CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s been two days since I’ve heard from or seen Mary. Two very long and hard days.
Numi and I are at the Bean. I watch as Numi’s pen fills out the pages in his journal with his long, elegant strokes. I know he is watching me as well. He has hidden his surprise at my somewhat renewed strength. These days, I feel better. I am walking mostly on my own and I have a refreshing color to my face. At least, I think so.
We sit at our regular umbrella-covered table and this time, when the sun’s rays find my exposed flesh, I move my hand into the shade. These days, I no longer wish for death. Or treat my body recklessly. My new motto is “one more day.”
One more day with Numi.
One more day with Mary.
One more day. And with each passing day, I give thanks to whoever is around that gives a damn if I gave thanks. Even if I never see Mary again. Or hear from her again. Even if I die alone with Numi by my side, I give thanks. Mary has given me a rare and beautiful gift.
Still, say that to my aching heart. The one that has to leave her.
With renewed vigor, I reach for my latte as Numi sips his iced coffee. My notes lay in a neat stack in front of me, untouched. Every few minutes, I direct my thoughts to the murder puzzle. The answer may or may not be in my notes. But then I usually lose focus and find myself wondering when or if Mary will return to me. My mind vacillates between the two and Numi sets his book down and folds his arms.
“You’ve got to let it go, man.”
Numi knows that I am pining for her, willing her to contact me. But I will not reach out to her. No. A dead man has no right to reach out to anyone. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I don’t have to do anything but pay taxes and die,” I say. “And my taxes are already paid.”
“She will come back or she won’t. Either way, we have a killer to find.”
Numi is eager to put this case behind us, I know. Eager to get me back on a path to rest and treatment. He was surprised and, I suspected, slightly jealous when I told him about Mary. I don’t believe he thought I had it in me. But I did. At least one last time. One last, beautiful act.
But I hope not. I hope for more. I hope for a lot more with Mary. But I have no right to hope. I have no reason to hope. Who am I to hope?
Today is cool, despite the shining sun. A soft breeze pushes the umbrella back and forth. I watch it flap and move. A young couple is sitting at the table next to us with a toddler who’s making a royal mess out of a croissant. I watch the child play and eat and make faces and destroy the croissant. Numi is watching me. I can feel the weight of his stare on me. I also feel his concern, his worry. The toddler looks at me and smiles big for no good reason. I want to smile back but my strength is suddenly gone, and so I stare at the little boy, apologizing through my eyes for not returning his smile.
She will come, I think and look away. Maybe.
I know I am behaving like a schoolboy. I know it’s silly to let my heart sing when I continue to live on borrowed time. I don’t care, really. My numbered days now have two purposes. Just a few weeks ago, I had none.
I will solve these cases, I resolve silently. Both of them. And I will love Mary.
My cell phone rings, which is a rare occurrence these days. Admittedly, I reach for it a little too excitedly, hoping beyond hope that it’s Mary. It’s not. It’s a restricted number. Deflated, I set the phone aside. I don’t have the energy for people I don’t know. With it still ringing, Numi reaches across the table and picks it up.
“Hey,” I say.
He ignores me and answers. As he listens to the caller on the other end, I inhale the smell of croissants and cigarette smoke and, most of all, the coffee. Since when did coffee smell so damn heavenly?
Since you decided you were in love, dummy, I answer myself and smile.
Numi holds my cell phone out to me. “I think you might want to take this, cowboy.”
I take it, too weak to resist. “Hello,” I say, or try to say. The croak that comes out is barely discernible.
“Booker?”
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. I recognize the voice but my brain isn’t firing very quickly. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Detective Paul Dobbs.”
I sit up a little, or try to. Mostly, I hunch a little across the table. I hold the phone closer. The toddler has chosen this moment to make a strong, unsatisfactory statement regarding his confining high chair.
“Detective,” I say. “How can I help you?” I think I sound like myself, but who knows. Truth was, I don’t remember how I used to sound.
Dobbs hesitates. “How you feeling, Booker?”
“Sexy as hell.”
He snorts. “Always the clown.”
“You’re not calling about my health, Detective.”
“No. Not this time.”
“So what is it?” I ask, and already suspect I know the answer.
“We have another body here.”
That is the answer I suspected. Dobbs asks if I can meet him at the station. I don’t have it in me to meet at the station. I give him a lame excuse about needing to be home to keep an eye on my house cleaner. I can almost see him shake his head, and can almost feel him regretting his decision to bring me in on the case. But he agrees and we hang up.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’ve just had two espressos and put some more Preparation H around my eyes and changed into a fresh shirt when we hear the knock on the door. I am chilled now, which is a sign of waning energy, but I hand the blanket that covers my thin body to Numi and he folds it quickly and tosses it onto my bed before answering the door.
Numi nods once at the detective, who nods in return. Men of few words. Numi has made it known that he thinks I’ve had enough excitement for one day. By “excitement,” he means us going to The Coffee Bean. My body tends to agree with him. It wants to sleep the day away, or lose itself in the chaos of my scattered mind. But I don’t have that luxury. Not with the detective in charge of Olivia’s murder showing up. Not with my brother’s killer still out there.
I ask if the detective wants a drink, praying like hell he doesn’t. And, like most of my prayers, this one goes unanswered. The detective asks what I have. I tell him Scotch. He says, “Good enough.”
I fight off a grimace as I rise from the couch. Numi doesn’t like any of this. But I make a show of being a good host. I need the detective on my side. I need him to open up to me. I need him to believe I am a capable worker. I am, in essence, putting on the show of my life.