Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

I shrugged. “If the spirit moves you.”

My co-workers greeted me normally, asking how I’d spent my vacation days. I responded in kind, although in truth I felt on edge, my forehead a marquee, my secrets blaring brightly for all to read. Did they know why I’d taken time off in the first place?

I took my seat across from Shupfer, working diligently, aloof as always.

She said, “Welcome home, princess.”

Las Vegas PD had responded to my request for information regarding Freeway John Doe. They might know my guy. It sounded promising.

The next order of business was to review my queue, updating cases to reflect the autopsies that had been completed in my absence.

The old lady who’d died in her bathtub: stroke. Nothing sinister.

I clicked SUBMIT.

Overdose. Car accident.

SUBMIT. SUBMIT.

Way down at the bottom, last name on the list: RENNERT, WALTER J.

Get it out of your system.

My failure to close the case out wasn’t intentional. Subconscious, maybe. I’d left last week in a hurry, pissed off and eager to get out of there before I shot my mouth off.

Down the hall, Vitti’s door was propped, open to anyone who needed him, as per his policy. We were all friends here. He was my superior, sure, but he preferred that we think of him like a father. Or uncle, but not the creepy kind.

He knew I was back today. Probably he was waiting for me to get off my ass and go in there and pay homage, thank him for the R&R, confirm the wisdom of an enforced break.

No, thanks.

Midafternoon he sauntered in to remind everyone to finalize rosters in time for kickoff. It was the final weekend of the regular season. I realized I hadn’t lifted a finger to manage my team in over a month.

Opening the website, I saw that I’d slipped to fifth place. Moffett was out front, followed by Sully. Vitti’s team sat in third.

“How the mighty have fallen.”

A hand on my shoulder. I fought not to squirm.

“Always next year, Coach,” Vitti said. He was leaning down on me pretty hard, bent over to look at my screen. I could smell the aftershave he applied to his scalp.

I said, “I’m still in it.”

“You say so, Chief.”

“I mean I don’t think I’m eliminated, mathematically.”

I waited for him to make a comment about the Rennert case still sitting in my queue. Instead he just chuckled and walked off. “Hope springs eternal.”

Outside in the intake lot, I slotted myself behind a concrete pillar, the closest a man my size can get to hiding. I hadn’t escaped with any other purpose in mind other than to get some air, but I found myself dialing Amy’s number.

Right after pressing SEND, I remembered she was headed back to the East Coast today. I’d left her two voicemails yesterday. A third would push me past “determined” and on into “pathetic.” I started to hang up.

But I heard her voice, far away: “Clay?”

“Hey,” I said. “Where are you? Are you at the airport?”

“I’m in New Haven,” she said. “I left this morning and got in an hour ago.”

“Right. Okay. Well. Glad you’re back in one piece.”

“That’s not morbid at all,” she said, laughing.

I laughed, too.

We spoke at the same time: “Listen—” “I meant to—”

“Me first,” she said.

“Okay.”

“I want to apologize for the way I reacted,” she said.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do. I was caught off guard.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I had no idea what was going on.”

“Can I please explain?”

“I’m sure I’ll want an explanation at some point. Not right now, though.”

“Okay,” I said. “I had a good time with you, regardless.”

“Me too.”

“...but?”

“But nothing,” she said. “Just. I don’t know. I think maybe I packed too much expectation into one night.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“I don’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself, or that I don’t want to do it again, when we can.” She paused. “Seeing you brought back all these memories of how I used to feel.”

I wanted to be able to tell her I felt the same way — that I’d always felt that way about her. But I’d be lying, and she’d know.

I asked when she was next in the Bay Area.

“Not till the semester’s over. The plan is to lock myself in my room and write.”

“Spring break?”

She said, “Let’s see how my work goes. Okay?”

“If that’s the best I can get,” I said, “I’ll take it.”

“Be well, Clay.”

“Thanks. Happy New Year.”

“You too.”

The day was dying. I should’ve gone back upstairs, finished up, done my job. I didn’t move. I thought about the dozen or so boxes at the storage unit that I hadn’t gotten to yet. I’d planned on heading over there after work. Now I didn’t know if I had the energy.

I thought about Amy, and Tatiana, and I remembered a conversation with an old girlfriend. We were fighting, or I should say that she was fighting with me, getting more and more upset at my failure to match her rising ire.

Care she yelled.

About what I asked.

Anything.

We didn’t last long after that. It was a familiar pattern. I went along agreeably until all that remained was agreeability.

I called Amy back.

“Hi?” she said.

“I want to see you,” I said.

“Uh. Well—”

“Hang on,” I said. “Let me speak. You said let’s see how it goes, and I said I’ll take what I can get. But that’s polite, and it’s bullshit. I’m not okay with that. I want to see you, soon, and I don’t want anything less than that. I know it’s new. I know we’re at the beginning. I’m putting on record that I want it to be a beginning. If you don’t want the same thing, that’s up to you. But I won’t apologize for thinking you’re fantastic, or wanting to be with you more, a lot more, as soon as possible.”

Silence.

She said, “I want to see you, too.”

“Good. Then let’s find a way to make that happen. I’ll come to you. Or you come here. One or the other. Maybe we have to wait a week or two months, or maybe you really can’t get away until the end of the semester, which would suck. But be aware: I’m not letting this go.”

A beat. She laughed softly.

“What,” I said, smiling.

“You,” she said.

“What.”

“You’re different than I remember.”

I said, “I hope so.”

On Sunday morning, I got a call from Ivory Richards, daughter of Freeway John Doe, his identity now confirmed through dental records as that of Henry Richards, age fifty-eight, formerly of Las Vegas and missing since April.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did,” she said, “taking the time to find me.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“He’s still gone. Least now I don’t have to wonder.”

“I hope it gives you some comfort.”

She said, “He used to talk about going to California. He was going to retire, live on the beach. Too hot here. As soon as he could get some money he was going to go. But he lost his house when the bubble burst. I said he could move in with me. I told him: ‘Just till you get back on your feet again.’ He didn’t want to, it hurt his pride.”

“Yes,” I said, so she’d know I was still listening.

“When he took off, I thought he was living out there. That’s what I told myself. I didn’t know he was in trouble. I didn’t know how bad it had gotten, he hid it. I asked the police to see pictures. They told me better I don’t. I can’t stop thinking about it. In my mind...” Her voice wrenched. “In my mind, I see such horrible things.”