Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“I didn’t know about that, about him. I broke up with her as soon as I found out.”

So. “Does your father know?”

“No. Never. It was a game for her, just a game.”

“What was it for you?”

He suppressed whatever he was going to say, then looked away. “I was unhappy.”

It hurt inside, his saying it out loud. “You didn’t say so, you dick.”

He winced. “I didn’t know until this happened. I didn’t know why it started or why it ended until it was all over. Then she wanted me to come back to her, she said she was sorry, that it was over with him. That’s when she filed the lawsuit.”

“For sexual harassment?”

“She wanted to prove to me that she didn’t care about him. That she loved me. So I would come back.”

Jesus. “Why didn’t you tell me that? It would have destroyed her case.”

“Tell you? As Dad’s lawyer or as my lover?”

Touché. I sipped some water. “So how did it start?”

“I met her at a sidewalk show. She wanted to know about design, and we talked. She called me later. It just happened. It was wrong. I should have told you I was unhappy.”

“But you didn’t have the balls.”

He looked up sharply. “No. I didn’t know then. I know now. I’m telling you now.”

“Only because I found out.”

“But I want to deal with it. Let’s see what we have left. I can, Rita. Can you?”

Fuck you. I wanted to throw the glass right in his face, but I went one better. “She had other lovers, Paul. A regular United Nations.”

“I know that. I told you, it was all a game with her. She was addicted to it, the excitement. She was self-destructive-”

“What a bunch of crap. You wouldn’t have broken up with her if you hadn’t found out about your father.”

He leaned forward. “When I found out about my father was when I finally understood her. Knew who she really was, what was really happening. When the fantasy was over, what was left was a very empty, very damaged woman. And I wanted you.”

Right. “How did you find out about your father?”

“I saw a photo from our Bermuda trip. Look, Rita, I’m sorry,” he said, raking back his hair in a gesture uncannily like Fiske’s. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear it. I know why it happened. I didn’t have enough of you, of your time. We need more time together.”

“Maybe we should buy a motorcycle.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Listen, you’re always running, going off to work. And then there’s poker. No matter what, you go.”

“Don’t you pin this on me! Take some fucking responsibility, would you? You cheated on me because I play poker? Because I work my ass off? It’s not my fault you were running around!”

“It’s not about fault, Rita.”

“That’s what people always say when it’s their fault!” I saw a blur then, a kind of madness rising in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything else. I stood up. “ You cheated and it’s my fault? Are you crazy? Are you stone fucking crazy?”

He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t get it.”

“The hell I don’t. You slept with her, you were living with me at the time. We’re practically engaged-”

“Practically? That’s the whole problem right there in a nutshell. We’re either engaged or we’re not!”

“Thank God I didn’t marry you! Thank God that is one mistake I did not make! Now go pack your bags.”

He looked as if I’d slapped him. “You don’t mean this.”

“I do too. I’ll be back in two hours. Be gone by then. Leave your keys on the table.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.

“Rita. Rita, wait. Listen,” he said, but I kept walking. One foot in front of the other, out the front door.

My knees buckled slightly when I got outside, but I walked across the dry lawn and didn’t fall, and didn’t cry. My heart was a tight knot at the center of my chest. I strode to the car and got in, careful to close the door gently. I pulled out of the driveway and drove the speed limit to Lancaster Avenue. And I did not drive aimlessly, I knew just where I was going.

On the way I made a phone call to Fiske, whom I hadn’t even called about the murder scene, so preoccupied was I with my personal life. I told him tersely what I’d seen, but not about Patricia’s erotic renderings of the NFL or of his own son. He didn’t have to know about that. And not from me.

I wondered how my father would react to the news, but I figured he’d handle it okay if I didn’t spell out the cheating part. And if I told him about the virus, he’d take his sharpest cleaver and geld the man. I laughed to myself until I thought about what Paul said. About my not being home.

I pointed the car toward the city, and it struck me for the first time how strange it was that I had no friends my own age. No women friends, even close friends among my partners. We used to make lunch dates, but a deposition or trial would come up. Soon I’d stopped penciling anybody in. I realized I was speeding and eased off the gas.

I reached the Italian Market, but a sawhorse blocked Eighth Street about a block from my father’s shop. The traffic was clogged and confused. A siren blared close by, and a blue-shirted Philly cop with a thick gut was waving a line up of overheated drivers down Christian Street. No way was I doing that. It would take me an extra twenty minutes to double back to the butcher shop, then another twenty to find a parking space. How would I get to cry on my father’s shoulder by dinner-time?

I stopped my car in front of the cop and opened the window. “Can’t I get over to Ninth, Officer?”

He shook his head and waved me on. “Not tonight. Keep it moving, lady.”

“But I’ll be late if I take the detour.”

“You can’t get through. There was a shooting and the perp took off. You wanna run into him?”

“A shooting? Where?”

“Lady-”

I felt my pulse quicken. “On Ninth? My father has a butcher shop on Ninth.”

He looked down at me. “Which one?”

“Morrone’s. The little one.”

His face fell. “Pull over, honey,” he said quietly, and waved the other cars past me.

Right this way,” said a woman cop, as she led me down a corridor in the basement of the hospital.

I felt drained. I had cried all the tears I could cry. My head was pounding. The only way to get through it was not to experience it. Keep it at a distance. And my emotions, too.

“You okay, Rita?” the cop asked, turning back as she walked. She had short brown hair, tight features, and no makeup. A hard face but for the kindness in her expression.

“Fine.”

“It’ll be over soon.”

She picked up the pace and I followed. The floor slanted down, like a ramp. Down, then doubling back, and going farther down. We reached the very bottom of the hospital and passed through a wide brown door that swung shut behind us. morgue, said a sign on the door.

“Hey, Jim,” the cop said to a man in a white coat like a butcher’s. “You ready for us?”

I stood behind the cop to shield myself from the room. A formaldehyde stink filled my nose. The air was chilled. A chalkboard hung on the wall and it read, inexplicably: HEART, RT. LUNG, LT. LUNG, LIVER, SPLEEN, RT. KIDNEY, LT. KIDNEY, BRAIN, PANCREAS, SPLEEN, THYROID.

“All set,” said the man, who stood beside a long table made of dull stainless steel. The table had slats across the bottom and a large round drain peeked from underneath them. I didn’t want to think about what went down the drain. Next to the table was a scale with a steel tray hanging underneath its clocklike face. A butcher’s scale.

“Cold in here,” the cop said.