Things You Won't Say Page 11

  “Are you going into work today?” Lou asked Mike. She wondered if the question was too blunt, but Mike didn’t seem to mind.

  He shook his head. “They told me to stay home for now. Administrative leave.”

  He put his feet up on the coffee table and crossed his arms. When animals felt threatened, they usually tried to take up more space—puffing up their hair or extending their limbs, Lou thought. Mike was doing the opposite. Did that mean he was accepting defeat?

  They sat together in silence, then Lou caught sight of the clock across the room and stood up. “I should probably get going,” she said.

  Jamie looked at Mike, then back at Lou. “Actually,” she said, “would you mind staying today?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Lou said. She could get someone else to take over her duties at the zoo. She certainly had enough vacation time coming.

  “Maybe you could take the kids to a movie,” Jamie said. “I don’t have any camps or anything lined up this week.”

  “Sounds good,” Lou said.

  “Tell her the rest,” Mike said. There was a white line around his mouth.

  It was only then that Lou noticed the morning’s paper spread out on the coffee table under Mike’s feet. She looked up to see Jamie’s lips trembling. “The press found out about Mike’s nickname.”

  Lou furrowed her brow. She wasn’t aware that Mike had one.

  “It’s Rambo,” Jamie said. “Because he’s got dark hair and muscles! But the press is turning it into something else . . .”

  “How did they find out?” Lou asked.

  “Does it matter?” Jamie asked. Tears slid down her cheeks. Mike put his arm around her, and Jamie pressed her face into his chest, her shoulders shaking.

  “Mommy?”

  They all turned at the sound of Eloise’s voice.

  “I wet.”

  That was what she’d forgotten last night—to put a Pull-Up on Eloise, Lou suddenly remembered. Eloise had managed to take off her pajamas, and she was holding a blanket.

  “It’s okay, baby.” Jamie pushed away her tears with her hands and stood up. “I’ll clean you up and get you some dry PJs. Do you want to go sleep in my bed?”

  Eloise just shook her head and walked around the couch and climbed into her dad’s lap. Mike wrapped the blanket more securely around his daughter and rested his cheek against the top of her head. Lou swallowed hard as she watched them.

  “I’ll go change her sheets,” Jamie said. Lou followed her out of the room and up the stairs.

  “I can’t stand this,” Jamie whispered. Part of her hair was sticking up and her forehead was creased. “Do you think Mike will go to jail?”

  Lou shook her head, even though she had no idea. “It’s not like he just shot someone in cold blood.”

  “But I feel partly responsible,” Jamie said. “I knew he wasn’t himself.”

  Jamie began stripping the sheets off Eloise’s toddler bed as she spoke, bundling them into the laundry hamper in a corner of the room. “He was just a boy, Lou.” She dropped her face into her hands and her shoulders shook a few times, then she lifted her head and resumed moving.

  “You don’t realize how close you are to disaster until it happens,” Jamie said, her voice growing shrill. “Do you know what happens to cops in jail? It’s worse than you can imagine. And the kids”—her voice broke, but she managed to steady it—“they’ll lose their dad if Mike is charged with a crime. Even if they don’t charge him, if he ends up losing his job we’ll lose the house; we can barely afford the mortgage as it is. I’ll go back to work—God, who would even hire me now?—and Christie will probably still try to demand child support. Can you believe Mike pays her five hundred bucks a month? We take care of Henry most of the time!”

  “You can’t think about this stuff now,” Lou blurted. Jamie had a little spittle in the corner of her mouth and her eyes looked as crazy as her hair. The cornerstone in Lou’s life was self-destructing.

  “I have to think about it,” Jamie said. “I know you said not to watch the news, but I need to know what we’re up against.”

  Jamie walked over to Eloise’s window and pulled back the curtain. She jabbed her finger toward the photographers and news vans staked out in front of the house. “Look at this! Should I just keep the kids in all day? What if a reporter says something to one of them?”

  “Um, maybe they should go out, like you said,” Lou said. “I can take them to the movie. Keep things normal.” Routines were important—at the zoo, animals depended upon them.

  “I also think you should take a shower,” Lou said. Jamie looked a little surprised, and Lou wondered if she’d hurt her sister’s feelings. She tried to soften her words with a joke: “I’m the one people usually say that to.”

  “I’ve got to start breakfast—” Jamie began, but Lou cut her off.

  “Do you know that by this time I’ve fed forty thousand pounds of mammal? I think I can handle making some toast.”

  She’d said the right thing for once. Jamie actually smiled, but a moment later, her lips were curving down again. “I don’t know how to do this, Lou. I don’t think I can do it. Oh my God . . . that poor boy. His poor mother . . .”

  “It’s going to be okay,” Lou said, and she gently pushed Jamie toward the shower so her sister wouldn’t read the lie in her eyes.

  •••

  Christie pulled her red Miata into the salon’s parking lot and chose the most convenient spot. Employees weren’t supposed to do that—they’d been instructed to leave their cars in the back, so customers could nab the prime spaces—but it was Christie’s last day of work. She’d also begged the best stylist to give her a free cut in between customers. Who cared if the salon’s owner objected to any of it? She wasn’t ever coming back to this place.

  Tonight Christie had her first paid undercover job. The freckle-faced man’s wife had given them her husband’s daily schedule: what time he usually got to work, what time he left the office, where he routinely ate lunch. Elroy had read through it before crafting a plan. He suggested the wife text her husband and ask him to stop at the Safeway on his way home to pick up diapers and milk. Christie would be in the store, her purse slipping off her shoulder, doing her best to cross paths with the guy. Her outfit was waiting on the passenger’s seat: a black minidress with straps that crisscrossed over her back, and red high heels. If everything went as expected, she’d arrange to meet the mark at a hotel in the next day or two. Freckle-face wouldn’t know what hit him until he heard the echo of the hotel room door slamming behind her.

  She should upgrade her car, Christie thought as she took the keys out of the ignition. Her Miata was cute, but it was seven years old, and now that she had a real job—something thrilling and well paying—she might need to invest in a Mercedes or at least an Audi. Maybe she’d go test-drive some at the dealership tomorrow. It would be a perfect way to celebrate her first case. To kick off her new life.

  Christie locked her car, then slung her purse (fake, but a good Chanel copy) over her shoulder and walked toward the salon. It didn’t officially open for fifteen minutes, but she could see employees inside, setting up the coffeepot to brew and stocking their stations with hair spray and brushes for the day ahead.

  “Hey,” she called as she pulled open the heavy glass door.

  “Shhh!” someone chided. The flat-screen television toward the back of the room, which was usually turned to music videos, was showing the news. Two stylists stood in front of it, rapt.

  “Well, excuse me,” Christie said. She walked over to the receptionist’s desk and tucked her purse in a lower drawer. Slowly she became aware of the topic of the news report, and without moving her head, she raised her eyes toward the television.

  A woman with a helmet of auburn hair and an intense expression was standing outside what looked like—what was—Mike and Jamie’s house.
Christie blinked and took a step closer to the television. The newscaster was saying: “. . . killing an unarmed Hispanic teenager, just a few months after the fatal shooting of Officer Larry Prichard in front of police headquarters. Officer Richard Crawford was also injured in that same shooting and remains on indefinite leave. Officer Crawford was Anderson’s longtime partner, and, sources say, Anderson was deeply upset after witnessing the shooting . . . Anderson is currently on paid administrative leave.”

  One of the stylists flipped the channel to a Christina Agui­lera video and moved back to her station, but Christie felt rooted in place.

  Mike had killed someone?

  Last night, after Henry had come into the dining room with his cell phone containing the text from his friend, Jamie had leapt to her feet to reassure him. Jamie had woven what Christie now understood was a truncated story—Mike had fired at a young man who was holding a gun, it was unclear exactly what had happened, but the details were all being sorted out. Mike was perfectly safe and hadn’t done anything wrong, Jamie had repeated at least twice.

  “Your dad will explain everything when he gets home,” Jamie had said, reaching for the phone and tucking it into her pocket. “Can I hold it for you, honey? It’s probably best if you don’t talk to anyone until your dad gets here.”

  Christie had believed the story—and Jamie hadn’t bothered to clarify anything to her privately. Did she think Christie was a child, too?

  When she’d first arrived at the house, Christie had been shocked by Jamie’s hug, but then she’d found her own arms winding back around Jamie’s neck. Jamie had seemed so distraught and lost, and Christie had felt proud that she’d been the steady one in the crisis. She’d found a mostly full bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge and had poured them both generous glasses while Lou checked on the kids. They’d talked for a little while, but then Mike had come home, and Jamie had shooed her out of the house, saying she was sure Christie had things to do. Christie had taken the hint; Jamie didn’t want her around Mike.

  Jamie had also made the decision that Mike should be the one to tell Henry what had happened. But she, Christie, was Henry’s mother! Shouldn’t she have a say? True, maybe she wouldn’t have done anything differently—she probably still would have left Henry in Mike and Jamie’s care last night—but it irritated her not to have been given a choice. Not to be included in the family crisis.

  Throughout the rest of the day, Christie checked in customers, collected tip envelopes for the stylists, and logged new appointments in the computer, keeping a smile affixed to her face and trying to hide the turmoil brewing within her. How was she supposed to know what to say to Henry, when she didn’t even know what Mike had told their son? She was sure everything would blow over in a day or so—the media always tried to dramatize stories, and Mike was a great cop—but it rankled her to be shoved to the outside when all she’d wanted was to help.

  At five o’clock, she was packing up her things to go when she heard the sound of a gunshot. She spun around, her heart rate accelerating, but it was just the cork escaping from a bottle of champagne.

  “Go get ’em, Charlie’s newest angel,” said Rita, the stylist who’d given Christie a farewell haircut during her lunch break. Rita filled a bunch of Solo cups and handed them out as the other girls crowded around, touching their cups to Christie’s. Everyone seemed in awe of the job Christie had landed, which lifted her mood. She didn’t protest when someone upended the last of the champagne into her cup.

  “Let me know if you need a sidekick!” Rita offered, and Christie hid a smile. Rita was in her early fifties, with a body that seemed to belong to two different people—a slender top affixed to a huge bottom and chunky legs. She was always complaining about being single. Did she really think she’d be catnip to men with wandering eyes?

  But Christie just promised, “I will.”

  She hugged everyone good-bye, promising to stay in touch, and headed out the door. The moment she climbed into her car and sat down, her worry came rushing back. She couldn’t stop hearing the sound of that champagne cork. She wondered what was happening with Mike. She called Henry, but he didn’t answer his phone.

  She tried to push her unease out of her mind so she could focus on her new job, but instead her anxiety began to spread. What if she blew her first case? Maybe she should’ve waited to hand in her notice until she was sure the P.I. gig was working out. But planning ahead had never been her forte.

  She rapped her fingertips against the dashboard a few times, then checked herself out in the rearview mirror. Her blue eyes were outlined by smudgy kohl liner and three coats of mascara, and her lips were painted a soft pink. She’d gone into the salon’s bathroom to change into the dress before leaving, and her tanned skin showed through the openings in the fabric. Everything was going to be fine, she told herself. She drained the champagne from the cup just as her phone rang.

  “He told his wife he’s leaving within the hour,” Elroy said. “But he’s going to stop at the store for her to pick up milk and diapers on his way home.”

  “Should I head there now?” Christie asked.

  “Yep,” Elroy said. “Keep your phone close.”

  “Okay,” Christie said. She’d already MapQuested directions—she had a terrible sense of direction and couldn’t risk getting lost—and despite the rush-hour traffic, she made it to the supermarket quickly. She parked by the entrance and waited, watching customers disappear through the electronic doors. She tried Henry twice more, leaving bright, upbeat messages, but he didn’t pick up the phone. She contemplated phoning Jamie and Mike’s house but didn’t want to have to end the call abruptly if her mark showed up. Her phone finally rang just as she was regretting drinking the second cup of champagne and debating whether to duck into the store and use the bathroom.

  “He’s on the move,” Elroy said.

  Christie felt a little thrill. Even the lingo of her new job was exciting.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “He drives a 2010 blue Toyota Camry with a dent in the front bumper,” Elroy said.

  “Sexy,” Christie said.

  “Can you see the entrance of the parking lot from where you are?”

  “Yep,” Christie said.

  “When you see his car pull in, go into the store.”

  “I’ll put a little extra wiggle in my walk,” Christie said.

  “Are you sure you can fit any more in there?” Elroy asked.

  It took a few seconds to realize that Elroy was making a joke.

  She smiled. “I’ll call you as soon as I have a date.”

  She kept vigil, trying to ignore her increasingly full bladder and her worry about Mike’s situation, and sure enough, Freckles rolled in exactly eighteen minutes later. Elroy hadn’t given her his real name, in case Freckles used an alias for his extracurricular activities, so she wouldn’t accidentally slip up.

  Christie took a deep breath, doubled-checked that her handbag was unzipped, and strolled toward the supermarket entrance, swaying on her three-inch heels. Milk and diapers, she mused. The dairy section would be better for seduction.

  She wondered what would happen if Freckles ignored her spilled purse, or simply handed her a runaway lipstick and went on with his manufactured errand. Sure, guys hit on her all the time—but what if at the moment it mattered most, one didn’t? She looked down at her dress. Would pulling the hem up a bit higher be overkill?

  Either her heels slowed her down or Freckles was in a rush, because just before she stepped on the mat that signaled a trigger to open the supermarket’s doors, Freckles came up behind her. She sensed his presence—she couldn’t have said how she knew it was him—but she didn’t turn around. Better if he made the first move, she thought.

  She scanned the store’s layout and moved toward the refrigerated section. She sensed Freckles was still directly behind her; the fine hairs on her arm were
standing up. She found the milk and stood there for a moment, studying the selection in the glass case.

  “Are you a one percent or a skim girl?”

  Seriously? Freckles thought that qualified as a pickup line?

  Christie made herself smile as if it was the wittiest comment she’d ever heard. She turned to face Freckles, keeping her chin low and looking up at him from under her fringe of eyelashes.

  “Skim,” she said.

  Freckles was sliding his hand into his pocket. His left hand. Probably trying to hide a wedding ring, she thought.

  “But only in the morning, in my coffee,” she said. “At night I’m a champagne girl.”

  Freckles smiled, as she’d known he would.

  “Champagne, huh?” he said. “A woman with classy tastes.”

  “Only the best,” she said. She let her eyes linger as they moved down his body, then rose back up to his face.

  “I know a place that serves champagne,” Freckles said importantly. Where, Mr. Man-About-Town—every bar in D.C.? Christie wanted to ask. “I’m Doug, by the way.”

  “Christine,” she said. It was close enough to her name that she wouldn’t blow her cover, but it gave her a little layer of protection. Elroy had advised her to give a completely different last name, if asked. But she was counting on the fact that most men wouldn’t care enough to ask. They usually didn’t.

  She grabbed a small carton of milk from the case. “I’m just in town on business for a few days, and there’s nothing but powdered creamer in my hotel room,” she said. Maybe her sentence was a little clunky, but she’d managed to work the mention of a hotel into the conversation, which might steer Doug in the right direction.

  She gave him a final, lingering smile, then began moving toward the checkout aisle. Let him take up the chase, she thought.

  “Christine?” He was frowning. “I thought you said you drank skim . . . you just got two percent.”

  She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a mock angry look. “I blame you for distracting me.”