do and not what you have to do.”