The Spike (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 4) Read online

  As if on cue, Amanda asked, “How have you been feeling, Marty?”

  “Fine.”

  She stopped looking at the silicone spatulas she’d been testing and faced me square. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m great.”

  “Really? Because you’re glaring at the Miracle Pillow display like you want to kick it across the store.”

  “Well, who needs a Miracle Pillow anyway? Regular pillows work just fine.”

  “Marty.”

  “It’s true. I’ve used the same pillow for five years. There’s nothing special about it.”

  Amanda folded her arms and stared at me.

  I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. Shoppers shuffled past us in a daze of commercial high fever as I tried to put words to how I felt. I settled for the direct approach. “I got the reminder for my checkup in the mail.”

  She frowned. “It’s only been a few months since your surgery.”

  “Yeah, but closing in on a year since chemo,” I said. “It said this is precautionary. The real checkup will be early next summer.”

  “That’s great,” she said, confused. “Right? Chemo and surgery were a success, you’ve been feeling good, and the checkup is going to confirm it all.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not very clear myself on why I wasn’t as excited as I should’ve been. The second I’d found the postcard in my mailbox, I’d had a funny feeling about it, a squirming in my gut that I hadn’t felt since those first days after my diagnosis of stage two colorectal cancer, a diagnosis that had ended a thirty-year career with DC Homicide. “I guess it’s just a reminder I didn’t need, you know? I’ve been feeling good, so I just wanted to feel normal again. To forget it ever happened.”

  She nodded, smart enough not to argue or psychoanalyze. Too many people want to explain you to yourself, solve all your problems. “When’s the appointment? Do you want me to go along?”

  “Haven’t made it yet. And, no. But thanks.” She shot me a look, as close to admonishing me as she’d get. I held up a hand. “I’ll get there, promise. I just want to be mentally ready for it. Checkups can turn out to be bad, too, you know.”

  She looked liked she wanted to say something, but just nodded again. “Okay, but you’ll call me when you need me, right?”

  I couldn’t help smiling again. Not if you need me. When you need me. “I will. Now, seriously. Are you going to pay that much for a rubber spoon?”

  We browsed for another half hour or so, passing on some great deals, like a wax that would take off your eyebrows or back hair—whichever was required—knives that never needed sharpening because they couldn’t cut through bread to begin with, and air purifiers that promised to put ions in the air. Or take them out; I couldn’t tell which. Amanda was a smart shopper, ignoring flashy displays in favor of the deals that were on the shelves in the back corner and taking her time in the clearance section. We loaded a shopping cart with sheets, dishes, and a shower shelf along with a dozen other household objects. I questioned a few of her choices, but I’d been living as a bachelor for double-digit years, so what did I know? I still used the plates my wife and I had originally received as wedding gifts—and I’d been divorced since the eighties.

  The thought of plates made me think about food and Amanda giggled when my stomach growled like a caged animal. I didn’t mind since the thought of food had made me nauseous for almost a year while I was in chemo. Looking forward to eating was still a novel enough concept that it made me incredibly pleased to hear my own stomach complain.

  “How are things at FirstStep?” I asked to take my mind off lunch. We had progressed to the bedding aisle, but there were still displays of random household items hanging from the shelves. I sneezed as we passed one full of potpourri.

  “Good,” Amanda said as she examined a package of pillowcases. “The women that come in really need our help. I thought I would be doing more generalized social work after I graduated—trying to help out a larger chunk of the population, you know, and do more good that way—but I found out that’s exactly what happens when we help the women first. If you keep a mother from getting beaten, or help her find work, or get her to a long-term shelter, then you help her kids, too. And that’s three-quarters of the family right there.”

  “Even if it isn’t the loser father or husband or boyfriend that’s the cause of the trouble.”

  “Right. We’ll even try to help them if it’s clear that they aren’t the issue.”

  “That happen very often?” I asked. “That men don’t turn out to be the problem?”

  “No,” Amanda said.

  “What’s that look for?”

  “Oh, nothing. Talking about the shelter reminded me of something that happened on Thursday. The boyfriend of one of the girls who had come in caused a scene. Stood outside the shelter, screaming at the building.”

  “Do you have security?”

  “Not a guard, if that’s what you mean. We have a buzzer for the door. But he stayed outside all morning and no one could leave until we called the cops. Karla—the girl who came in—was terrified. Our director went outside and gave him an earful, but got spooked when he showed her a knife.”

  “The cops grab him?”

  She shook her head. “He was gone by the time they got there.”

  We made our way to the front of the store and got in line with the rest of the shoppers. Amanda pulled out her wallet and carefully counted her money, then went through her basket item by item, trying to calculate a ballpark total. I busied myself by looking at the three thousand doodads that the store had hung around the checkout aisle in a last desperate bid to get us to spend all of our cash. There were coupon caddies shaped like sleeping cats, space pens that would work in a vacuum, and car fresheners that promised to never stop smelling. For some reason I was fascinated by an anti-fogging mirror for the shower even though I wouldn’t buy it if it were the last purchasable object on Earth. I shaved at the sink and had since I was sixteen.

  “How do you think they do it?” I asked Amanda. “Do they heat the mirror from the inside or is it just space-age plastic?”

  When she didn’t reply, I looked up. The cashier had totaled the items in Amanda’s cart while I’d been distracted by point-of-purchase displays and Amanda was busy recounting her money, even though she’d done so a minute earlier. The cashier waited patiently while Amanda went through her wallet, then shook her head and pulled out a credit card, which she handed over. The cashier slipped it through the reader and we all stared at the little display, waiting for the electrons to tell us they’d done their thing. Something bleeped, though, and the cashier swiped Amanda’s card again. We waited and stared once more, with the same result.

  The cashier handed the card back to Amanda with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. The card was rejected. Do you have another card you’d like to use?”

  A pink blush bloomed on Amanda’s cheeks and the tips of her ears. “No. I…I must be late paying the bill. Can you take off the sheets and the pan?”

  “Wait a sec,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “I’ve got money.”

  Amanda shook her head. “That’s okay, Marty. I don’t need all this stuff.”

  “It’s only twenty bucks,” I said. “I spend that much every day on cat food for Pierre. Then again, he’s as big as some dogs.”

  “No, really. I went a little crazy in the aisles,” Amanda said, then turned to the cashier. “Go ahead and take off the sheets.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I don’t need your money,” she said, loudly, with an edge to her voice. Everyone within earshot froze.

  After a second, I put away my wallet. “Okay, kid.”

  We took off more than just the sheets by the end, but neither the cashier nor I said anything. Amanda—her back ramrod-straight and eyes locked ahead—marched out of the store with a bag in each hand, leaving me to handle the last one myself. I thanked the cashier
and hurried to catch her, since I was the one who’d driven. I popped the trunk and we stowed the bags in silence.

  I slid into the driver’s seat, she into the passenger’s seat. We sat for a minute.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she finally said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I started the car and backed out of the space, then headed out of the parking lot and onto the street. We made it to the second light.

  “The shelter doesn’t have a lot of grant money,” she said. “So I took a pay cut to help them stay out of the red.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “They’re going to pay me back if they win another grant, but I’m trying not to count on it. Women’s shelters don’t exactly pay top dollar in the best of times, so I might as well get used to living on less.”

  I nodded.

  She turned to look out the window, biting her lip. “I know you’re going to want to help, but this career was my decision. I need to know I can do this on my own.”

  We were quiet again, listening to nothing more controversial than the hum of the engine and the sound of other cars on the road.

  It seemed safe to talk after a minute. “I’m just going to say one thing. I’m here if you need me. Just like you’ll be there for me. That’s all. No judgments. Just help. Okay?”

  She nodded, biting her lip and staring straight ahead, her eyes shiny.

  “Lunch is on me, though, okay?” I said. “You can’t cook and I’m worse than you. And neither one of us could take my stomach growling again.”

  The memory almost made her smile.

  Chapter Three

  The next day found me at home, raking leaves for the first time in years. I have an oak, twice my age, that is large enough to throw shade across my entire backyard during the summer. Every October for the past ten years it has dumped its ten million leaves onto the property next door instead of mine, much to my glee. But climate change or cosmic realignment or maybe my neighbor’s prayers to an Earth goddess had caused every one of the leaves to drop, straight as arrows, and now parts of my backyard were thigh-high with the things.

  Just like hunger pangs, however, physical labor was more welcome now than it had been in the past since it meant that, well…I wasn’t dead. So, although my joie de vivre had taken a hit when I’d gotten the doctor’s postcard in the mail, I was raking leaves with a passion, perspiring through a blue George Mason sweatshirt as I gathered bags and bags of the stuff and lined them up like soldiers along my back fence. I had to take a break once in a while to catch my breath and to rub my shoulder—aching from where I’d been shot more than a year ago—but it still felt good to be active. My little Arlington yard was tidy in about three hours, though of course more leaves were on their way down. Halloween was just a few weeks away and the trees wouldn’t be bony and bare until mid November. But it was okay. I’d be happy to tackle the whole thing again. It was a pleasure to have a chance to do it at all. And to catch sight of my neighbor’s face through his kitchen window. What had started out as a smirk as he watched me work turned increasingly crestfallen each time I waved at him with a bag of leaves slung over my shoulder or as each patch of lawn was exposed.

  I knocked off and went inside to grab a glass of water and take a shower. The Redskins were playing at noon and I had a couple of friends, Sam Bloch and Chuck Rhee, coming over to help me finish some beer and ignore the fact that our team was losing. I was standing over my sink, chugging the water, when my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. I answered.

  “Mr. Singer?” It was a man’s voice, young and cultured.

  “That’s me. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Paul Gerson. My sister, Wendy, was killed at the Waterfront Metro station last week.”

  I lowered the glass. “God, I’m sorry, Mr. Gerson.”

  “Thank you. It’s been…hard to accept.”

  “For what it’s worth, I was there and I can tell you that there was nothing anyone could’ve done to stop it.”

  He took a weak breath, the kind that sticks in the throat on the way in. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. My parents and I have been in constant contact with the police on Wendy’s…case. They assure us they’re doing everything they can, but we get the distinct feeling that they believe there’s no chance to catch Wendy’s killer.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can, Mr. Gerson.”

  “They’ve given up before the case is a week old.”

  “Sometimes these things take time,” I said cautiously. If the case had a whiff of failure just a few days after the murder, then things didn’t look good. The lack of progress Paul Gerson was complaining about probably meant that there was no usable information at the scene. Nothing from eyewitnesses—including me—no physical evidence, and zero leads from Metro CCTV cameras. I found myself slipping into old habits of reassurance and white lies I’d honed as a homicide cop. “Television makes it look like a murder’s got to be solved in forty-eight hours or it’s gone for good, but I can tell you from experience that isn’t always how it goes.”

  “Yes, you were a detective for many years, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, about thirty. Give or take,” I said, then paused. “Is this going where I think it’s going?”

  “Quite possibly. My parents and I would like to hire someone to look into Wendy’s murder before it’s too late. Someone who not only knows how to investigate something like this, but can work well with the police. If they’ve already written the case off, then it’s even more imperative that the person looking into it have a rapport with law enforcement.”

  “So that person can squeeze all the information they can out of the cops?” I asked.

  “Crudely put,” he said, “but yes. Would you be willing to be that person, Mr. Singer?”

  “Before I answer, how did you get my name? My number?”

  Paul Gerson didn’t hesitate. “My father knows several members of the city council. My mother knows the mayor’s wife. It wasn’t hard to get information on the only person with the guts and brains to chase a cold-blooded killer straight from the scene.”

  The compliment had been lobbed like a grenade. I ignored it and went straight at the issue, trying to snuff this idea before it got started. “Look, Mr. Gerson. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your sister’s death. If I’d been a little faster or a little smarter that day, I might’ve caught that guy and this conversation would be moot. But the MPDC knows what it’s doing. Especially Homicide. I know it’s hard as hell to wait by the phone or hear the same tired line about the investigation proceeding at its own pace—”

  “We can pay you,” Gerson interrupted. “Very well. My father was the chief operating officer for some of the biggest aerospace companies in the world. He and my mother are offering a very large sum of money to find Wendy’s killer.”

  I took a deep breath. “I appreciate that, Mr. Gerson. But I retired for a reason. A couple, really. And one of them was to get away from this kind of work.”

  “You were willing enough to chase the man that killed Wendy.”

  “That was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had the opportunity to stop a crime—or, at least, to catch the guy who did the crime—and I took it. A full-on murder investigation is a whole different animal.”

  There was a pause, then Gerson cleared his throat in a curious way, with a hum at the end. “Mr. Singer, my family dies every hour that man is on the streets unpunished. We need justice for Wendy. Even an explanation would help. We don’t even know why he killed her. Do you understand how difficult that is for us? We don’t even know why.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gerson. I truly am. But I don’t do this kind of work anymore. I’d be happy to recommend some private investigators I know, if you like. But I’m not one of them.”

  “So that’s it, then? You retired, you got your pension, and you’re through. No effort to help, no r
esponsibility, no empathy. It seems the accolades I heard about you were greatly exaggerated.”

  I felt a flash of irritation and was tempted to ask him if he’d ever chased down a killer after going through chemo and surviving cancer, but the thought was self-pitying in the extreme. I took a deep breath. “Mr. Gerson, I’m not lacking in compassion or competence. But your sister’s case, while not hopeless, is going to take more manpower, time, and energy than I have right now. With no physical evidence at the scene, the next step is to start tracking down friends, family, coworkers, boyfriends—anyone who knew her personally, since most people are killed by someone they know. Including brothers and parents. Especially brothers and parents, since pushing someone in front of a moving train is a very personal act of murder. Because of that, your sister’s case is almost certainly heading for a long slog of conducting interviews at the station, fact-checking alibis, and chasing paper trails in the hopes that something might shake free. Or that someone might break down and confess six months into the investigation. That’s just not something I can commit to.”

  That stopped him for a moment, but he gamely tried another salvo or two, even throwing in a couple cheap shots at my sense of manhood. I kept my cool. I’d dealt with enough bereaved families in thirty years to know that most of them weren’t operating normally after someone they loved had been taken away. If he needed to vent, I could let him. But I really wasn’t interested in taking his money. Even if I was ready and willing to accept the stress and work of a private murder investigation—and I wasn’t—the chances of it ending on a positive note were slim to none for all the reasons I’d given. No thanks.

  Deflecting his request one more time, I was able to end the call with dignity, although I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until I heard the blip that meant he’d ended the call. The world of homicides was lousy and not one I wanted to be a part of anymore. Wendy Gerson, may she rest in peace, would have to be avenged by someone else.