Carolyn McSparren - Bachelor Cop

“Tell me what you really think,” said Marcie Halpern. “Don’t leave your dirty glass in the sink after you finish your drink. Put it in the dishwasher.”

“Yes, Mother,” Helena said. She poured herself an inch of Irish Cream and sat at the small kitchen table to sip it.

“Thank heaven one of us is a neat freak,” Marcie said. “Otherwise this house would be so knee-deep in books you wouldn’t be able to find your children unless they wore bells.”

“You are the best tenant in the universe, as you never tire of telling me. Where are said children?”

“Bathed, tucked in, read to, tomorrow’s clothes laid out, lunch boxes filled in the refrigerator…”

Helena patted her shoulder. “I’ll run up and kiss them good-night. God help me if you ever find a husband. I’ll never have another tenant like you. All this and rent, too.”

“Precious little rent. Thanks so much for agreeing to swap nannying for the cash. If that no-goodnik ex of yours would pay his child support…”

“If Mickey doesn’t pay, he can’t come around and mess up our lives again.”

“So, tell me about the redneck chauvinist,” Marcie said.

“He made me look like a fool. Told us we didn’t have enough upper-body strength to fight off a man, that we had glass jaws and would never get in a shot before the bad guys turned the tables on us.”

“I thought he was supposed to help you repel the bad guys.” Marcie leaned back so that her chair teetered and only her toes touched the floor. “How’d he make a fool of you?”

Helena told her.

Marcie laughed so hard she had to grab the table to keep from tipping over. “It’s the fool part you hated, isn’t it? You spend too much time with students who don’t dare talk back. God knows what they say behind your back.”

“‘Nasty old Dr. Norcross thinks Shakespeare’s plays are worth reading. Not.’ In another generation the entire human race will only text-message. Pronounce ‘roflol,’ why don’t you?” She finished her Irish Cream and set the sticky glass on the table.

Marcie pointed to it.

Helena got up to rinse the glass in the sink and set it in the dishwasher.

“You should have seen him leering at the blonde trophy wife. He’ll be jumping her bones inside of two weeks. Would you believe, he actually called me Streak.”

Marcie spat her mouthful of diet soda straight across the table and laughed until she choked. Helena grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the spill.

“Oh, dear. Sorry.”

“Marcie…”

“How many thirty-five-year-old women have a white streak down the side of their head? You’re lucky he didn’t call you Skunk.”

“That’s it. I’m going to bed.”

“Wait. Helena. Please, sit down. Aside from your assessment of his character, does he know his stuff?”

“I suppose so. He took me down easily.” She sank into the chair across from Marcie. “He obviously works out. He’s neat. He smells very clean and was freshly shaved. His jeans had a knife-edge crease in them and he has plenty of muscles….”

“Noticed his muscles, did you?”

“I couldn’t help but notice his muscles when he was on top of me.”

“Say what?”

“Never mind.”

“I think you should go back. Helena, you need this. It’s the only way you’ll ever get over your fears.”

Without warning, Helena hunched her shoulders. She clamped her hand over her mouth and began to shake.

Marcie came around the table, sank to the floor and grasped her hands. “It’s all right. I’m here. Alarm’s on. Nobody can get in. You’re safe. I’m safe. The kids are safe. You drove to class alone and drove home alone after dark. Six months ago you couldn’t have done that. You’re more in control every day.”

“I’ll never have total control while he’s alive!” She beat her fists on the kitchen table.

“It’s been four months since your last panic attack, and you haven’t had one in public for over a year. That’s real progress.”

Helena closed her eyes and flung her head back. “I want him dead.”

“I know.”

The two women sat silently until Helena’s breathing slowed. Finally, she pushed away from the table. “I’ll go look in on the children before I go to bed.” She squared her shoulders. “Maybe I will go back on Thursday.”

“IF MY MOTHER ASKS ME one more time when I am getting married and giving her grandchildren, I will join a monastery,” Randy said. He tossed his jacket onto the wooden coat rack rescued from the old precinct, loosened his tie, sat down and turned on his computer.

Around him in the part of the large bull pen Cold Cases shared with Homicide, other detectives clicked computer keys and talked on their telephones. A few sat with their feet propped on their desks, reading the paper. Early mornings were usually reserved for catching up on paperwork and meetings, while possible witnesses still slept or were commuting to work.

“Never happen,” Liz Slaughter said from the next desk. “Monks are celibate.”

“New Girl dump you?” Jack Samuels, the third detective in the Cold Cases squad, asked. He stared at his computer screen and began to fill in an arrest form with two fingers. Samuels had long since stopped bothering to learn the names of Randy’s girlfriends. To him they were all New Girl, until they vanished to be replaced by the next New Girl.

“Paige and I agreed to see other people,” Randy answered.

“She dumped you,” Samuels said.

“She wanted to get married, have babies, a giant mortgage, the whole schmeer,” Randy admitted. “Paige said it was time to move our relationship to the next level.” He shuddered. “Her exact words.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Right up there with ‘honey, we need to talk.’ She said I was a dead end and she needed to move on to somebody who wasn’t afraid of responsibility.” He grimaced. “Baggage.”

“I like baggage,” Liz said, and patted her belly. She was four months pregnant with her first baby and beginning to show.

“By the time I leave Cold Cases every night, I’m up to here with baggage.” Randy passed the palm of his hand over the top of his head. “Give me beautiful women who don’t want a thing from me but great sex. Deliver me from needy.”

“You, Randolph Quentin Railsback, are shallow and selfish,” Liz said. “One of these days you’ll get yours.”

He raised an eyebrow and leered. “I want mine and everybody else’s, too.”

“Damn!” Samuels held the delete key down on his computer. “Who’d name a kid Linoleius?” His beat-up desk chair screeched in protest as he swung around. “What really happened with New Girl?”

“Paige kept bugging me to talk about my job. She said if I really loved her, I’d share.” He grimaced. “How do you share what we do?” He pointed to the sign beside the door to Lieutenant Gavigan’s office, which said Cold Cases Squad. “Hey, honey, I’m home. I spent the afternoon digging through the North Memphis landfill for the leg that fits the foot a bum found in a Dumpster two days ago.”

“At least with Cold Cases it’s generally a skeletal leg and not a greasy one.” Jack glanced over at Liz. “Sorry.”

Liz waved her hand. “I don’t barf the way I did my first three months.” She leaned across her desk toward Randy’s. “So she won’t be going to Aruba with you?”

“Lots of beautiful unattached ladies in Aruba. No need to take my own. Anyway, Paige has left for Hawaii and won’t be back for a while.”

Liz propped her chin on her hand and stared out the grimy windows at the dank February morning. “If I weren’t married and pregnant, I’d beg to go with you. When do you leave?”