Crime Seen (7 page)

‘‘Thanks.’’ I sniffled and wiped my eyes. Milo and I sat there for a few minutes, his hand stroking my shoulder while I dribbled into a tissue. ‘‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’’ I managed to say when I felt like I was getting a grip again.

‘‘It’s all part of the process,’’ he said to me.

‘‘What process?’’

‘‘Post-traumatic stress disorder,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve seen it a couple times in cops who get shot. You start to feel good again physically, but mentally you feel like you’ve lost your edge. You begin to doubt yourself and your abilities. Coping with the smallest decision can be a major deal. And just about the time you think you
should
be getting back to work is about the time you’re terrified to go.’’

My eyes got large as he talked. That was exactly what I was feeling. ‘‘Whoa,’’ I said to him. ‘‘Talk about hitting the nail on the head.’’

Milo nodded soberly. ‘‘Have you considered seeing someone to help you deal with this?’’

‘‘Like a therapist?’’

‘‘Yeah. I know of a good one if you’re interested.’’

I played with the Kleenex in my hand. ‘‘It just seems like I should be able to get over this myself, Milo. Like, what’s the big deal? I got shot, I survived, I have a great boyfriend who takes care of me, terrific friends, a pain-in-the-ass sister, a dog I adore . . .’’

‘‘Logic has nothing to do with it,’’ Milo said as he wiped a tear off my cheek. ‘‘You had a terrible thing happen to you, Abby. And my guess is that right about now you think you should have seen it coming, ’cuz after all, you’re psychic, right?’’

My mouth opened a fraction. ‘‘Jesus, Milo,’’ I said to him, ‘‘I’m beginning to think you may be telepathic.’’

Milo smiled. ‘‘Naw,’’ he said. ‘‘I just know how you think. You’re one of these types that gets all guilty when you miss something, like when Allison was killed. I remember how that mess ate you up.’’

I nodded. ‘‘Yeah, that was bad. But, Milo, this was right in front of my face. I mean, if
anyone
should have seen this coming, it should have been me!’’

Milo looked at me for a long, long time before he said, ‘‘Abby, you’re not God. Underneath that superhero spandex you’re still human, and it’s human to believe the best about people. And sometimes, my friend, that’s counterintuitive. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t drop the ball—you just weren’t looking for it to come out of left field. You’re still the best psychic in town, and you
can
go back to work without worrying about messing it all up.’’

The waterworks started again, and it was a long time before I could speak. Finally I said in a ragged voice, ‘‘Thanks, Milo. That means a lot.’’

Milo leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘‘Now, come on,’’ he said as he started the car. ‘‘I’ll drive you home, and Dutch can come back for your car after he cooks me a big juicy steak.’’

Chapter Three

We made it back to Dutch’s, and the moment he saw my tearstained face, he came over to protectively hug me and shoot an accusation at Milo. ‘‘You just couldn’t leave her alone, could you?’’ he snapped.

‘‘Hey, partner,’’ Milo said mildly. ‘‘Good to see you too.’’

‘‘I told you not to push her,’’ Dutch growled. ‘‘Jesus, Milo, she’ll talk about it when she’s ready.’’

‘‘And meanwhile she’s internalizing all her fear and withdrawing from the world. You said yourself that you were concerned about her,’’ Milo argued.

‘‘Hello,’’ I said, pushing away from Dutch’s chest. ‘‘I’m standing right here, ya know.’’

‘‘Are you okay?’’ Dutch asked me, looking intently into my eyes. ‘‘Did you want to go lie down for a while?’’

Suddenly, I realized that Dutch and I had fallen into a pattern the past few months. I’d felt wounded, both internally and externally, and Dutch had protectively been wrapping me in the soft cocoon of his house and his care. He’d been enabling me to hide from the world, but now I knew deep down it was time to stop hiding. ‘‘Actually,’’ I said, forcing a smile onto my face, ‘‘I’m really okay, Dutch. I think I’d like to help you with dinner. And Milo was kind enough to buy us some really good steaks, so how about we all just go into the kitchen and get the hell on with our lives?’’

Dutch looked somewhat taken aback as I grabbed the grocery bag from Milo and marched into the kitchen. The fellas followed behind, and I couldn’t help but overhear Milo say to Dutch, ‘‘Told you so.’’

While Dutch prepared dinner, Milo and I hung out on the back patio drinking wine and keeping him company. The conversation was noticeably light. Both men seemed to be aware of my rather fragile grip on things, and I couldn’t really decide if I was grateful or irritated about that.

Finally, after enough idle chitchat about the weather and the price of a gallon of gas, I said, ‘‘Did you get anywhere on Max Goodyear?’’

‘‘Who’s Max Goodyear?’’ Milo wanted to know.

‘‘One of the cases I’m working that Abby’s been helping me with,’’ Dutch explained. ‘‘Yes, I took another look through his finances, Abs. Still can’t find a blip, though.’’

My radar hummed. ‘‘What about kids? Did you look into that angle? You know, like maybe he’s got a son or a daughter who’s the funnel for the money.’’

‘‘Literal dead end there, I’m afraid,’’ Dutch said as he flipped the steaks. ‘‘Goodyear and his wife had a son back in the early seventies, but the baby died of crib death before he was two. There are no other children.’’

I scowled. The crummy thing about being intuitive is that it can be frustrating as hell when the facts don’t match what your radar is suggesting. I sighed and gave him a shrug. ‘‘Ah, well, maybe I’m not as sharp as I used to be.’’

‘‘That’s ’cuz you need to work that thing out,’’ Milo said and tipped his wineglass at me. ‘‘There’s no better way to get it back in working order than to start up your business again.’’

‘‘Milo,’’ I heard Dutch growl, ‘‘lay off, would ya?’’

‘‘No,’’ I said to Dutch and laid a protective hand on Milo’s arm. ‘‘He’s right. I do need to get back in the game. In fact, there are some voice mails that I should return. Call me when the steaks are done, ’kay?’’ I said, getting up from the patio table.

As I left the boys, I had to laugh when I heard Milo say, ‘‘Hey, partner, what’s up with your hair?’’

When I picked up the kitchen phone, my eye caught the red light blinking on the answering machine. I called my office voice mail first, took down all six messages there, and clicked off. My eye kept wandering back to the red light, and before calling back the first prospective client I hit the PLAY button. The message was for Milo. ‘‘Hi, Dutch. It’s Noel. Listen, if my lunatic husband is there, could you please have him call me immediately? Also, tell him to answer his damn cell phone while you’re at it. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for an hour.’’

‘‘Yikes,’’ I said and hurried outside with the phone. ‘‘Milo, Noel called and she wants you to call home right away. She says she’s been calling your cell for an hour.’’

I watched Milo pat his pockets, frantically checking for his cell, and then he whapped his forehead. ‘‘I must have left it on the charger at work.’’ I gave him the phone, and he trotted inside to call his wife and try to crawl out of the doghouse.

‘‘Dinner’s ready,’’ Dutch said. He handed me a plate with steak and tinfoil-wrapped potato and corn.

‘‘Should we wait for Milo?’’ I asked as he and I took our seats.

‘‘He’ll be out in a minute. Dig in,’’ Dutch said, cutting into his steak.

I felt a little guilty, but it smelled so good and I was so hungry that I couldn’t help but cut off a piece, favoring my right side a little since the sawing motion of cutting was still very uncomfortable. Noticing the grimace on my face, Dutch asked, ‘‘You going to therapy tomorrow?’’

I nodded. ‘‘And Candice wants to see me in the gym at six a.m. sharp.’’

Dutch chuckled. ‘‘I knew that was going to work out well,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m glad she’s moved to town.’’

‘‘Want to come with me?’’ I asked, thinking that misery would sure love some company.

‘‘Can’t, babycakes. I’ve got an early meeting. Maybe the day after tomorrow.’’

‘‘You think she’ll want me to work out two days
in a row
?’’

Dutch laughed. ‘‘If I know Candice, she’ll be thinking more like five.’’

I gave Dutch a horrified look as Milo reappeared, his face grim. ‘‘Noel got a call from Craig Stanton. He’s been looking for me.’’

‘‘Who’s that?’’ I asked.

‘‘The head of the parole board,’’ Dutch said to me. He turned to Milo. ‘‘What’s up?’’

‘‘Lutz was knifed this afternoon. He’s in the hospital being prepped for surgery. They’re not sure yet how serious it is.’’

There was a long silence between Milo and Dutch as the two of them seemed to be working through that. ‘‘He’ll live,’’ I said into the silence when my radar kicked in. Goose bumps formed along my arms, and in my head I saw that black dog, drooling and snarling. I knew that Dick Wolfe was behind the attack on Lutz.

‘‘That’s what you’re picking up?’’ Milo asked me.

‘‘Yeah. Give it a week. He’ll be better.’’

‘‘Did Craig say who knifed Lutz?’’

‘‘Conveniently,’’ Milo said sarcastically, ‘‘there were no witnesses. A guard found Lutz in a pool of blood and couldn’t say who stabbed him. They think it was most likely gang-related.’’

My left side felt thick and heavy, which meant there was no way the stabbing was gang-related. I held back from commenting, though. ‘‘So the parole hearing’s been postponed,’’ Dutch said with a sigh.

‘‘Yep. Craig said he’d keep us posted—but maybe this will give us a little more time to prepare anyway.’’

Dutch nodded. ‘‘Sounds good. You still staying for dinner or does Noel want you to get your butt home?’’

‘‘Oh, I’m staying,’’ Milo said, taking his seat. ‘‘I’ll just need to stop off and get her some flowers on the way home.’’

Later that evening, after returning all the requests for appointments, I came upstairs and found Dutch lounging on the bed in a pair of black boxer briefs with big red hearts. ‘‘Interesting underwear,’’ I said to him as I unfastened my watch and set it on the nightstand.

‘‘The interesting part’s
under
the underwear, babycakes,’’ Dutch said, giving his eyebrows a wiggle.

I laughed and shimmied out of my jeans, stepping over my two suitcases to toss them in a nearby pile of dirty clothes. ‘‘You know I have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, cowboy.’’

Dutch clicked the TV off and rolled over on his side to rest his handsome head on his hand and make goo-goo eyes at me. ‘‘What if I do all the work?’’ he suggested, his voice deep and throaty.

I sighed as I looked at him. I was starting to waffle. ‘‘You know,’’ I said, ‘‘I’m not sure I’m ready to jump into this morning routine, but Candice is right. I really do need to start working out.’’

‘‘Well, how about you come over here and let me give you a workout?’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ I said as I took off my shirt and tossed it in the pile. ‘‘I may not be in the mood.’’

I watched as Dutch’s mouth set and he stared down at the comforter. Then he said, ‘‘Okay,’’ and rolled onto his back, clicking the TV back on.

I stood there dumbfounded for a beat or two. ‘‘That’s it?’’ I said sharply. ‘‘You’re just going to give up and go back to watching the game?’’

Dutch gave me a puzzled expression. ‘‘Did you want to talk or something?’’ he asked me, and shut the TV off again.

I looked at the set and back to him, my anger beginning to mount. ‘‘What the hell’s happened to you anyway?’’ I demanded. ‘‘Seriously, Dutch. I know I got shot, and I’m dealing with this stupid post-traumatic crap, but what the hell happened to you?’’

Dutch blinked at me and sat up. ‘‘Abby,’’ he said in a very calm voice. ‘‘I’m going to need you to give me a hint here, ’cuz I really don’t know why you’re upset.’’

I scowled at him and turned to the suitcase where I kept the tank top and shorts I slept in. I paused and folded my arms, trying to keep a lid on the hurt and anger bouncing around inside of me. ‘‘I miss us,’’ I said finally. ‘‘I miss you.’’

‘‘Edgar,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I’m right here, babe. I haven’t gone anywhere.’’

‘‘The hell you haven’t,’’ I barked. ‘‘What happened to the guy who used to flirt with me until I gave in? The guy who would know that my saying ‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood’ means ‘
put
me in the mood already’!’’ Dutch was silent behind me and I waited a beat before continuing. ‘‘I got injured, Dutch—I haven’t died. I’m beginning to think that the reason I keep retreating from the world is because I’m afraid of it. And I think you’re making it easy for me to feel that way.’’

‘‘I see,’’ he said, and I could tell I’d struck a nerve.

‘‘No, you don’t,’’ I sighed, opening my suitcase to fish out my jammies. ‘‘You think that I’m blaming you, but I’m not. I just want you to be
you
again. I don’t want you to tread carefully around me. I don’t want you to treat me like I might break, and shelter me from the world. I want you to push me—hard. Every time I back off something that’s a step in the right direction, like going back to work, or helping Milo, or working out with Candice, I want you to be there to call me on my shit.’’

‘‘Fine,’’ he said as I turned around and met those fabulous midnight blues. ‘‘I promise I’ll push, but I guarantee you’re not gonna like it.’’

‘‘Of course I’m not gonna like it,’’ I said, smiling at him. ‘‘But I’ll love you for being in my corner, cowboy.’’

‘‘Get over here,’’ he said, his own mouth curling into a seductive grin. ‘‘I have something interesting to show you, and a mood to get you in.’’

The crack of dawn came friggin’ early the next morning, and I so wanted to do nothing more than roll over and go back to sleep. Dutch, however, was taking his new responsibility of pushing me back into the swing of things with relish. He leaped up at the sound of the alarm and came around to my side of the bed. ‘‘Morning, sunshine!’’ he sang, his voice so loud it echoed off the walls. ‘‘Rise and shine!’’