James Patterson - The Quickie

It had all been a terrible mistake. Quick as lightning, just as deadly.

I looked out at the red-eyed police heading back to their cars. That I was fooling them burned like battery acid in my stomach, but I tried my best to believe it was the best thing for everyone under the circumstances.

What result could have been better? I thought. The dehumanizing, demoralizing tabloid circus that was the truth?

I stared out at the casket as Scott's son raised a hand in salute to the wobbling brim of his father's hat. Then I looked up at the stunning skyline of Manhattan, at the gravestones in the foreground like a kind of city itself.

My eyes were dry as I turned the engine over.

There was one good thing – undeniable – Paul and I had been given a second chance.

IT WAS COMING UP ON NINE the morning after Scott's funeral when the phone rang.

I lay there, hoping that Paul would pick it up. He'd been unbelievably terrific since the shooting. He'd even taken time off work and was cooking for me, fielding my calls, and listening when I needed to talk. He seemed to relish his role as my protector and healer. There were no more naked scotch binges in the garage, at least, so I guess the focus on me was having a positive effect.

And I have to admit, no-nonsense, capable woman that I can be, it was a relief to have someone taking care of me for a change.

The phone kept on ringing, though, and when I turned over, I saw that Paul wasn't there.

I lifted the receiver and sat up.

I thought it would be either my boss or Mike. Maybe IAB. But I was wrong on every count.

"Lauren? Hi, it's Dr. Marcuse calling. I'm glad I caught you at home."

I shuddered, waiting to hear the worst.

"Don't worry, Lauren. Relax," Dr. Marcuse said. "The tests came back, and everything is okay."

I sat there, relief rattling the receiver off my bandaged head.

"You're perfectly fine, Lauren," the doctor continued. "In fact, you're better than that. I hope you're sitting down. You're not sick, you're… pregnant."

Seconds passed. A lot of them actually. Each one filled with stark silence.

"Lauren?" I heard Dr. Marcuse say faintly. "Are you still there?"

I found myself slowly falling back onto the bed. It seemed to take quite some time for my head to actually touch the pillow.

Pregnant? I thought, feeling suddenly as if I were melting.

How could that be? How could it happen now?

Paul and I had only been trying to have kids for years. After an extensive round of fertility specialists and tests, we learned that a pH imbalance was producing an environment not conducive to conception. We'd tried everything short of fertility drugs, which weren't recommended because I had a family history of ovarian cancer.

"What? Are you sure?" I said. "How?"

"I don't actually know, Lauren," my doctor said, chuckling. "I wasn't there. You tell me."

My head was spinning. The whole room seemed to be. I'd always wanted to have a baby, of course.

But now?

"I'm pregnant?" I said, stunned, into the phone.

"You're what?" Paul said. He was just coming into the bedroom with a breakfast tray.

My mouth refused to work, so I handed him the phone. I didn't know how he'd react. I'd stopped trying to anticipate Paul's feelings. I stared into his eyes. But I didn't have to wait long. After a brief moment, a look of ecstatic surprise lit up his face, followed by an ear-to-ear grin.

"A… what?" he said. "You're… Oh my God…"

Paul dropped the phone and lifted me out of the bed. For what seemed like an eternity, he hugged me.

"Oh, God," Paul said. "Thank you, God. Thank you, God. This is so great."

As we embraced, I did some quick mental math. The last time I had my period. What was I thinking? Of course it was Paul's. I'd only slept with Scott the one time, and that had been only six days ago.

Something cold inside me began to change then. The whole time I'd been convalescing, not an hour had gone by when I hadn't been attacked with feelings of guilt and shame and black anxiety.

But standing there, being waltzed around my bedroom by my joyous, good-looking husband, I suddenly came to realize something startling. Paul and I had simply tried to have what everyone wanted. A happy marriage, a happy family. We were good people, hardworking, humble. But from day one, we'd been faced with hardship. Stasis. We were two people who, try as they would, couldn't become three.

Did we divorce? Part ways because it was inconvenient to be together? No. We clung to each other, tried to make it work. For years, we struggled to make our love conquer some biological gyp. We spent years trying to keep things together while our separate careers and the everyday stresses of modern life did everything in their power to wrench us apart.

I started crying when Paul cupped my stomach with his palm. A baby! I thought, grasping Paul's hand.

A sign of hope finally.

And forgiveness.

A new life for both of us.

We can get through this after all, I thought. We really can get through this.

"I love you, Paul," I said. "You're going to make an amazing father."

"I love you, too," Paul whispered, and he kissed away the tears on my cheeks. " Mommy ."

THERE WERE TWO MEN sitting in my boss's office when I finally came back to work the following Monday. From the other side of the squad room, I took in their executive-looking haircuts, their dark suits.

My paranoid brain went to work instantly. Scott had worked with the DEA, which was a section in the Department of Justice. The FBI did the legwork for the DOJ. This was all I needed now, a visit from the Feds!

I didn't even make it as far as my desk before Lieutenant Keane opened his door.

"Lauren, could you come in here a second?" he said.

I brought my bodega coffee with me to make it look like I really thought this would take only a second. I was getting good at deception. At least I hoped I was.

"Have a seat, Detective Stillwell," a man in a navy suit said from one of my boss's chairs. His partner, wearing what looked like the same style three-button, only in gray, stood at his shoulder, staring at me expressionless, motionless.

Their authoritative attitude both irritated and scared the living hell out of me. And since showing fear wasn't an option at this juncture, I tried pissed-off on for size.

"What's the dealio, boss?" I said to Keane. "You set me up on a blind date? Where's bachelor number three?"

Two badges came out. My adrenaline shifted down half a gear when I saw that they weren't the tiny gold badges the Feebs sport. They were copies of the one in the Chanel knock-off on my desk.

"IAB," Navy and Gray said in unison.

So, they weren't Feds here to arrest me, I realized. My relief was short-lived when I considered that they were definitely tin collectors here about Mike's shooting. It was too late to play demure, I realized as I sat down. Never take a step back, my father advised me when I'd decided to get on The Job after law school. He'd also given me another tidbit of wisdom.

Fuck the IAB.

"Hey, nice. Synchronized rats," I said, plopping down in the guest chair. "You guys should try out for the Special Olympics."

They glared at me. I glared back.

Keane's pale face turned scarlet as he struggled to not spontaneously combust with laughter.

"That's very funny, Detective," Navy said with a click of his pen. "What's less funny, I guess, is the shooting death of Victor Ordonez. As we speak, there is a rally being planned in his Washington Heights neighborhood. The cry for the details of his death has gotten loud enough to be heard way down at One Police Plaza. We fully intend to find and report the truth of what occurred."