Extracurricular Activities (22 page)

“‘How about that license plate number?'” he repeated to himself. “Smooth.”

He drove home in a fog, not even excited when he found a parking spot right in front of his building, normally a cause for great rejoicing. His phone trilled on the seat beside him and he picked it up before getting out of the car.

“Crawford.”

“Hey, it's Kenny James.”

Crawford sat up in his seat. “Kenny, hey. Thanks for calling me back.”

“So, you got another Miceli murder?”

“Or maybe two,” Crawford said, watching the inside of his windshield fog up. “I just want to check something…that hands and feet thing is always Miceli, right?”

“Here's the thing about the Micelis: they are consistent. Missing hands and feet are a signature Miceli move, and they don't change method. Ever. Miceli family members and soldiers do everything the same way they've been doing it for fifty years. Some old Miceli hacked off some guy's hands and feet in Brooklyn during World War Two, and that's how they do it now. I can't explain it, but I've seen two dozen Miceli…” He paused and laughed. “
Alleged
Miceli murders and they are all the same. They must have a school where they teach these guys messy murder techniques.”

Crawford sat in silence.

“You there?” James asked after a few seconds.

“Yeah, I'm here.” Crawford opened his car door. “We've got a couple of other suspects. One's a girl from St. Thomas who had a relationship with the vic.”

“She come in on her own or did you pick her up?”

“On her own, which is always suspicious. Funny thing is, she's a fencer.”

“She deals in stolen goods?”

“No, a fencer. You know, the sport?” Crawford clarified.

James started laughing. “I've been on the job way too long.” He paused. “Well, you know, she probably knows how to wield swords pretty well.”

“Yeah, that's what one of the other detectives is thinking. I'm still not sure.”

“Well, good luck, Bobby. Let me know if I can help.”

“Thanks, Kenny. Maybe we can hook up and look over these files? It'd be great to get some fresh eyes on this but even better if those eyes have studied all things Miceli.”

“You got it. I'm out next week, though. Taking the wife to Vegas to renew our wedding vows at some tacky chapel. Not my thing but she's got her heart set on it.”

“Well, good luck,” Crawford said, chuckling.

He walked inside and slammed the front door, not giving any thought to disturbing Bea. She opened her apartment door and took in his disheveled appearance, the bags under his eyes, and the stubble growing on his cheeks. “Get in here,” she said, and took his arm.

He went into her apartment and fell onto her couch, exhausted. Bea went into the kitchen and came back with a chocolate pudding pie, two spoons, and two cold bottles of beer. She put the pie on the coffee table and handed him a spoon and a beer. “Have some pie.”

The last thing he wanted was pie and a conversation with Bea, but for some reason, he found himself digging into a mound of whipped cream and chocolate pudding and spooning it into his mouth. He washed his first bite down with a swallow of beer and nearly gagged. “I don't think chocolate pudding pie needs a beer chaser,” he said.

Bea didn't agree and drained half of her beer in one swallow. “Give it time; it's an acquired taste.” She took another hunk of pie. “You look like hell. What's going on?”

Where do I begin? he thought. He was so tired and spent that he found himself pouring his entire life out to Bea. He ended with his visit to Christine's. “She asked me to dinner. I didn't think she was going to ask my permission to remarry.”

Bea's eyes were big behind her bifocals. “She's getting remarried?”

Crawford leaned back on the couch and took another swig of his beer. “Seems that way.”

“So, that's good, right?” Bea asked. She toddled off into the kitchen and returned with two more beers, one of which she handed to Bobby. “This is a six-pack conversation, if ever I heard one.”

He drained his first beer and started on the second one. “You know she came by the day after Fred's wedding and told me to forget about the annulment,” he said.

Bea's sharp intake of breath told him that she didn't know. And how would she? He hadn't told her.

“I thought that was about us. I thought that was about her doing the right thing.” He looked at Bea. “What it really was about was her getting remarried.”

Bea drank her beer in silence. She leaned over and scooped up another piece of pie, deep in thought. “Does it really matter?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Does it really matter why she's moving on? Does it matter to you?”

That was something he hadn't considered. He thought for a moment. “Does it?” he asked, not sure.

Bea stared at him. “No, it doesn't.” She clinked her bottle against his. “Congratulations.” She took in his crestfallen face. “You can't tell me that you're upset about this.”

“I'm not,” he said, not too convincingly. “I just thought…”

“You just thought what? That she was letting you go out of some unselfish desire to see
you
happy? Who are you kidding, Bobby?” Bea finished off the pie and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Listen, Bobby. It really doesn't matter why it's over now instead of before. It's over. You can move on. That's all that matters.” She tipped her second beer to her lips. “Bobby, let's remember one thing: you liked that girl, loved her like a sister, but you were never really in love with her.”

Crawford looked at his aunt.

“You took that girl out of a dreadful situation. That father of hers was no good, and neither were the brothers. You saved her.” She finished off her beer. “And that was a good thing to do, Bobby. But you can't tell me that you were ever in love with her.”

He hung his head. She was right.

“So, get moving. Start living the life you were meant to live.”

I didn't realize how much I had missed Max until she came to my office after returning home from what seemed like the longest honeymoon on record.

I was surprised when she came straight to my office the day after she arrived home, late on a Friday afternoon. Her beautiful tan was highlighted by a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and a flowered skirt under which she wore no pantyhose. Manolo Blahnik slingbacks on her feet, she strode into my office, bypassing Dottie in the reception area, her shoes making a rhythmic click-clack on the wood floor. She threw open the door and flew into my arms, grabbing me in a giant bear hug.

“I missed you!” she screamed, throwing her purse onto one of my guest chairs. She kissed my cheek.

I was as happy to see her as I had ever been in my life. I held her close. “Max.” I felt tears spring to my eyes; the absence of any close family relations in my life made her dearer to me than anyone. “I'm so happy you're back.”

She flung herself into a chair and threw her legs over the side, the posture she always assumed when she visited me in my office. “Sounds like you've had a hell of a time since the wedding. How's the gunshot wound?” she asked.

“Healed,” I said. “I've got a scar but the doctor said it would fade.”

“So much for sleeveless blouses,” she said, smiling sadly. “Fred's downstairs. Do you want to have dinner?” she asked. “We're going over to City Island for oysters.” She smiled slyly. “You have to admit. A man who eats raw oysters shows a lot of promise as a lover, don't you think?” She let out a throaty chortle.

“If you say so,” I said. I started to make the connection in my head but stopped. “Sure. I'd love to have dinner,” I said, pushing a file of papers to the side of my desk. “These can wait.” I stood, pulling my briefcase off the floor. I looked out the tall windows that faced the back courtyard of the building and spied Crawford jogging down the steep steps that led to the back door. He looked like he had just come from work, wearing his usual uniform of dress pants, shirt, tie, and blazer.

Max saw him, too. “Let's take a rain check.” She stood and grabbed her purse. “Seems our friend, the trusty Detective Hot Pants, might have had the same idea.” She hugged me again and gave me another kiss, whispering in my ear, “Remember what I said about raw oysters.” She left my office and, judging from the muffled voices out in the main office area, ran into Crawford on the way out. I heard her tell him that they would get together the following week to have dinner, if he was free. I couldn't hear his answer.

The sight of him in my office door was even better than the sight of Max, but several days had passed since the head-kiss incident and it seemed like we had to reacquaint ourselves with each other. He shuffled a little awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands in his pockets, looking at me. Finally, he stepped all the way in and gave me a tentative kiss on the cheek. Better than a head kiss, but not much.

“Hiya, Crawford,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked.

I nodded. “I'm good.”

“I have that information on the license plate number,” he said. RoboCop was back.

I kicked the door to my office closed with my foot and decided to take matters into my own hands. I grabbed his belt and pulled him close, planting a long, wet kiss on his lips. “Don't ever kiss my head again,” I whispered.

He laughed. “Oh, that.”

“You can explain later,” I said, kissing him again.

He took my hand and interlaced my fingers in his. “Let's start over, okay?”

He wouldn't get any argument from me.

“Hi, I'm Jerry.” He reached over and shook my free hand.

“Candy.”

“What do you do, Candy?”

“I'm a stripper.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I'm a buffer.” He laughed. “I think that makes us perfectly compatible.” His hands found my bare skin beneath my blouse; suffice it to say that I had never been felt up in my office. I was hoping that Sister Calista didn't take this opportunity to drop off her syllabi. “Are you free for dinner?” he asked.

“I am,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don't know,” he said. “How do you feel about oysters?”

I feel very good about oysters.

We set out for City Island, a quaint village in the Bronx situated on the Long Island Sound, arriving just as the sun was setting.

At this time of the year, most of the restaurants, which closed after the high season, were still open, and Crawford knew of a small place on the water that he said was one of his favorites. He pulled his car into a spot in the front and turned to me.

“I'm sorry I haven't been around,” he said.

“Any breaks in Ray's case? In my case?” I liked to think of my shooting as a “case;” the word itself provided a little distance from what had really happened, which was too gruesome to think about.

“No,” he said. “The slug we found in your shooting didn't match any known weapon from in the system, so we're at a loss. The license plate number came up from a car stolen in the Soundview section of the Bronx. We questioned the owners and they check out. Just unlucky. And the Ray thing…” he said, pausing. “Well, there's nothing. I've checked with your local police and they've got less than nothing. There's nothing on Terri, either. But Hardin told me that they've got the Feds involved looking for Jackson. He probably won't get very far.”

I turned to him. “They'd better find him.”

He put his hand to my face. “Come here,” he whispered. I scooted closer and he wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. I put my head on his shoulder and breathed in deeply.

“Just so you know, I don't kiss on the first date,” I whispered to him.

He put his lips to mine and kissed me. “But I do,” he said, taking his mouth off mine for a few seconds and studying my face before kissing me again.

I groaned slightly when he slid his tongue into my mouth and ran his hands down my back. He moved to my neck. “I thought you promised me some oysters?” I said, giggling.

He pulled away. “Are you one of those women who prefer food and sleep to sex?”

“Is there any other kind?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, there's Max.”

“Touché,” I said, laughing. “But you're going to have to buy me dinner if you want to get to second base.” Even Jack McManus had had to obey that rule when I had dated him but I left that part out.

He sighed and hoisted himself out of the car, going around to open my door. When he arrived, I was already out of the car and standing on the sidewalk. We walked to a small bar and restaurant and went inside; the atmosphere was dark and intimate. We took a table in a corner near the fireplace.

Crawford ordered a bottle of German Riesling from the young waitress who approached our table; before she walked away he also asked for two dozen oysters.

I raised my eyebrows at him. “White wine? Won't you be fired from the police department for ordering such a sissy drink? Aren't you guys supposed to drink straight bourbon or something like that?”

“I'm six foot five and carry a gun. Who's going to call me a sissy?” he asked. “Besides you, of course.”

The oysters arrived within minutes, artfully arranged on a large plate. The waitress explained each different type on the plate, and left them with lemon wedges, hot sauce, and horseradish. Crawford immediately set about doctoring up a few on his side of the plate and noisily slurped the first one down. He had another six eaten in a few minutes' time.

“God, I love oysters,” he said. He leaned in close to me. “They're one of my favorite things.”

I ate one and put the empty shell on the plate. “Are we still talking about seafood?”

He didn't have time to reply; the waitress arrived with the wine. He tasted it and gave it his approval. He waited until she left to resume our conversation. “I have something to tell you,” he said.

I hate it when conversations start with that sentence. They usually end with “I don't love you anymore” or something equally disturbing. I braced myself.

“No, no, it's good,” he said. He reached across the table and took my hand. “My divorce is final.”

“What?”

He told me how Christine had come to his apartment after the wedding and then how she told him about her re-marriage. She had since signed their divorce papers and everything was legal and official. “So, that night I came to your house, I was…” He searched for the right phrase.

“Out of sorts?” I filled in.

“That'll work.”

“I'm happy for you,” I said. “How do you feel about it?”

He closed his eyes for a minute and thought. After some moments of silence, he opened his eyes again. “I'm relieved. Happy.” He took another sip of wine. “This has been going on for too long and it was time for it to come to an end.” He loosened his tie. “The funny thing is that I think you and Christine would really like each other. She's a wonderful person.” He looked closely at me. “For somebody else,” he amended, careful not to make it sound like he had any regrets over their split.

“So,” I said, “this is the beginning.”

“That's what I'm hoping.” He leaned across the table and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Do you want to see my apartment?” he whispered.

“I don't know. Do I?”

He nodded. “You do.” He kissed me again. “Do you want to sleep over?”

I thought for a moment even though I knew what my answer would be. “As long as you promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No sleeping.”