And to All a Good Night
(Life Lessons # I ½ )
by Kaje Harper
Copyright: Kaje Harper 2011
And to All a Good Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Content warning: this story contains strong language and alludes to m/m sex
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This story takes place about two months after the end of Life Lessons.
And to All a Good Night
Tony Hart forced his eyelids open and rolled sideways off his lover’s warm body. The sheets at the edge of the bed were chilly on his bare skin and he fought a nearly overwhelming urge to snuggle in and go back to sleep.
Beside him, Mac grunted and mumbled, “Already?”
“Yeah.” Sitting up tumbled the covers down off Tony’s chest, which did a fair bit to wake him up. Brrr! “Did you turn down the heat again last night?”
“Your electric bill is ridiculous.” Mac slid a hand under the covers and Tony felt the rough brush of a callused palm across his thigh.
Tony shivered for a completely different reason. Three months together, and the lightest touch of Mac’s hand could still make him go up in flames. Tony could think of a dozen things he would rather be doing than heading for the airport for an early flight. But his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t show up in Florida for a family Christmas, she was coming to Minnesota to visit him. Which would make it really hard to keep Mac a secret. His mother had always been good at reading how Tony felt from the look on his face. All she would need was to see him staring at Mac, once, and his lover’s secret would be out.
Mac’s fingers stroked gently over Tony’s hip. Definitely time to get up, before you jump the man again. Tony rolled out of bed and stood up, hugging himself against the chill. He blinked and squinted his eyes as Mac reached out a long arm and switched on the light. Through the crack in the curtains, the sky was still pitch dark. “You don’t need to get up, babe. Turn that back off. I’m all packed and I put my clothes in the bathroom. You can catch another hour before work.”
Mac sat up. “You’re kidding, right?”
Now that’s a work of art. Tony gave himself a moment to just admire Mac’s hard, wide, lightly-furred chest, broad shoulders and sculpted biceps. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark haze of unshaven stubble over a strong jawline. And then the rest of the show as Mac climbed out of his side of the bed, gorgeously naked.
“Mac, you didn’t get home until one AM. I don’t need you to see me off.”
“Maybe I want to.” Mac didn’t look at Tony as he bent to dig a pair of shorts out of his own drawer.
Tony hesitated, then went to the bathroom to get dressed. Jeans and a polo shirt were his usual choice for travelling. He wanted a hot shower, but hadn’t left time for it. No big. He always felt so grubby after an airline flight - he would need a shower when he arrived at his parents’ place anyway. Through the door, he could hear Mac boiling water for coffee. Bless him.
Mac was standing in the kitchen fully dressed, with a mug of coffee in each hand, when Tony emerged. Tony took the outstretched cup gratefully and inhaled the warm steam. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember why I let you move in here.”
“I haven’t moved in. I’m just here a lot.”
“Okay.” Tony drank the rich brew in small appreciative sips, and drowned the impulse to call Mac on that little delusion. For a couple of months now, Mac had spent every night at Tony’s place. Not one, not some, but every one. Mac went back to his own squalid little apartment to pick up mail and swap clothes, but not much else. That was moved-in by Tony’s definition, but he guessed Mac didn’t see it that way.
Mac took a big gulp from his own outsized mug and said, “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ve already ordered a cab. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“It’ll cost an arm and a leg. And the roads were icy out there when I came home…to your place last night. Giving a friend a ride is no big deal. I can drop you off and then head in to work.”
“Sweetie, I’ve given them my credit card. It’s a done deal. And the traffic around the airport will be intense, with Christmas Eve tomorrow. You don’t need the hassle.”
Mac rubbed a hand over his dark hair, which was still a little disarranged from their…enjoyable night. “I’ll probably go in to work now anyway. I’m not getting back to sleep and there’s no lack of things to do. Why do people seem to get crazy around the holidays?”
“Emotional stress? Worrying about money? You’d know better than me.” Tony was very aware of the long hours Mac had been working lately. Apparently the whole Minneapolis homicide department was burning the midnight oil, trying to solve a rash of new cases before Christmas. “Are you guys this busy around the holidays every year?”
Mac shrugged. “Most years. Homicides, suicides, assaults. Peace on earth and goodwill to men.”
Tony winced. He liked the holidays. Of course, being a teacher meant Christmas was a nice long break from work, not dealing with mayhem and despair.
Mac opened the fridge and peered in. “What do you want to eat?”
Tony rinsed his cup and set it in the dish drainer. “I hate to say it, but I should get going. I’m going to catch breakfast at the airport, if I have time. I’m betting the security line is going to be a bitch, even at this hour. You should eat a good breakfast though. I bought those frozen waffles you like.”
Mac closed the refrigerator. “I can stop for something on my way to work.”
But will you bother? Jared MacLean was a homicide detective first and foremost. Definitely ahead of being Tony’s lover, maybe barely tied with being his daughter Anna’s father. When work got busy like it was now, Mac put food a distant fourth. Getting a meal into Mac when he got the chance was becoming part of Tony’s routine, but today there wasn’t time.
Let it go. Tony was sometimes tempted to put a framed copy of that serenity prayer on his wall, the bit about accepting the things he couldn’t change and wisdom to know the difference. He had come close to exploding a time or three at Mac, over everything from feeling smothered by Mac’s overprotective streak to Mac not taking care of himself. And a host of little issues in between. And yet, when Mac came through that door in the evenings and pulled Tony into a grateful hug, life was as close to perfect as Tony had ever found.
Tony had known going into this that loving a man this deep in the closet would involve compromises. He was still feeling his way around his relationship with Mac. Let it go for now was currently his mantra. But he was aware of a deep, steadily building desire to know when for now was going to be over.
He turned back to his preparations, choosing sneakers over boots, and grabbing a leather jacket. His suitcase was bulky but light. The quilt had been an inspired gift for his mother, right up to the moment he realized it meant he would have to check a bag. Too late to change it now. He verified that his inner coat pocket held his itinerary and cell phone, and stowed his keys in his backpack. No hat, no gloves. He wasn’t going to be outside that long, and he’d only lose them between Minnesota and Florida.
He hefted his backpack, judging its weight. There were probably a couple more books in there than he needed for on the plane. But you never knew when a flight might be delayed, resulting in dead hours hanging around in airports. Tony liked to be prepared.
“Are you going to be all right carrying that?” Mac asked. “Your back isn’t really healed yet. I could find you a duffle bag, or that messenger thing you have.” Mac reached out and took the bag from Tony’s hand.
“It’s fine, if I use my right shoulder.” The latest and hopefully last skin graft surgery Tony’d had on the injury to his back was weeks ago. Really, it was pretty much healed, if he didn’t abuse it. Mac worried, though. It was endearing, when it wasn’t freaking annoying. “You’re hovering, Mac. I’m good.” Tony firmly repossessed his backpack and set it by the door.
Mac got his gun out of the safe under the sink and strapped on his shoulder holster. Tony’s heart did a little lurch at the sight, even though it was now as familiar as breathing. His daily reminder that the man he loved went out and put himself in harm’s way. And with it came an acid bite in his stomach, because if something happened to Mac, no one would call him. No one knew about them. He would only find out when Mac failed to come home, and there was a story on the news about police officer shot.
Enough. He rapped once on the wood of the closet door for luck, then stepped up to Mac as casually as he could manage. He tugged the big cop’s shirt straighter under the leather strap and fisted his shirt collar to pull him in for a kiss. Mac’s mouth was hot and coffee-flavored, and so sweetly familiar. Tony let himself linger.
Mac kissed back softly at first, but then he threaded his fingers up into Tony’s hair to hold him steady, and took his mouth hard. Tony leaned into the warm hand behind his head, eyes closed and mouth open. So good. Mac’s other hand dropped to Tony’s ass. Damned shame the cab was on its way. Tony broke the kiss and opened his eyes. Mac’s intense gaze dropped to his mouth, then back up to meet his eyes.
Tony smiled, stepped back and zipped up his jacket. “Just a little reminder to keep thinking about me while I’m gone.”
“I might do that. Now and then.” Mac pulled out his overcoat and stuffed lined leather gloves into his pockets. Tony suddenly wondered if the man could fire his gun with the bulky gloves on. Would his finger fit around the trigger? Would Tony go a little off his rocker worrying from a thousand miles away? It was a distinct possibility.
Tony hefted his bags and opened the door. “Look, I’ve got to run. Call me when you get the chance?”
The hallway behind Tony was empty, but still Mac hung back in the apartment, putting extra space between them. “Sure. Have a nice flight.”
“Like that’s gonna happen.” Tony tried for a wry grin. “Watch your back, Mac.”
Down the hall, a neighbor’s door began to open. Mac gave Tony a quick nod, and then Tony was looking at the beige paint on the outside of his closed door. Tony squared his shoulders and hefted his bags. Right. Bye, babe. The taxi had better be waiting downstairs, because Tony wasn’t coming back up.
***
Mac sometimes wished he’d taken a freaking typing class in high school, no matter how geeky that had been considered. Reports, reports, case forms, more reports. He would never have guessed working homicide would turn out to be a damned desk job. It always tried his patience, but this morning coming in early and finding a mound of paperwork waiting irked him more than usual.
Mac yelped and jerked away from the computer screen as something cold and wet touched his neck. His partner Oliver laughed evilly and backed out of retaliation range. Mac slid a finger under the back of his collar and retrieved the remains of the offending snowball. “What the fuck?”
“It’s snowing out there, man. Looks amazing.”
“You’re cheerful.”
“My ex agreed to let me stay in the house with the boys over Christmas. We’ll try to bury the hatchet for two days and have a family holiday.”
“Think you can?”
“Sure.” Oliver sighed and looked less cheerful. “We don’t hate each other. It was the job, the hours and her feeling like she didn’t come first with me that broke us up. She complains that the boys see more of me now with fixed visitation than they did when I lived at home. Hell, I still kinda love the broad. We can make nice for the sake of the kids.”
“Well goodie for you.”
Oliver peered at Mac. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Got the autopsy report on that old geezer. The one who looked like he died of natural causes at home? He was poisoned with antifreeze.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” The department still had four open cases being worked. Two were just a matter of locating the guilty party. They knew who did the killing, had the witnesses and the evidence, but couldn’t lay hands on the men in question. Since one killer was an addict who had to be jonesing pretty badly by now, and the other was about as smart as a potted plant, Mac figured they would both turn up soon. Just so far, they hadn’t.
One of the other cases was destined to go cold. A small-time cocaine dealer had been found shot in an alley. No witnesses, no physical evidence, and no ballistics match on the slug. Mac figured they would only solve that one if someone confessed to it someday.
The fourth case was a hit-and-run. That one they were working hard, checking body shops, talking to witnesses and waiting for the lab report on trace evidence. Mac hated hit-and-runs. They were cowardice loaded on top of killing.
Now the old guy made five.
“Remind me about the victim,” Oliver said, stretching out in his desk chair.
“Andrew Smithe with an e on the end. Age eighty-six. No known relatives, living on a pension, not rich, not poor. Found by his cleaning service, an estimated two days after he died. Signs of severe illness. It looked like the autopsy would be a formality, but the report says ‘evidence of significant ingestion of ethylene-glycol-based antifreeze resulting in acute anuric kidney failure and death.’”
“Follow the money,” Oliver suggested. “Old guy like that, it’s almost always going to be some long-lost relative in a hurry for the money. I’ll stay on the hit-and-run. You go talk to the geezer’s friends, see if you can get a line on his will.”
Smithe had lived in a town-home. The narrow beige-siding affair was identical to the dozen units that stretched out on either side. A few were decorated with lights and wreaths, breaking the monotony of the matching front doors. The dusting of new snow added to the holiday feeling, if someone cared about such things.
Mac knocked on the unadorned door of Smithe’s left-hand neighbor. He’d checked ID’s on the close neighbors. These were Tom and Angela Jackson, two kids, no criminal records. He could hear male and female voices in loud conversation inside, but it took three tries to bring anyone to the door.
“Whaddya want?” demanded a heavyset man in a stained T-shirt. He held the door barely cracked open.
“Minneapolis Homicide. I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Andrew Smithe.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Smithe? Your next-door neighbor?”
“Oh, the old guy.” The man scowled at Mac from under dark bushy eyebrows. “I thought he was sick or something, and then he died. How come the cops are asking about him?”
“Just routine with any unattended death. We have to cover the bases. When was the last time you saw Mr. Smithe?”
“Jesus. Two months, maybe three. Old bastard almost never went out. Don’t know nothin’ about him.”
Mac put out a hand to catch the door that the man was trying to swing shut. “What about your wife? Had she seen him lately?”
The man shrugged and yelled back into the dim recesses of the house. “Hey! Angela! You see the old guy from next door recently?”
A response floated back, “He’s dead, you moron.”
“I know that. Cops are asking when’s the last time we seen him.”
“Cops?” A short blond woman appeared behind the man in the doorway, staring at Mac. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman smiled, and ran a hand over her brassy hair. “You should come in out of the cold and sit down.”
From the man’s deepening scowl, Mac thought that was not a unanimous invitation. “Did you see or speak with Mr. Smithe in the last few weeks, ma’am?”
“Well, no. Not since Halloween, when the kids went trick-or-treating. But you look like you could use a cup of coffee. And I did talk to him a bunch one time, a couple years ago.”
“Cops don’t want to hear about that, Angela.”
“Did he have visitors in the last week? Any cars parked outside his place that you noticed?”
“Nope. Never saw anything in his second parking space. Just that old Ford Taurus he has.”
“Did he go out that you know of?”
“Almost never. Car just sits there.”
The woman chimed in, “I saw him in the Cub Foods once.”
The man sneered at his wife. “Well, of course, Angela, I’m sure he went grocery shopping. Not like he died of starvation.”
“Did you ever go over to his place to help him out? Carry something heavy for him, fix a leak, anything?”
The man just shook his head.
Mac tried to keep his tone bland, to avoid sounding even vaguely accusing. “Did you hear anything the night he died? Did he yell or groan or do anything you now think might have been a call for help?”
“No. Don’t even know what day that was. The soundproofing is okay here. Good thing, the way our brats run around screaming sometimes. We don’t know nothing about the guy.” The man muscled his wife backwards and began closing the door.
The woman caught the edge of it and gave Mac a toss of her head, arching her back so her meager breasts stretched the sweater she was wearing. “I bet I know lots of things the cop might want to hear.”
“I’ll be in touch, ma’am,” Mac said before the door slammed shut. When hell freezes over. Through the thin wood panels he heard the man’s voice raised in anger. He hesitated long enough to be sure there was no hint of violence, but the argument sounded the same as before. Unless no better source of information came forward, he was planning to keep a safe distance from both of them.
The unit on the other side was empty, and by the time he was three doors down, the residents didn’t even know the man had died. Great sense of community here. Mac used the key to let himself into Smithe’s townhome. The front hall was just cold and musty, but as he moved into the kitchen he became aware of the smell of decay and illness. The place was barely above freezing. Someone had turned the heat way down. Given the miasma of odors, that was perhaps just as well.
Mac pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and set himself to dig into the minutia of the man’s life. They would have to get a crime scene team in here, but the place was pretty compromised. It had looked like a natural death. There had been a parade of EMT’s and cops, and evidently no-one had stopped the cleaning service from stripping the soiled sheets off the bed and wiping up the worst of the mess from the floor and bathroom. The narrow bed lay bare and exposed. A hint of chlorine cleaner mingled unappealingly with the other smells.
The ME had described the man’s death as slow and painful. A period of almost drunken disorientation would have been followed by burning thirst, nausea and weakness. The old man had been found in the bathroom, where he had probably passed out after vomiting. He had been sick in the bedroom first. Mac wondered why he hadn’t called for help.
Had the disorientation been too severe, or had he mistaken the symptoms for a simple stomach flu until it was too late? There was an old-fashioned corded phone by the bedside. Mac picked up the receiver gingerly with a gloved hand. He found the silence of dead air. Replacing the handset, he knelt and traced the connections of the cords. The phone cord to the wall lay dangling, cleanly cut through just above the plug. The loose end had been hidden behind the bedside table. Until he tried it, the old man would have had no warning that his life-line was cut.
Not the most subtle way to disable a phone, although fast if the killer only had a moment out of the old man’s sight. Mac wondered if maybe the motive here had been personal after all. Had someone liked the thought of Smithe sick and dying, reaching for a phone that he would never be able to use? Or was it just expedience?
Still, it suggested a timeline. It made it unlikely that the antifreeze had been left planted in some food or drink, waiting for the old man to get to it eventually. If the dead phone needed to go unnoticed, the murderer would almost certainly have given the victim the poison at the same time. If they could find out who had visited Smithe within the last two days of his life, they would probably have their killer.
In the front room, a small, old-fashioned desk held pens, pencils, envelopes and paper. Mail was sorted into careful piles: bills, charities, junk. Mac leafed through it and found no personal letters. There was no sign of an address book. A cell-phone charger sat on the desktop, but there was no phone. Mac figured it might have been taken, either because the killer’s address was in it or to further isolate the old man. The crime team would have to search for it. If the old man used it as his address book, it would be very useful to locate it. They would subpoena Smithe’s phone records of course, but that would take a little time, especially with the holidays, and would only give them the man’s most recent contacts.
The desk held a drawer of carefully-labeled hanging files. Smithe had been an organized man. Mac located a folder marked “Will” and pulled it out. The contents had him shaking his head. The will looked legal, and left all the man’s worldly possessions to an arthritis-research charity. Unless there was another, more recent will, the money angle looked like a bust. The charity was a large national group that hardly needed to poison an old man for his meager savings. A bank file showed a balance of about eight thousand dollars. Not chump change, but hardly enough to justify an elaborate plot in the name of medical research.
In another file, Mac found a life insurance policy. This one was for a hundred grand, which could make a nice motive. Except that the beneficiary was another charity, this one for cancer. Mac noted the text on the insurance statement, though. This is to confirm the change in beneficiary for policy number blah, blah, blah. Less than a month ago. Odd, since the ME had stated the old man’s health had been good, prior to his poisoning. No sign of cancer or any other fatal illness. Mac checked through the file. The earlier statements were just receipt of payment. No details. Had the previous beneficiary offended the old man, to provoke the change in the insurance? Suppose the previous beneficiary didn’t know the policy had been changed and got tired of waiting. Who would a man with no family have originally bought so much life insurance for?
Mac searched the rest of the house with growing frustration. The place was spartan, with very few personal items. There was no computer. Again, maybe stolen, but Mac found no cables, no accessories. The guy had been over eighty. Maybe he had never owned one. There were no messages on the answering machine, although the lab might be able to retrieve old ones. There weren’t even any photographs on the walls. The art was all classic prints, or misty amateur watercolor landscapes.
Only a collection of books on a shelf in the living room were well-worn and eclectic enough to represent the man’s tastes. A leather-bound volume of Dickens sat next to a worn, paperback Robert Crais; Vonnegut was wedged in beside Alice in Wonderland. Mac went through them methodically, looking for annotations or papers used as bookmarks. Three of the older volumes were inscribed “To Drew from his Sarah” in a round feminine hand. The ink looked faded. A few scraps of paper that fell out from between the pages went into the meager envelope of evidence he was collecting, but frankly they all looked like junk.
Eventually he found a more promising possibility. Under a rough scrawl of blue pen that just said “Drew,” an adhesive bookplate in an old hard-cover noted, “From the Library of Aaron Goldschmidt.” That was not a name you’d find hundreds of in Minnesota. If the man was local, it might be possible to track him down. Mac flipped the title page, to judge how old the book was. He stared at the title. The Front Runner by Patricia Nell Warren. Shit.
The book was old, all right. Mac knew it well. He’d read it twice. Once in furtive snatches at his public library, hidden inside a larger volume of World War II history. And again, a few years later, in mounting anger at the promise of love between two men that it held out and then cruelly withdrew. At sixteen he’d had a crush on Billy Sive. At twenty-three, he’d known better.
If Andrew Smithe was gay, the beneficiary might be some secret lover. Which meant that the killer might be some greedy old gay man. And wouldn’t that be a barrel of laughs. Not that having that book on your shelf with another man’s name in it made a person gay, of course, but it was a possibility. Maybe a probability. Mac noted Aaron Goldschmidt’s name down, and slid the volume back into its place on the shelf. When he let the crime scene team into the house an hour later, he had found nothing more promising.
When Mac got back to the precinct, Oliver was at his desk typing a report and looking cheerful. He waved Mac over. “Hey, partner, you’re not going to believe it. We collared Craig Johnson.”
It took Mac a second to haul his mind back to their other cases. Oh yeah, the house plant. “How?”
“Idiot bought a case of beer, and got drunk. He ended up driving back to his old house and passed out in the car in the driveway. The uniforms watching the place could barely wake him up to get the cuffs on. We’ll have to let him sober up, and read him his rights again, before we can question him for real. But he had the gun on the passenger seat. Stupid bastard.”
“Works for me.”
“Yeah, not complaining. How’s that new one going, the old guy with the antifreeze?”
“A few possibilities. He had a big insurance policy, but the beneficiary is a charity. Still, maybe someone close to him didn’t know that, or figured they could contest it. I’m still looking.”
Oliver nodded and turned back to his report.
Mac sat down at his own computer, and convinced it to go online. Initial searches for A. Goldschmidt pulled up nine in the state of Minnesota. Only two turned out to be Aaron. Mac called them both, but neither claimed to have ever heard of a man named Andrew Smithe. He made note of their addresses anyway. Either a murderer or a closeted lover might not admit to knowing the victim.
He really wanted to find out the previous beneficiary of the insurance policy. But insurance companies got obstinate about handing out any kind of information. Mac figured he’d need more than speculation to get a warrant request past a judge.
A thought occurred to him, and he got back online. There were lots of nursing homes in the Twin Cities. Three were identified as Jewish and he started there. At the second, he hit the jackpot. They had an Aaron Goldschmidt who claimed to have a friend named Smithe. When the nurse was persuaded to put the man on the phone, his wavery voice said, “You were asking about Andrew?”
“Andrew Smithe, on South 14th Street?”
“Yes, that’s Drew. Is he okay?”
“Um.” It suddenly occurred to Mac that he might be notifying a man of his lover’s death. “Did you know Andrew Smithe well?”
There was a long pause. Then the voice said, “I’m hearing ‘did you,’ not ‘do you’?”
Shit. “I’m very sorry, sir. Mr. Smithe died three days ago.”
“Ah.” He heard a small gasp of breath. “Damn. What…how did he die?”
“Kidney failure.” Even if it was due to poison. “Would it be all right if I came to talk to you, sir? We can’t locate any family for Mr. Smithe. Maybe you could give us more information.”
“Drew didn’t have anyone left, I don’t think.”
“Even so. I won’t take much of your time.”
“Sure. Not tonight. I don’t do well past dinnertime these days. But tomorrow, sure, if you don’t mind working on Christmas Eve.”
Mac made arrangements to visit the man the next day, and hung up feeling pleased with his detective work. Hah, who needs Hanson and his fancy computer skills.
Oliver came by and paused at Mac’s desk, coat in hand. “I’m out of here. Are you still working tomorrow?”
“Yeah. My cousin Brenda likes to do the church things with my daughter on Christmas Eve. You know, carols and midnight services and things. So I might as well take the shift. I’ll pick Anna up on Christmas morning and bring her to my place and play Santa Claus.”
“Doesn’t your cousin let you come over to her house for Christmas?”
Mac snorted. “Besmirch her beloved Jesus’s birth with my un-born-again self? Not likely. It’s okay. I have a tree and everything at my place for Anna. We’ll have more fun on our own and no one can complain about what inappropriate gifts Santa brings.”
“Oh, really?” Oliver perched on the edge of the desk across from Mac, like he was settling in for a nice chat.
Mac looked at him sideways. Oliver was a close as he had to a real friend, after the guys Mac had hung with sort of dropped away in the painful period of his wife Mai’s cancer and her death. But he and Oliver didn’t usually talk much, just had a beer or watched a game. Keeping a big part of his life secret made Mac hold everything close to his chest. Talk about any personal stuff and the wrong thing might slip out unawares. He said to Oliver, “Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“Going to my house. My old house, my wife’s, to see the boys. Might as well let the traffic die down.” Oliver’s tone was a hair over-casual. It made Mac wonder if this holiday was going to be harder for his partner than it had seemed that morning.
The squad room was emptying. Other people were eager to get out. Oliver said, “Why do you let her do that?”
“Who? What?”
“Why do you let your cousin dictate to you about Anna? I know she’s doing most of the child care but Anna’s your daughter.”
Mac hesitated on the verge of telling Oliver to butt out. He’d gone round and round this with Tony, and it seemed like Tony understood. But somehow he always felt like there was just an edge of skepticism deep down with Tony. Like he was waiting for Mac to find a different answer. Oliver was Mac’s friend, so surely he’d be on Mac’s side. He suddenly wanted to explain it all, and see what a neutral person thought. “I don’t let Brenda dictate. I decide. If I have time, any day, morning, evening, whatever, I call Brenda and go get Anna. That’s our agreement.”
“But not on Christmas Eve. And never in her house.”
“It works. Anna’s happy.” That was what counted, wasn’t it? “Brenda loves her in her own way, and Anna has someone to be her mother. After Mai died I was such a mess, and Brenda really stepped in.”
“Four years ago, right?”
“Yeah, a year before I transferred in to Homicide.” Mac remembered those days painfully. Days long before Tony. Maybe he could safely talk about it with Oliver, who was sitting there like he had all the time in the world to wait for an answer. “I was so sleep deprived I was practically sleep-walking. I barely trusted myself to hold Anna without dropping her. I couldn’t stand being in our apartment without Mai, so I pretty much never went home. And I was working Sex Crimes then and, God, I spent my days around people who were the real scum of the earth. I felt…dirty. Saw hookers who were just babies, kids abused by pedophiles. You have no idea how much it helped to see Anna taken care of by someone safe and clean who would care for her right. The strict religion thing seemed like a small price to pay.”
“I don’t get hard-line religious people like that.”
Mac wanted to be fair to Brenda. He did everything he could to be fair to Brenda. “She thinks she’s saving my immortal soul. I think at first she figured I’d go to church, get right with her God, and it would all work out. The more I said no, the more rigid she got. And now she can’t back down. God won’t let her.”
“Can’t you just fake it?”
“No,” Mac said shortly, because he’d argued himself in and out of that about a million times. “I can’t.”
Oliver snorted. “Wouldn’t have picked you for having religious scruples.”
“It’s not that.” Mac glanced around the room. Other than Terrence, typing at his desk all the way across the room, the place was deserted. “If it was just going to church, singing a few hymns, saying I repent my sins, sure. Not like I can’t lie when I have to. But her church is pretty…hands on. Brenda wants me to kneel down in front of the whole congregation, in front of Anna, and say her mother and I were sinners, and bare my dirty soul to be washed clean, and swear on a bible to live by her pastor’s word and command, and…I can’t. I can lie, but I don’t break promises I’ve made in front of Anna.”
“So you let Brenda run things. Out of some kind of gratitude?”
“She pretty much saved my life. Might have literally saved Anna’s.” Mac remembered waking from a stupor at Mai’s bedside, feeling Anna’s sleeping infant body sliding out of his arms toward the floor. He’d caught her. It was okay. That time.
“But that was years ago. And you still don’t have your own kid back.”
“I spend all the time with her I can,” Mac said, stung. “She’s a girl, she needs a woman to look after her. I can’t do the single dad thing and give her what she needs.” What had he told Oliver just now? “I barely trusted myself…?” That was still true. Mac was totally making up the details of parenting as he went along. Anna deserves to live with someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. Mac loved his daughter, and he did his best, but he always felt one mistake away from really screwing it up. This arrangement with Brenda fucking worked. “Anyway you’re a good one to talk, Oliver. I don’t recall you fighting for full custody of your kids when you got divorced.”
“They belonged with their mother…and yeah, my hours are unpredictable and Annette is the one who has done all the day-to-day stuff with them. I guess I can see what you mean. But you could find someone more flexible to take care of Anna. Since your cousin’s not really Anna’s mother.”
“As good as. The only mother Anna can remember. I wouldn’t do that to her.” And Brenda’s someone I can afford, someone who is safe. The idea of trusting Anna to anyone new was daunting. For all her rigidity and coolness, Brenda would never, never hurt Anna.
Oliver slid his butt off the desk. “And you really don’t mind her calling you a sinner and all?”
“Sticks and stones, partner.” No need to mention that sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat, thinking about what Brenda would say if she discovered the truth about him. He forced lightness into his voice. “Day after tomorrow, she’ll be calling me Santa.”
Oliver smacked his arm lightly. “Okay. Whatever works. Merry Christmas, Santa. Maybe you can wrap up the perp in this new case and put him under the tree for me.”
“Is that what you want for Christmas, little boy?”
“Actually, I’m thinking more like the Swedish bikini sky-diving team, but I won’t complain about a solve.” Oliver frowned. “Not that I’m expecting any bikinis in my holiday. You know, at least when my wife and I were fighting, it meant she still cared. I kind of miss that. But this is better for the boys.”
“I guess.”
“Well, have a good holiday. I’ll think about you slaving away in here tomorrow, when I’m eating my wife’s Christmas Eve roast beef. If you get off early, call me. You could come over, eat with us.”
“Wouldn’t want to put you off your food.” Mac ducked Oliver’s half-hearted swipe at his head. “Merry Christmas.” Mac watched as his partner slowly bundled up and headed out for two days with his kids and ex-wife. Being straight isn’t easy either. In all Mac’s concerns about how to do the best thing for Anna, it was good to remember that. Being human isn’t easy.
***
Tony was almost asleep when his cell phone rang. The theme from Hawaii Five-O surfed softly from under his pillow. He pulled the thing out and flipped it open against his free ear. “Hey, you.”
“Hey. Good flight?”
“Not by any stretch of the imagination. But I got here.”
“Family okay?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. Mom’s cooking up a storm. Dad is trying to persuade me to go golfing with him.”
“Is he succeeding?”
“Only one man I love enough to do something like golfing for, and it’s not Dad.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Tony sighed silently. He wasn’t going to stop putting it on the line for Mac. Love was what he felt, and he was damned well going to say it. And someday Mac would say it back. But obviously not today. “Tough day at work?”
“Not too bad. Caught another case, but we closed one. Remember the guy I told you about? The one who left his death threat, complete with name and phone number, on the victim’s voice mail? Well he went home, and passed out drunk. Probably doesn’t even realize he’s been arrested yet.”
Tony chuckled. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Mac’s voice still had a strained quality. Tony asked, “The new case. Is it a bad one?”
“Nah, nothing special. I don’t want to talk about work. Tell me about your day.”
“Not much to tell. Arrived in Sarasota. Mom met me at the airport with a homemade brownie. Rode back to their condo. Mom made a big lunch. Took a shower and a short nap. Mom had a crackers and cheese snack plate out.” Tony laughed. “I went to the beach for a while, just to put some distance between me and the food. And to ogle the cute boys, of course. If my swim trunks had a pocket for a pencil and paper, I could have come home with half a dozen phone numbers.”
“Gnh.”
Okay, that sounded like Mac got kicked in the stomach. Tony shook his head, even though Mac couldn’t see him. “I’m teasing you, babe. You’re supposed to say something about keeping my pencil in my shorts. Then I tell you my pencil is all yours.”
“I guess I don’t know how to do this. Were there really a lot of cute guys?”
“Sure, if you like blond twinkies and oiled gym-queens with skins like tanned leather. Which I don’t.” There might have been a moment or two of aesthetic appreciation, but nothing Mac should worry about. Nothing to touch what Tony had waiting at home. “I miss you, babe. Someday we’ve got to come down here together, and then I can ogle you on the beach to my heart’s content.”
“But your parents do know, don’t they? About you?”
About me being gay, you mean. Mac’s reluctance to say the word out loud was less amusing as time went by. “Yeah, they do. Although mostly they don’t ask and I don’t tell. This holiday that’s working really well. They’re still all worried about me getting held hostage this fall.” Keeping his mother from flying up to coddle him in the aftermath had involved some of the fastest talking of Tony’s life, and a heaping quantity of emotional blackmail. And it appeared the coddling had been more postponed than avoided. But at least he’d kept Mac and his parents apart.
He remembered those first few days after the...incident, as people kept calling it. His sister had driven in from Chicago, which was probably the only real reason his mother had agreed to stay home and not baby him. His best friend Sabrina had flown back from New York for two days she really couldn’t afford to take out of her business trip, to be with him. Rick had taken a shift off work. They had circled the wagons to take care of him and support him, and he’d appreciated it. Really he had.
At the same time, he’d wished they would all just back off. In front of them, he’d had to work hard to keep it together so they wouldn’t worry. So Jaime’s reports to their mom and dad would be, “Tony’s okay, seems to be doing fine.” So Bree could go back to her job before her boss had a hissy fit. So they would all just give him space to go running to Mac.
Bree had slept on his couch for that second night. Which was only good in the sense that it kept Jaime from doing so. He loved Bree, she was his best friend, but her snores from the living room were nowhere near as comforting as Mac’s arms around him the night before.
He’d called Mac while Bree was in the shower. “You can’t come here tonight. I have a very intuitive fag hag on my couch.”
“Your friend Sabrina?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that’s good. I mean, I’ll be working late. This case is still a mess. We’re tracking down the drugs, the guns, all kinds of details. Rewriting reports, amending reports, figuring out where all the bullets ended up. At least you have someone with you so I don’t have to be there.”
“You don’t ever have to fucking be here.” He’d hung up.
His phone rang seconds later. He’d thought about not answering, but that was petty. “Yeah.”
“Tony, I said it wrong. I want to be there all the time, and I can’t, so I’m glad someone is.”
They’d talked a little, made it right. Tony had listened less to the words than to Mac’s rich voice sliding over him, to the weight of a presence already so familiar he could almost reach out and touch skin. And for the record, hot cocoa did not beat hot sex for the aftermath of a nightmare.
Bree and Jaime had both stayed with him for his friend Marty’s funeral the next day. It had seemed so wrong, so unlikely, that Marty could be dead. How could just standing next to Tony when some stupid homicidal kid targeted him have ended up destroying all the smart, mouthy, compassionate energy that had been Marty? That should have been Tony’s funeral; would have, could have been…if not for Mac and all the other cops who had saved him.
Sandwiched between two staunch women, he had made it through the service in a haze of unreality that had probably only partly been the pain meds. The narcotics had him on a rollercoaster, now lifting him to some cold white space where a force-field held the rest of the world at bay, removed and thin. And then suddenly dropping him into that mahogany box with Marty, dark close space where all that golden life and vitality was stilled and confined forever.
Bree’s tight grip on his hand had stifled his incipient bitter laughter, his distaste at the absurdity of the preacher trying to eulogize Marty as an upstanding young man. Jaime’s painful concern beside him had held back Tony’s tears, as one gay man after another described the brilliance that had truly been Marty. Gone now. None of them looked accusingly at Tony, but as each one sat down Tony thought, You did that. You took that from him. Marty would never have died if Tony had been smarter, more careful.
Mac had been at the service. He’d kept a careful distance, dressed in what Tony knew was his one suit, representing the MPD. Despite the space between them, Tony had felt Mac’s eyes, waiting for him to look up. Tony kept his gaze fixed on his knees. But at the graveside, after the horrible thing was over, Mac came to him. Tony was swaying by then, about done, and Bree had gone to drive the car closer. Mac had suddenly appeared at Tony’s elbow. It had been all he could do not to lean into that solid support. And it was Mac who said, “This was not your fault. No more than Pinski, no more than anyone Brad killed. Marty was not your fault.”
And then of course Mac left. And Tony went home with Jaime and Bree, and had a nap, and pretended to be fine.
Once they were alone again, Mac had been patient with Tony for weeks afterward. Tony had found himself irritable, forgetful and jumpy, having stupid fits of temper over little stuff. It had bugged Tony more than Mac, that he just couldn’t get over it and move on. Mac had hung in there.
Tony felt like he was getting back to his normal equanimity now. The nightmares were fading, and a big part of that was having Mac, living with Mac, even behind closed doors. They were making it work, skating around the edges of the things that didn’t fit so well. He didn’t push Mac to come out. Well, he didn’t push much. Mac didn’t complain about him being too obviously gay. Much. And if anyone got a little curious about what was going on in Tony’s life, the incident now made a convenient distraction, to get their attention focused elsewhere. Certainly that was where his parents were still fixated, even three months later.
Sometimes his life felt like a Venn diagram, a series of overlapping circles, each with their disconnects. He could share Mac with Ben, his godson. He could discuss Ben with Sabrina. He could talk to his parents about Sabrina and his work. He could talk about work with Mac. He didn’t talk about Marty with anyone.
“Tony?” Mac’s voice took on a shading of concern in the dark of the Florida guest room. “You there?”
“Yeah, babe. Sorry, thinking.” He pressed the phone against his ear. He’d taken this on, this life. He’d given Mac his word and he was keeping it. And if getting it all straight was harder than he’d thought, well, Tony had always topped out the IQ tests at school. He was a smart guy. He could do this.
Mac asked, “Are your parents giving you a hard time?”
“Huh? No, they’re fine.” He shook off his melancholy. His life was more good than bad. “My love life is completely off their radar. Anyway, my sister just told them she has a serious boyfriend, and my mom has her sights set on grandchildren. I don’t rate, compared to that. But when I said come down here, I didn’t mean you had to come meet my parents, just that I’d love a warm beach holiday with you somewhere.”
“Oh. Yeah, sounds good. It’s minus four degrees outside right now.” Mac’s voice took on that odd mix of complaint and pride that Minnesotans used to report their weather.
“Bletch.”
“Tell me about it. Listen, is there anything you need me to do here? Should I check up on Ben?”
Tony considered it. Mac had never met Sandy, the mother of the child Tony mentored. Sandy fought her battles with alcohol on a daily basis, and Mac knew Tony worried about six-year-old Ben. But after being married to a man who turned out to be gay, Sandy had taken to watching everyone for signs, for betrayal. She had developed gaydar second to none. And she hated cops.
“No, I think Ben’ll be fine. Sandy’s parents usually drop by for Christmas, and she’s always on her best behavior for a few days, to show them they’re wrong about her. It’s New Year’s when I worry about her crashing, and I’ll be back by then. We can take Ben and Anna skating.” Tony shifted in bed, trying to keep his eyes open. Last night had been fun, but between Mac and the early flight, he was seriously sleep deprived. “I don’t miss the cold weather. Miss you lots. But I’m losing it here. Take care of yourself and call me tomorrow?”
“Sure. Night, Tony.”
“Goodnight, sweetie.” Tony barely had enough consciousness to be sure his phone was safely on the nightstand before falling asleep.
***
Around noon on Christmas Eve, Mac made a right turn and found himself driving into a dead end street. Damn. He rubbed at his eyes and pulled over to try to make out the stupid lines on his GPS. He’d broken down and bought the thing, and he couldn’t deny it made finding an address much easier than the old map did. Except he hated the grating female-dominatrix voice telling him what to do. So he usually tried to memorize the route and mute the audio, and pull over for a refresher if need be. Left on 30th, not right. He put it away, pulled round the circle, and prepared to retrace his path.
The Silver Arbors retirement home was a pleasant brick building, set on well-tended grounds. A few big maples lifted winter-bare branches toward the grey sky. There wasn’t a lot of space, but the evergreen bushes were neatly trimmed, and adorned with white and blue lights. He was a little surprised to see Christmas lights at a Jewish facility, but the effect was pretty.
A few residents dozed in wheelchairs in an open lounge, and others sat in old-fashioned wing-back chairs. Mac got a few hopeful and curious looks as he came in, but they faded as he approached the desk. A nurse guided him through signing into the visitors’ book, then led him down the first-floor hallway. Mac’s shoes squeaked on the bare tile floor. The place was clean and quiet, but nothing could quite erase the smells of age and incontinence. Under the scent of cut flowers and pine cleaner, a hint of urine lingered.
Aaron Goldschmidt had the window bed in a double room. The nearer bed was empty but unmade. Goldschmidt lay gazing out the window. He was a small, frail-looking man, with thinning silver hair. Lying propped up in bed, his body was attached to more than one type of medical tubing. Mac’s hope of a quick solve disappeared. No way this man had travelled across town to put antifreeze in his friend’s breakfast.
The nurse said in an artificially bright voice, “Aaron, Mr. MacLean is here to see you.”
The man in the bed turned to Mac, his eyes bright with interest. “Detective. Come on in and sit down. You timed it just right. Brian, my roomie, has just gone to lunch and we’ll have a semblance of privacy for an hour.”
“Just followed your directions.”
The nurse hung around, fussing with pillows and tubing, until Mac promised not to tire Goldschmidt out or ask too many questions. Eventually she was called away and left them alone.
“Foolish woman,” the old man said. “What else do I have to enjoy these days but conversation? And you’ll probably have something more interesting to talk about than the state of your bowels. So. Explain to me why a detective is interested in an old man who died of kidney failure. That was what you said, kidney failure?”
“Yes, sir. Maybe you could answer my questions first, and then I can answer yours?”
“Fair enough. What do you want to know?”
“How well did you know Andrew Smithe?”
“We were old friends, knew each other as boys and renewed our friendship many years ago when I returned to the Twin Cities after a stint in New York.”
“How long ago was that?”
“1985. God, it seems like yesterday, but it’s a quarter century now.”
Mac hesitated, trying to ask without asking. “I found your name in the front of a book in Mr. Smithe’s library.”
“A book?” The old man’s brow wrinkled for a moment and then cleared. “Not The Front Runner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So he kept that, all these years.” The man gave a short laugh, then looked sharply at Mac. “And you wondered if maybe Drew and I were more than just friends?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“No. No, Drew was straight as an arrow. A one-woman man, too. He had a girl, Sarah, whom he loved when we were all young and thought we had all the time in the world. It didn’t work out, but I don’t think he ever looked at another woman seriously. For fun, sure, he wasn’t a monk. But never seriously again.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing drastic. Just that she was Jewish, and he wasn’t. Back then it was a bigger deal. Her family hated him, his parents despised her. Sarah would have run away with Drew, but he couldn’t bring himself to take her up on it. She married someone else eventually, and had kids. He used to take some odd comfort in thinking he hadn’t deprived her of a family life.”
“Just himself?”
“Yeah. Now I am gay, if it makes any difference to you.”
“Only that it explains the book.”
Goldschmidt peered at Mac. “Well. Good for you, Detective. I gave Drew that book in 1986. We both got maudlin over a bottle of good Merlot, and I told him we were in the same boat, having lost the loves of our lives. Of course he lost his to cowardice, not death, but I didn’t tell him that. He insisted that you couldn’t compare how he felt about Sarah with my sex partners. I gave him the book and offered him a case of the wine if he would read the whole thing. He hated it at first, took a month to get through the first few chapters, but then he finished the rest faster. And he didn’t call Mike my sex partner after that. He was mostly ignorant, not really bigoted.”
“Mike?”
“My lover. I lost him in 1985, in the early years of the plague. Big strong man, and he wasted away in a matter of months. A blessing, I guess, compared to some who lingered, but I didn’t think so at the time. I came back to Minnesota after that. New York was a ghost town to me.”
Mac heard the echo of that pain in the old man’s voice, still poignant after all these years. He held back the impulse to lay a hand on the withered arm, despite seeing Goldschmidt shiver a little in his worn flannel pajamas. A straight guy would never touch a man who’d just announced he was gay. Mac offered what he hoped was a sympathetic nod instead, and straightened the blanket a bit. Goldschmidt closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them calmly. “Oddest things bring those days back to me. Mike was about your size.”
Mac pulled back his hand quickly.
The old man smiled. “I had a lot of good times, you know, with Mike and after. I don’t regret any of it. But we got off topic. We were talking about Drew.”
“Yes. When was the last time you saw him?”
“About two weeks ago. Since I’ve been stuck in this bed, I don’t see him often, but he drove down then. Old fool. I told him his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and he shouldn’t be driving, but he shrugged me off. I guess in the end it didn’t matter.”
“Was there anything unusual about him? Did he talk about changes in his life, anyone he knew or might have met recently, any concerns?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” The old man pointed at a metal locker in the corner of the room. “That closet’s mine. In the bottom, there’s a cardboard box. I had the nurse put it there. Drew brought it with him, asked me to mail it if anything happened to him. I called him a pessimist. There was every chance he would outlive me, not the other way around. But he insisted. Maybe he was already feeling poorly. I wish he’d told me.”
Mac retrieved the box from the locker. It was smaller than a shoe box, taped and addressed in a clear hand to a woman in Chicago with no return address. Goldschmidt leaned over to look at the name. “Ruth Levi. I think that might be one of Sarah’s girls. She had two daughters, and her married name was Levi.”
Mac hefted the box. It was neither light nor heavy. The contents shifted a little. “I should take this back to the precinct with me, see what’s in here. I promise I’ll mail it on.”
“You have to open it? You couldn’t just get the address off it?”
“There’s a…technicality. I’d like to check through it first.”
“Can you open it here then?” Goldschmidt touched a finger to the lid. “Consider it a dying man’s request. Curiosity has always been one of my biggest sins.”
“I know another guy like that.” Mac considered it. The outside of the box had already been handled by several people. The dead man had brought it himself, so there was no reason to think his murderer had touched it. And Goldschmidt might be able to shed light on the contents. “All right. But don’t touch anything inside.”
Mac pulled on a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and used his knife to carefully slit the tape holding on the lid. He set the lid aside and looked in the box. A Post-it note on the top said briefly, “I thought you might like to have some things of your mother’s from when she was young. She was a friend of mine.”
Under the note was a pile of photographs. Mac lifted one out carefully by the corners. A beautiful dark-haired girl posed between two young men in suits.
“Sarah,” Goldschmidt said. “That’s Drew on her left, and Roger Anderson on her right. Anderson died in the war.”
Mac lifted the pictures a little to leaf through them, but they all looked like a similar vintage. A small envelope contained a lock of dark hair, and a velvet box revealed a thin gold chain with both a Star of David and a cross on it.
Goldschmidt reached out, then remembered and pulled his hand back without touching anything. “Poor Drew. He never could let go. It was Sarah or no-one for him, and in the end it was no-one.”
Mac nodded. At the bottom of the box was a newspaper clipping. It was recent, the paper still white and crisp. “In Loving Memory of Sarah Rachel Levi (nee Borenstein) beloved wife, mother, and grandmother. May 1, 1924 to December 3, 2010. In lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the American Cancer Society.”
Mac stared at the clipping, thinking about the insurance policy and the change of beneficiary. And wondering.
Goldschmidt shook his head sadly. “So Sarah’s dead, too. I wonder why Drew didn’t tell me. I wish I could have helped him.” His eyes became distant. “I’m the only one left now. How ironic is that? But it won’t be much longer. I’ll see Mike again soon, and I’ll kick his sweet ass for leaving me alone so long. And maybe Drew and Sarah will finally be together. A good Jew shouldn’t believe in heaven. We live on in our children, and in loved ones’ memories. But I just know I’ll see Mike again. Don’t you think, Detective?”
“I’m sure of it,” Mac told him.
Goldschmidt smiled, and suddenly Mac got just a hint of the young man he had been. “And whoever it is you love, Detective, use your time wisely. I’m at the end of this road, and you’re at the beginning. Doesn’t mean you have all the time in the world, though.”
Mac closed the box carefully and rose from his chair. “You must be tired. I’ll go now.”
The old man nodded, and then said, “Wait. You still haven’t told me why you came all this way to talk about Drew.”
“Oh. Um, right before he died he changed the beneficiary of his insurance policy to the American Cancer Society. We wanted to know why. Now we do.”
“Yeah. Still trying to give something back to Sarah after all these years. And still doing it anonymously, without getting too close. God, Drew, I hope dying made you grow up a little.”
Mac nodded and left Goldschmidt there in the bed. The image of those old blue eyes shining with unshed tears stayed with him on the long drive back to Smithe’s place.
***
Mac hovered over his computer that evening, reluctant to leave work and go back to his empty apartment. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. He would bring Anna home and enjoy the holiday with her. That should have been enough. But last night, sleep had escaped him in his low bed under the eaves, and he wasn’t looking forward to another evening of tossing and turning. He was tired, and restless.
He could take Oliver up on his invitation, but Mac didn’t feel like he was fit company for a nice family gathering tonight. Finally he ran out of paperwork and gathered up his coat. The ring of his desk phone caught him two steps from the door.
“MacLean.”
“It’s Linda at the lab. Looks like you were right. The credit record shows Smithe went to his local hardware store a week before he died. We retrieved the receipt and he bought antifreeze. His fingerprints and only his are on the jug in his storage closet. There’s a smaller bottle in his kitchen, mixed antifreeze and orange juice and his prints are the only ones on that too, and on the glass by his bed. The cell phone was broken and dumped at the bottom of the kitchen trash bag. The guy’s own prints were on the bedroom phone cord, and a nice palm-print where he leaned on the wall by the jack.”
“He cut the line himself, so he couldn’t change his mind and call for help.” Mac felt a little sick.
“Looks that way. The ME is calling it suicide.”
“I wonder why he chose antifreeze. It doesn’t sound like it was quick or painless.”
“Wanted it to look natural, maybe? He might have read that it causes kidney failure and not realized that the crystals in the kidneys are a dead giveaway. Maybe there’s an insurance policy with a suicide exemption.”
“Maybe.” Mac hoped not, although he’d have to check and inform the company.
He thought about Smithe, living through all those years without his Sarah, as the world changed around him. A gentile marrying a Jew was pretty routine by now. How often had the man regretted failing to take the chance? It would be bitter irony if this last gesture from Smithe for his childhood sweetheart failed too.
Back in his apartment, Mac plugged in the lights on his small Christmas tree. There were no ornaments on it. Anna loved to decorate, and the boxes of balls and garlands, and “lots ‘n lots of tinsel” were ready and waiting for her. Under the tree, a heap of packages marked Mac’s efforts to please a four-year-old girl. Tony had given him advice, and helped pick some of them out. It should go all right.
Suddenly, Mac wanted to hear Tony’s voice. He dialed his cell phone, switching hands to hold the phone as he took off his holster and stowed the gun in the safe.
“Hey, babe.” Tony’s voice was soft in his ear. “Working late again?”
Mac stretched out on the bed. He would undress later. “Yeah. But I solved the case. It was this lonely old guy, dead from antifreeze poisoning. But it turned out to be suicide. So at least the guy wasn’t murdered.”
“Suicide is better?”
“I guess. No. I don’t know.” He had a flash of Andrew Smithe pouring antifreeze into orange juice and drinking it down. “It’s done anyway. I don’t want to think about it. Talk to me.”
Mac listened as Tony rambled amusingly about his mother’s quest for a son-in-law and grandkids, and his sister’s determination not to be pinned down. Tony claimed he was gaining weight from his mother’s cooking. He’d been given three new Hawaiian shirts as early Christmas presents to keep the sun off his healing back at the beach. They were ugly enough to work as twinkie repellant. “Makes me really worried about what my late Christmas presents will be.”
The weather in Florida sounded really nice, Mac thought idly. Maybe he would have to check out those white sand beaches one day. Eventually Tony’s voice ran down. “You still there, sweetie?”
“Yeah. That was just what I needed.”
“Anytime, babe. You know that. But I need to get to sleep. Mom thinks we’re still little kids. She has Christmas breakfast on the table at seven AM, so we can stuff ourselves before opening presents.”
“That’s kind of nice.”
“Yes, it is. Speaking of presents, I left something for you in the bedroom closet at my place. Wrapped, up on the shelf. You can open it tomorrow if you want.”
Mac clutched. “I’d rather wait till you get back.” Present? He hadn’t gotten Tony anything. A thought occurred to him. “Tony, did you ever read The Front Runner?”
“No, actually I haven’t. I know of it, of course. It’s a classic. It just never made it to the top of my list. Why?”
“Oh, it came up in the context of this case. No big deal.” He could find a copy online, if the local stores didn’t carry it. Express shipping and it could be wrapped and waiting when Tony came back. He wouldn’t do anything dumb like writing an inscription in it, of course. This case showed the risks of that. But Tony would like it anyway. The man loved books.
Mac smiled with relief, and eased down deeper into his pillows.
“So, babe,” Tony suggested. “We should say goodnight.”
Mac hesitated. “Don’t hang up. I’ll say goodnight but I want you to put the phone open on your pillow.”
“You get off on me snoring?”
“Something like that. Would you do it?”
“Sure.” Tony’s voice was warm. “My minutes are free until seven AM anyway. Good night, babe. Pleasant dreams. Say Merry Christmas to Anna for me in the morning.”
“Merry Christmas, Tony.”
Mac turned his cheek onto the smooth, cool cotton of his sheets and tucked the phone in next to his ear. Over the open line, Tony rustled around softly, and then quieted. A moment later he heard Tony murmur, “Good-night, John-boy.”
It took Mac a few moments to figure that one out. “The Waltons?”
“’S the effect of being home. M’ mother liked that show.” Tony’s voice was a sleepy drawl.
Mac smiled in the dark. “Good-night, Tony.” As Christmas Eve rolled over into Christmas Day, Mac lay there and listened to the slow deep breaths of a man a thousand miles away.
####
If you enjoyed this short, look for Breaking Cover, the next book in Mac and Tony’s story, coming from MLR Press in late summer 2011. The first book, Life Lessons, is available from MLR Press and other retailers. An unrelated free novel, Lies and Consequences by Kaje Harper is also available from Smashwords.com.