Close Encounters (12 page)

“Thank you, Erica. This is way cool.” Lee grinned at her.

She shrugged, a little embarrassed by his pleasure. “You’re welcome.”

He looked speculatively at her as he reached for his wallet to pay for their dinner. “Mind if I ask you a question?” he said.

“Okay.”

“How do you get along with your mother’s new husband? What’s he like?”

For a moment a streak of rebellion changed her countenance. Then it softened as Erica gave his question serious thought.

“He’s okay, I guess. I thought he was just going to take over and try and tell me what to do and try to be like a father to me.” She looked beseechingly at Lee. “I don’t want another father. You’re my father and I’m never going to like him as much.”

“But you do like him?”

Erica looked stubborn for a moment before giving a nod that turned into a shrug. “He talks to me at least. He thinks I’m a good artist…”

Lee mentally, if reluctantly, gave the man ten points.

“And he does try to calm Mom down when she starts in on me.”

Lee stood up. “So, it sounds like at least some of the time he’s on your side.”

“Yeah… I guess you could say that.”

“Then maybe all these changes aren’t so bad after all,” Lee suggested cautiously. He paid the bill and held the door open for her as she preceded him to the parking lot.

They were on the road for the three-mile drive to her house when Lee spoke again.

“Why don’t you just give your stepfather and your mom a chance, sweetheart? You gave me a few, after all those times I had to back out of seeing you.”

“That’s different. You’re my father and I… I love you.”

Her admission made Lee feel a combination of pride and joy. “And I’m always going to be your father. But that doesn’t mean that other people can’t love you too. The more the merrier. Look, anyone who can keep your mother in line can’t be all bad, right?”

“Right.” She glanced at him. “He might be nice and everything, but I don’t want anyone else but you for my father.”

Lee stole a quick look at the stubborn set to her mouth and chin, and he wanted to smile. Instead he reached out to tweak her hair.

“Thanks, Ricca. That makes me a lucky man.”

Mario hesitated at the entrance, peering closely through the plate glass window. Almost nobody inside. The female cashier straight ahead was doing an early register count and entering the night’s take on a banking form. The one remaining cook was scraping down a grill in the back of the kitchen. The manager sat in the last booth to the right of the door, reading the late edition of the paper and pretending not to have noticed him.

On the other side of the entrance the two local old men that the manager had made his charity cases were seated at the counter, bent over plates of leftover food and packing it away like it was their last meal.

It was almost one in the morning.

Mario opened up the neck of his expensive leather coat. Underneath was a stylish muffler and a Tommy Hilfiger sweater. It was not an outfit that would hide his identity. Everyone in the diner, as well as the few hanging around outside making contacts and deals, knew who he was.

He stepped inside and headed to the left. Barbara, sitting still and alert, watched him approach. He knew he had the kind of profile she’d been taught to hold suspect. He was good-looking in an extremely physical way, and taller than the typical Dominican. Men were cautious around him. Women were another matter. When he was just thirteen, one of his uncles had crudely referred to him as a “pussy magnet.”

She said nothing as he slid into the seat opposite her, opened his coat but kept it on. He rested his arms on the table. A charming grin gave him an expression of seductive interest.

“Mija
…”

Barbara glared. “Cut the crap, Mario. I’ve been waiting here an hour.”

He lifted his shoulders and turned his hands upward. A chain-link silver bracelet gleamed on his wrist. “I had to take care of something.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes and leaned forward a fraction. “Where were you?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

For a moment Barbara was distracted by the conviction that he had been with another woman. He had taken someone else to bed and done to that woman all the things he’d been doing to her. She felt an irrational sense of betrayal. She was furious.

She should have known that Mario would let greed and his dick control his loyalties. She’d realized that when she first met him. Any man that good-looking had to have plenty of women on the side. She’d known the first time they went to bed that he liked it often… and rough. When Mario had offered up Earl Willey in exchange for a better deal for himself, Barbara had also realized that he was without a conscience. But a primitive desire had taken hold of her when she first set eyes on him. Mario had seen it too, and had taken advantage of it. And she had let him.

Barbara had refused to consider the consequences. She and Mario had set upon each other like animals in heat. Even afterward, when she’d learned more about him, it hadn’t been enough to stop the overwhelming need to have him.

He lowered his voice as he leaned back in his seat. “Look, I helped you set up Willey, right? I gave you everything you asked for. It’s not my fault it got fucked up. I did my part.”

“So, you’re saying you weren’t there?”

“Something came up and I couldn’t be at the deal. I told Willey.”

“But the plan was, Mario, that we’d bring you in with the whole crew so it wouldn’t look suspicious. There’d be no reason to hold you for what we had on Willey, and we’d let you go.”

“Yeah, I know, but… what can I say?” He glanced over his shoulder at the others in the diner. “I’m here, ain’t I? You getting something to eat?”

Barbara grimaced and shook her head. “Order if you want.”

Mario signaled to the woman behind the counter. She came, took his order, and left. Mario slipped his arms out of his coat. Elbows on the table, he clasped his hands and blew on them to warm them up. He peered at Barbara over the dome of his knuckles as she sipped at a half-finished cola.

“So what went wrong?” he asked. “I heard they made your man and then everybody broke to get clear of you cops. But you got your dead presidents back.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Here and there. Word gets around. It’s a tight community.” He cackled softly. “And some bitch and her dog got shot by the cops?” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Dumbass motherfuckers.”

Barbara looked down at her fingernails. “The papers are saying one of Willey’s men shot her.” The smirk abruptly cleared from his face. “Didn’t anyone from your tight community clue you in?” she asked snidely.

“Willey ain’t had no cause to pop her.”

“Which means one of his men did it on his own. Could have been an accident. It could have been you.”

“You can’t blame me for…” He stopped.

“What? You know something about it, Mario? You know, you’re walking around today because you made a deal. You are out free on a pass that just expired. We have orders to bring you in.”

Mario let her talk, pretending a lack of concern. “You won’t. Now that you don’t have nobody undercover, you’re going to need me.”

Barbara’s mouth tightened. She was angry and frustrated and made no attempt to hide it. “You came to me with a plan because you had no choice. You were in deep shit. Well, you still have no choice. It could have been a clean operation. In and out and nobody gets hurt. You tell us what we want to know to bring down Earl, and you walk on lesser charges. When everything went wrong, my supervisor figured you played both us and Willey. Only now, you’re the one who has to be careful, right? If Willey finds out you’re an informant… or if you’re placed at the scene where you say you weren’t…”

He called her bluff. “I don’t know how Willey got tipped ’bout your play. And you ain’t gonna bring me in. Know why? You want me to say it?”

Barbara’s attention shifted as the door opened and two patrolmen came in, going right to the takeout counter to order coffee and sandwiches. She knew them. Her stomach tightened with fear. One of the men saw her and waved, shouting out a greeting. He looked for a moment at the man seated with her, but he and his partner just took their purchases and left.

Mario glanced over his shoulder. There was a gleam in his eye. He smiled slowly at her, crossing his arms, his voice dropped to an intimate drawl.

“What’s going to happen to you when it gets out that the woman detective on the case was giving it up to one of the suspects? You’re standing in the same shit I am.”

“Exactly nothing will happen. I go up against you, a con who’s got a record dealing in drugs, and you lose.”

“You been sleeping with the enemy,
mija.
” He leaned in close. “You give good head… for a cop.”

“I’m not worried,” Barbara said evenly, although her skin was flushed. “You’re the one with the problem. Two men ran from the scene of the shooting that night. There’s at least two people who can put you on the scene. The other guy you were with and the woman who got shot. Willey hears you were there, he’ll figure you lied to him too. Your ass won’t be worth shit.”

For the first time Mario looked uncertain. “None of my guys would never roll over on me,” he said.

“So you
were
there!”

He took a deep breath, regained his cockiness. “You can’t prove it.”

“I don’t have to.”

Mario pointed a finger at her. “
Puta!
You better back off. You
owe
me,” he ground out menacingly.

Barbara slipped into her coat and buttoned it up. “So take me to court,” she said sarcastically. She stood up just as the waitress returned with a plate laden with food and set it before Mario. The waitress quickly walked away. Barbara took several bills from her wallet and put them under the edge of Mario’s plate.

“Tonight was off the record, Mario. Tomorrow you better get your ass into the station and explain to my superior what happened. You betrayed me, but that’s okay. I got the best protection in the world. You’re the perfect fall guy, and the department will sacrifice you in a heartbeat.”

Her face changed, suddenly became infused with anger. She leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“And just so you know… you are a lousy fuck.” She held up a pinky and used her thumbnail to mark off the first joint.
“Chapita,”
she said scornfully.

Barbara walked out, leaving Mario at the table. For a moment he calmly ate french fries and carefully arranged the condiments on his burger. He stared thoughtfully at the plate of food for a few minutes, then he suddenly flipped the plate off the table. Food flew through the air and the plate shattered on the floor. Mario grabbed his coat and stalked angrily out the door.

C
AROL STOOD IN FRONT
of the mirror and stared at the permanent reminder of the fragility of her life. It was an ugly mark just above her left breast. It was going to be there forever, although the doctor had assured her that in time there might not be much of a scar.

She tentatively touched the healing wound. It was beginning to form a protective scab, but it was still tender, and sometimes it itched. Each day the soreness lessened, but with each day Carol grew more angry. She was stiff and unable to wear certain clothes because their weight irritated her skin. Certain movements sent unexpected pain shooting across her torso. She’d lost weight that she could ill afford to lose. And the scar would always be a reminder of what had happened.

Yesterday Matt had helped her change the dressing, and she’d seen the look on his face as her breasts were bared. He had stood back, shaking his head.

“Man, they really messed you up. If I was you, I’d sue.”

That wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. There was another concern that outweighed any motives for retribution. As a man, Matt’s reaction touched on the core of her sense of femininity. With Matt’s words she’d felt the last of her resolve melt away. She’d felt damaged beyond repair. It was quite enough that in her head she still heard the shots being fired. That she relived the impact of the bullet tearing into her body.

Now she carefully applied a fresh dressing to the injury. It would have been easier to wait for Matt to help, but she was determined to manage alone, especially after the way he had reacted the day before.

Carol sat on the side of her bed and gingerly pulled on a pair of black leggings. She decided to forgo a bra and slipped on a loose sweatshirt. Then she wiggled her feet into a pair of duck-shaped slippers that Gladys, a neighbor, had given her as a welcome home gift.

Carol observed that she’d reached an anniversary. Yesterday had marked a full week since she’d been shot. Not exactly a call to celebration, but time had a different meaning now. So did life and death.

The phone suddenly rang and she answered.

“Hi, Carol. This is Nancy Houseman.”

“Hi, Nancy.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks. Glad to be home.”

“Well, you get the prize for most exciting adventure of the year,” Nancy chuckled. “It sure beats having the flu or a broken leg.”

“I guess.”

“I don’t mean to make light of it, but it’s not every day, thank God, that we get to say we know someone who’s been shot.”

“You should talk to the students around campus sometime. You’d be surprised at what some of them have seen.”

“I’m
not
surprised, actually. Are you in a lot of pain?”

Carol thought about that for a moment. The physical pain was diminishing, but there were other kinds. “It’s not so bad,” she responded.

“Did they give you anything to take for it? I’m awful about pain.”

“I can handle it. I’ve been meaning to call,” Carol began. “I wanted to thank everyone for the beautiful flowers and the many good wishes.”

“Well, we all miss you. Not a day has gone by that someone hasn’t asked how you’re doing. The students have been especially concerned.”

“I’d like to have everyone over some day to thank folks for their concern.”

“Yes, we know you’re famous for those weekend lunches you give,” Nancy said. “We’re wondering if that’s why your class attendance is among the highest in the department. Feed them and they will follow. In any case, I wouldn’t worry about entertaining anyone for a while. Just concentrate on getting better. Is someone there to help you out? Maybe I can—”