Extracurricular Activities (15 page)

The next day I had two hours to kill, so I drove to the Fiftieth Precinct.

I was still processing everything that had happened over the weekend: the wedding, my ride with Peter, my date with Jack, the note from Gianna. My conclusion was that I needed to stay far away from anyone named Miceli or McManus.

Even though I knew I had to see Crawford to fill him in on what had transpired after the wedding, I still had myself worked up about my date with Jack. I tried to adopt a casual posture and expression so that when I did see Crawford, “I made out with a guy in his car last night!” didn't slip from my lips or broadcast itself from my rosy cheeks.

Crawford, on top of being great looking, kind, and responsible, is also extremely perceptive. His bullshit detector is more finely honed than that of just about anybody I've ever known. Nothing gets past him. Not revealing the previous night's actions was going to prove extremely taxing to me, I was sure.

Before I left for the precinct, though, I had taught my two morning classes, including the Modern Lit class. There was no sign of Ms. Podowsky and there hadn't been since I had run into her at the bookstore. I wondered if she had dropped the class. But for now, I had more pressing matters to attend to so I didn't drop by the registrar's office to find out.

I pulled my car up to the front of the building into one of those diagonal spots that I always had trouble backing out of. I figured if Crawford was there, he could help me back out without smashing into anything, such as a person.

I had never been to the precinct before and I was more than a little curious about where Crawford worked. I had been in another precinct earlier that year and it was horrendous; I couldn't imagine going to work in a place like that every day. The Fiftieth was a little bit better—a teensy bit, maybe?—and I took heart that he worked there instead of in a more dicey neighborhood.

It was an atypical fall day in New York when I arrived at the precinct, located a mile or so south of St. Thomas. Usually, the weather is slightly warm, sometimes with a chill in the air, and sunny. Today, the weather matched the precinct building to a tee—gray, dull, and dark. I went through the heavy metal doors and into the main area of the precinct.

I walked to the switchboard area where a very attractive female officer was manning the phones. Crawford had described his colleagues as fat, smelly, and definitely unattractive; Officer Gorman (as her name tag identified her) did not fall into any of those categories. And when she stood to greet me, I could see that not only was she not fat, she was built like a brick shithouse. And I don't even know what that means.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. “Can I help you?” Gorgeous and friendly. Great.

“Is Detective Crawford here?” I asked.

She smiled again, still friendly, but this time with a slight curl to her lips and an arch to one eyebrow. “Sure. Can I tell him who's calling?”

I gave her my name and waited while she plugged a couple of numbers into the phone. “Detective Crawford? Ms. Bergeron to see you?” She waited a minute to hear his answer before hanging up, and then motioned that I should go up a flight of stairs to the squad room. I got a few feet away from the desk and heard her whisper, “You got it, Hot Pants.”

Detective Hot Pants was Max's name for Crawford before she really knew him. I realized now that she had probably told Fred, and this little tidbit had made its way into the precinct vernacular. I wasn't sure having a gorgeous fellow cop of Crawford's knowing the name made me feel all that comfortable, but I tried to let it go.

Before I walked away, a ruddy-faced man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and equally short tie stopped next to me; he had been eavesdropping on Gorman's phone call to Crawford, announcing my presence. He gave me the once-over, lingering a moment too long on my legs. Gorman took notice and cleared her throat.

“Can I help you, Moran?” she asked.

“Is this the lovely Dr. Bergeron?” he asked, holding out his hand.

I was surprised that he knew who I was since we had never met. I took it and allowed him to hold it a little longer than he should have. “Yes.”

He bowed at the waist. “Arthur Moran. I saw you on television.”

Good Lord. And they say the ratings for NHL games are at an all-time low. You'd never know that, judging by how many people had seen me on television.

He pulled me a few feet away from Gorman and dropped his voice. “I've been working with your boyfriend on your ex-husband's case.” He let go of my hand and pulled up to his full five feet seven inches, pulling at the waistband of his Sansabelt pants.

“Thank you, Detective Moran. I appreciate your hard work on this. I'm sure Ray's family does, too.”

“I'm very sorry about the circumstances of his death,” he said. “You know,” he said, pulling me close so that he could whisper in my ear, “this has Miceli written all over it.” He drew back and raised an eyebrow at me.

“Really?” I said. Since Crawford wasn't giving me any information, I decided that pumping Moran for information was the next best thing. “Do you think it was Peter Miceli or one of his men?”

“Oh, Miceli doesn't get his hands dirty anymore. Got to be one of his foot soldiers. Someone who's trying to get ‘made.'” He gave me a knowing look. “Let's just say your ex was a little indiscreet and that did not serve him well.”

I gave him a knowing look back. “Gotcha.”

He kept going. “And, having a pregnant daughter who's still technically a teenager would make the most sensible father crazy.”

So they did know. This was like taking candy from a baby. “I agree. So, will you keep working it until you locate the Miceli henchman or will it close?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “This guy is in the weeds, so unless we can come up with something, that's a dead end.”

That was unfortunate, but I wasn't surprised. I figured it was harder to locate a professional killer than someone who killed in a fit of passion or by accident. “So, my neighbors really aren't suspects?”

Moran laughed, a throaty chortle. “Nah. They never were. Crawford had focused on them for a while, but I told him he was wasting his time. Concannon is sick of using man hours for the case because he doesn't think we'll find the Miceli who did it.”

“What about the other women that Ray had relationships with?”

He laughed. “We're still working through that list.” The way he said it let me know that list was using up the most manpower.

He paused and shook his head. “Crawford's still working the Miceli angle. Hard. Man, he's thick,” he said, pointing to his head with one finger. “Once he makes his mind up…oh, hey, Crawford!” he said.

I turned to see Crawford ambling down the steps from the squad room upstairs. There was a little hitch in his step when he realized that I had been talking to Moran and his mouth turned down into a frown. “Alison.” His greeting was flat, not that I really expected him to feel me up in the lobby of the precinct. In that split second, I imagined that he knew all about my second date with Jack, even though intellectually, I knew that couldn't be true. I tried not to look too guilty as he approached and I flashed my best smile at him. I was happy that I had worn my slutty pumps and a skirt that fell just above my knees for him. Moran had noticed, but it didn't look like Crawford did; he focused on his colleague. “Moran. Don't you have somewhere else to be?”

Moran moved off; he wasn't that clueless. Crawford looked like he was going to wipe up the floor with him.

Crawford said hello to Gorman and then turned to me. “You weren't doing what I think you were doing, were you?”

I smiled innocently. “Just a chat with a new friend,” I said.

He threw a look in the direction of Gorman who had busied herself counting paper clips. “She heard the whole thing.” He took my elbow and steered me out of the precinct. We stood on the street, him staring down at me with a hard look on his face. “Is it that you think we're not doing enough to close this case?” he asked.

Aha, so that was the problem. It was less about me poking around for information and more about him wondering if he was letting me down. I decided to ignore his question and throw the blame back on him. I shook my arm free from his hand. “Listen. I came here to take you to lunch, but you're obviously in a pissy mood.” I turned and started to walk toward my car, trying to put as much righteous indignation into my gait as I could. However you do that without killing yourself on a cracked sidewalk in heels.

He stood outside the precinct, watching me, until it was clear that I wasn't fooling around. When I beeped the key tag to unlock the car, he called out, “You're parked in a ‘cruiser-only' spot.”

I smiled, in spite of myself and my righteous indignation. I looked around and, indeed, every car there was a blue and white NYPD cruiser. And the sign right in front of my car indicated that parking where I did would end up with my car being impounded. “You told me the guys at work called you by your first name. Gorman clearly called you ‘Crawford.' You lied to me.” I turned and faced him.

“Apparently ‘Hot Pants' is my new name.” He glared at me as he closed the gap between the two of us and I felt two spots of pink in my cheeks. He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “I don't know whether to wring your neck or handcuff you to your bed and have my way with you.”

I swallowed hard. “I don't know either.”

He stared at me for a few seconds, apparently deciding.

“Are you done being mad at me?” I asked.

His reverie interrupted, he looked at his watch. “Have you eaten?”

I shook my head.

He walked back to the front door and called in, “Gorman! Lost time!” He walked back to me and held his hand out. “Give me your keys,” he commanded, and instead of arguing with him, I complied. “Please,” he added, the gentleman returning. He walked around to the passenger's side and opened the door for me.

He jackknifed himself into the driver's seat and fiddled around with the seat controls until he was practically sitting in the back seat. He pulled the car out of the spot and headed south. After a few minutes, he pulled up in front of a deli and wedged the car into a spot right in front. I got out and waited for him on the sidewalk.

The deli was warm and smelled like garlic. I was sure my next class of students would appreciate that when I began my lecture on Kerouac. The counter was on the right side of the deli, behind it the kitchen, and on the left side, a bank of booths. Crawford asked me what I wanted.

“What do they have?” I asked, my mind-reading skills not what they used to be.

He shrugged, still unsure of whether or not he was mad at me. “Food. Drinks.”

“That narrows it down,” I said. “Then get me some food. And a drink.” I turned on my heel and sat in a black Naugahyde booth, wrestling myself out of my leather jacket. I didn't know if he was being oblique just to bug me, if he really didn't have a clue, or if low blood sugar made him disoriented.

He returned a short time later with two Cokes and a couple of sandwiches. He put them on the table. “Chicken salad or ham and cheese?”

“What do you want?” I asked politely.

“I don't care.” He looked at me expectantly.

I took the chicken salad.

“Whew. I wanted the ham and cheese,” he said sarcastically.

I took a long drink of soda and picked at the crust of the sandwich. After just a few minutes in the Fiftieth, I was unable to eat, having seen human flotsam and jetsam go by while I was talking to Arthur Moran. Watching Crawford eat his sandwich, I marveled at how inured you could become to such unpleasantness. He wolfed down half of his ham and cheese before coming up for air. He looked at me. “What?”

“You were hungry,” I remarked.

“I'm always hungry,” he said. “I never get to eat at regular intervals so I'm always a meal or two behind. You know that.”

If I was supposed to feel sorry for him, I did. I stopped short of inviting him over for dinner because I knew what that would lead to: a burned pot roast and missing underpants. “I have to tell you something.”

He started on the second half of the sandwich. “Go.”

I didn't go for the preamble. “I took a ride with Peter Miceli yesterday.”

He maintained his grip on his sandwich but looked up at me. “What?”

“Peter Miceli. I saw him again yesterday,” I said.

His face turned hard again; boy, was he in a bad mood today. “He picked you up again? Jesus, Alison, you have got to stop getting in that guy's car!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly for the surroundings. A couple of diners looked up from the food to see what the commotion was about.

“What do you suggest I should have done?” I whispered, leaning in close to his face.

He looked around. “I don't know…run?” he asked, his tone patronizing. “You're tall, you have long legs. Hit the pavement and don't stop until you can't see him anymore. And if you happen to run into a cop, tell him that you're being harassed and have him shoot the bastard's nuts off.” He looked chagrined, having lost his cool for a moment.

I ignored that comment and gave him the details of my conversation with Peter. “He told me that Kathy was pregnant.”

“What?” He seemed surprised that I knew this detail.

I looked down at the table. “He thinks Ray did it.”

I could see his mind working. He knew Ray was physically incapable of impregnating anyone—in my usual “reveal everything way too soon” manner, I had told him about Ray's secret vasectomy soon after we had met.

I looked away. “Let's do this another time.”

He let that go and put the sandwich down. He wiped his hands over his face, clearly exhausted by everything. “I'm sorry.” It took him a few seconds to form his next thought. “I worry about you.”