Maggie Shayne - Sleep with the Lights On

I turned back to the woman at the counter. Her image in my mind was short, hefty, with melon-sized boobs and long shiny ringlets.

“Where were we?”

“I believe you were about to threaten to kick my ass,” she said. “Or maybe you were gettin’ ready to dole out one of those Susie-sunshine lines you’re apparently known for.” She paused, leaned back in her chair—I heard the movement—and slurped coffee that smelled stale. “So are you famous or something? ’Cause I never heard of you.”

I placed my hands flat on the tacky countertop and leaned forward. “My brother is missing. I reported it three days ago, and I haven’t heard one word from you people since.”

“‘You people’?”

“You cop people. I want action. I want my brother found. I at least want some indication that you’re looking for him. Can you give me that?”

“I already gave you that. I told you, we’re doing everything we can. I’ll have an officer call you later in the day. I already have your number.”

Oh, brilliant double entendre there. Apparently I was dealing with a genius.

“Thanks a million.”

I turned and waved my cane back and forth, half hoping I’d whack someone in the shins on my way out. But no. Apparently the bees were parting like the Red Sea. I was not amused that my identity had been revealed in the cop shop. My agent would lop off my head for being a bitch in public at all, much less being recognized while I was at it.

What the hell did I care? I’d deny it. My legions of followers would believe me. I mean, as long as it didn’t happen too often or in front of someone’s cell-cam and wind up on YouTube, I was golden. And even if it did, they’d forgive me for losing it if I let them know why.

My brother was missing, for God’s sake. A saint would be on her last nerve.

I tapped across the room and out the door, feeling the space around me widen as I moved through it. I turned left down the hall to the main entrance. Lots of doors there. I picked the quietest one and went through it and then down the broad stone steps to the sidewalk. I intended to cross the street to the coffee shop, grab a Mucho-Mocha with extra caffeine, and phone my assistant to come and pick my ass up. My mind wasn’t on what I was doing, though. I was flashing back to the last time I’d seen anything.

It had been Tommy’s face.

I was twelve and knew I was going blind. I had a corneal dystrophy, a rare one. At that point I could still see, but it was pretty bad. Blurry, dull. Worse and worse. I’d been having a nightmare, dreamed of being completely blind, and woke up screaming.

It was Tommy who came to my bedroom, sat on the edge of my mattress, hugged me close, told me it was all gonna be okay. That he’d be with me, no matter what. And he was, before the addictions took him away. He went from coke to crack, from the oxy-twins—contin and codone—to heroin, his standards lowering with his resources, until he was broke and homeless and taking anything he could find that was stronger than aspirin. Anyway, before all that, when he was a freshly showered fourteen-year-old kid with a future, he hugged me, conceded to my demand that he leave the light on and told me stories until I fell back asleep.

When I woke up, I thought he’d lied to me. I thought he’d turned the light off after swearing he wouldn’t. But he hadn’t. Turned out my nightmare was a premonition. I was totally blind.

I shook off the memory about the same time I heard squealing tires and a blasting horn, and realized about a second too late that I’d stepped off the curb and into the street without checking first. Sure as shit, the car hit me. I couldn’t even believe it. One step, a loud horn, and bam. I flew fast and landed hard, hip bone, then shoulder, then head, in that order. And then I just lay perfectly still while pain blasted through every part of me.

Damn. I’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

* * *

Detective Mason Brown had a series of rapid-fire impressions; leggy brunette. Dark sunglasses. White cane. Blind? OhfuckI’mgonnahither! He jerked the wheel and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The thump made his stomach heave. The car slid sideways, but only a few feet—hell, it was city traffic, he hadn’t been moving very fast to begin with—and came to a stop. He opened the door and lunged out before he’d even finished processing what had happened. And then he was bending over the felled female in the middle of the street outside the station, hoping to hell she wasn’t seriously hurt. Hands on her shoulders. That was autopilot. Then the brain kicked in. Don’t move her. Spinal cord and all that. Hell, her eyes are closed.

And then they opened and looked slightly past his left shoulder. They were sky-blue eyes, and they were completely blank.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She was trying to sit up while she talked.

“Hang on. Hold still a second, just in case.”

She was lying on her side, propped up by one bent elbow on the pavement. Short skirt. A brand-new run in her stockings. Long brown hair, kind of wavy. She patted the blacktop with her free hand. “Am I in the road? Get me the hell out of the road.” Her questing hand found her big sunglasses and she quickly jammed them onto her face. They were crooked, but he didn’t think she knew. “Do you see my bag?”

Since she was apparently getting up with him or without him, he helped onto her feet, then kept hold of one upper arm. “It’s over by the curb. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” To prove it, she started limping back the way she’d come. It was closer, though how she knew which direction to go, he couldn’t figure. A couple of his colleagues had jumped into action by then, blocking traffic, directing it around his still sideways unmarked car. His partner, Roosevelt Jones, was standing by the hood, shaking his shaved head and smiling so hard his face actually had wrinkles. He was a hundred and six—okay, fifty-seven—and still only had wrinkles when he smiled.

“Quit your damn grinning and move the car, Rosie.”

“Nossir. We’re gonna need photos and whatnot.” He scooped up the handbag and cane just as Mason got her back on the sidewalk. Rosie held her things out to her. “Here’s your stuff, miss. You sure you’re all right?”

She turned her head toward him and, with a precision that surprised Mason, reached out and took her handbag, then her cane, from Rosie’s outstretched hands. “I think so.”

“Do you hurt anywhere?” Mason asked.

“All over, but—”

“Best let the medics have a look at you in the E.R.,” Rosie said. “Just to be sure. Damn, Mason, I knew you were desperate for a woman, but I didn’t think you’d run one down in the street.” Then he laughed like a seal barking.

The woman’s head snapped toward Mason again. “You were the one who hit me?”

“Damn straight he was,” Rosie said and turned to Mason. “What’s wrong with you, running down celebrities in the street?” Rosie smiled at her. “I’m Detective Roosevelt Jones. My partner—who talked me into letting him drive due to my alleged aging reflexes—is Mason Brown. And might I just add that it’s a privilege to meet you, ma’am? My wife quotes you to me on a daily basis.” He elbowed Mason. “Rachel de Luca. The author.”

He said it, Mason thought, like that ought to mean something to him. He shrugged at Rosie, but said, “Great to meet you.” Like he knew who the hell she was. He’d never even heard of her. “And I’m really sorry.”

“I’m fine.” As soon as she said it her knees bent a little, and he had to snap an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

“Whoa. Okay, that’s it, you’re going to the E.R.”

“I really don’t have time, I—”