Yours, Mine, and Ours Page 13
“I don’t suppose there are any leads.”
Relieved we were back to business, I replied, “We are running everything we can. We will get this amoral bastard, Dr. Gallo. Of that, you may be certain.”
“Hmmm, your eyes went all narrow and squinty when you said that. I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley.”
“Yes,” I replied. “You would.”
He chuckled and held the door for me. At first I thought it was a trick. Then I thought it was chauvinism. By the time I realized it was simple courtesy he had sighed and gone through himself. “I’m making a mental note,” he called as I hurried behind him. “No more door holding for you!”
“Would you believe I was deep in thought?”
“Nope.” He snickered, fished out a set of jangly keys, and pointed them to the left. I heard a muted beep and we both turned in that direction. “Listen, I’ve gotta get out of here, and not for a McFlab Deluxe, either. Let’s go for a ride.”
“A ride?” We had stopped near a sizable black motorcycle that had likely rolled brand-new off the show floor the year I was born. It was immaculately maintained, and seemed to brood while heeled over on its kickstand. It looked like a compact storm cloud on wheels. “Ah…”
Hmm. This was not like me. I normally did not eschew new and possibly dangerous situations. Was it that I did not wish to seem less than brave and honorable to Dr. Gallo? A man whom I did not truly know?
Ye gods! I was getting as stupidly maudlin as Cadence! Definitely time to consider a change in medication. “We shall ride now,” I said, refraining myself from flinging myself onto the seat.
“I’m with you, Adrienne, so calm down.” He had bent, and was rummaging, and when he stood he was holding a spare black helmet in my direction. I snatched it away from him and plunked it on my head.
“Very well. We ride now.”
“Calm down, Valentino Rossi.”
“Who?”
“Your helmet’s crooked,” he said, like that explained a single thing. He reached up and did something with the straps by my chin. For that long moment we were eye to eye, and why did I feel like it was eye to clitoris? His fingers on the strap, brushing my skin, his dark gaze inches from mine … I would think about that endless moment again and again over the next several weeks.
What is wrong with me?
“—fall off otherwise.”
“What?” At last, at last he had finished fiddling with my helmet and stepped back and was no longer touching me and I was sad and glad and what was wrong with me?
“Are you all right?”
I ignored the question. “So, what is this?” I gestured at his motorcycle. “A Harley-Davidson? A … a chopper?” It occurred to me I knew nothing about motorcycles. “A, uh, Triumph?”
“Honda.”
“What?”
“It’s a Honda. Best in the world, believe it or not.” He had pulled on dark gloves and patted the motorcycle with what appeared to be affection. “I got her right before I started med school. Beauty, eh?”
“You sound Canadian when you talk like that,” was the only thing I could think of to say. The other thing (“Honda makes motorcycles? How strange. You are strange, too, Dr. Gallo, but then, so am I, so you need not fret.”) wasn’t especially tactful. Or sensible.
“Well,” he said, swinging a long leg over the seat, “I am Canadian. Here, hop on. Yeah, right behind—whoa, not so fast, you almost sent us crashing to the tarmac. Usually I like to be going at least fifteen mph before I go crashing to the tarmac … There! That’s better.”
I could hardly see—the helmet radically reduced my peripheral vision. At first I gingerly rested my fingertips on his waist, barely grazing, but Dr. Gallo put a stop to that when he grabbed my wrists and pulled forward, showing me how to wrap my arms around his waist and hold onto my own wrists locked over his flat stomach. Then he did something that made a tremendous noise—annoying helmet! I couldn’t see a thing!—and then we
then we
we were
chapter forty-three
Flying!
O we were we were
O we were flying flying and we skimmed
and swooped
and flew
The wheels on the bike
go fly fly fly
fly fly fly
fly fly fly
The wheels on the bike
They make us fly
Dr. Gallo flies!
And it’s swoop!
And whoop!
And swoop whoop swoop whoop and here comes
the bridge!
And we’re little and speedy and we pass everyone
We pass everyone
The geese are jealous!
The geese want their own motorcycles!
Dr. Gallo can fly
No one told me
Dr. Gallo can fly!
The wheels on the Honda
Help us fly
Help us fly
Help us fly
Dr. Max takes us flying
All across the bridge.
Dr. Max!
Dr. Max can fly!
Dr. Max helps US fly!
Fly fly fly
Don’t worry!
We’ll find the
(goose)
JBK
JBK
JBK
We will find the JBK
And kill him just for youuuuu!
chapter forty-four
“Want to head back?”
I realized we were several miles from the hospital. Ah! The real Adrienne had joined us, and just as recently, left. Fortunately for the good doctor, he hadn’t noticed. I had no idea what Adrienne must have thought of the motorcycle ride, but since she had not appeared to deliberately crash us, she must have liked it.
“Adrienne?” He had turned his head to better hear me. “Ready to go back?”
I smacked him on his left shoulder with the flat of my hand, hard.
“Ow! So, no? Y’know, I respond to verbal cues, too,” he grouched. But I knew he was only pretending annoyance. He was pleased that I liked this pastime of his. If only he knew how many of us in here did. Ha! That might be a conversation worth having sometime.
I leaned forward and rested my cheek on his shoulder, and felt the wind whistling past us leaving molecules of good smells, the fresh bread of a Subway shop, the clean snow over a semi-frozen river, a car wash cranking away with soap and wax, The Old Spaghetti Factory, floating all around.
Honda. Best in the world. Yes.
I would not forget.
chapter forty-five
I returned to the BOFFO building with nothing except a newfound love for Honda motorcycles, and pure gratitude that Adrienne hadn’t hurt anyone. But nothing that would help us track Dr. Gallo’s nephew’s killer, JBK. Unfortunately for that psychotic wretch, I was now more determined than ever to find him and hurt him. How dare that beast cause such pain to a man who knew how to make a pair of scrubs last, and could drive so well in the winter?
This time it … well, it really was sort of personal. Not that I enjoy sounding like an action hero from an eighties movie.
Ye gods. Before I got any sillier, or more maudlin, or more emotional about a man I barely knew
(and we have a boyfriend!)
I realized Cadence was trying to peep through my subconscious. Or was it her subconscious? Eh. Either way, I was more than ready to bow out for a bit. I had much to mull over.
Most annoying: I had never discussed Dr. Gallo’s nephew. Merely used him for transportation and then let Adrienne kick me out of the body for a bit. I would have considered it a wasted trip, except … it did not feel wasted. It felt wonderful.
I made a mental note to make it up to Dr. Gallo. Then I left.
chapter forty-six
Which is why I found myself in an elevator with helmet hair and a weird yearning for a(nother) motorcycle ride. What had I missed?
Too bad for me, I wasn’t going to find out anytime soon. Even a
s I got off the elevator and stepped toward my desk I knew playtime truly was over.
“Pinkman! Jones! Thyme!” Michaela was striding toward us so quickly she hadn’t noticed one of her sneakers had come untied. “You’ve got another one. Get moving, now.”
“Tell me she’s talking about another briefing in her weird kitchen office,” Emma Jan begged.
“She’s not,” I said, now as glum as George.
“JBK’s accelerating,” George said. “And just think, girls. You didn’t think we were gonna have any fun today.”
I had to look away from his grin.
Maybe I would have an update for Dr. Gallo after all.
Darn it.
chapter forty-seven
Over bitter (George) and worried (me) and confused (Emma Jan) protests, Paul Torn accompanied us to the crime scene.
“It’s all numbers numbers numbers to me right now, I don’t know enough for HOAP.1.”
“You mean you’re already planning the next—”
“It’s not just numbers numbers numbers,” Paul said, sinking lower into the backseat. I was riding shotgun, and so turned around so I could make eye contact. “It’s people. Dead people, dead kids. I forget. I forget when I taste red and yellow. They aren’t numbers, they’re people. I need to see all the permutations because it’s people people people!”
“Okay, well, just caaaaaalm down.” George was eyeing him via the rearview mirror. “Take a pill, or four, or whatever your dose is.”
“I forget, too, sometimes,” Emma Jan told him gently. “I get caught up in paperwork and my studies and sometimes it’s just … numbers. I feel bad after, but sometimes I can’t help it.”
“Yes! That’s right! It’s that it isn’t people, I have to remember, we all have to remember!”
“Well, I’m convinced.” George sailed through a red light—there was next to no traffic on 94 this time of the day. “And by convinced, I mean freaked out. Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
Paul sniffed. He was either fighting a cold, or … “Does anyone else smell yellow?”
George groaned. “You’re the only one who thinks you can smell and taste colors, Paul, you slobbering weirdo.”
“Hey!” I said sharply.
“Ooooh, Cadence raised her voice and everything. Must be a—what the hell is today? Why do I feel like I’m living my life in this stupid POS government car?”
“Because you are?” I suggested. And I knew just how he felt. Sure, entire weeks went by when we merely used the Piece of Stuff car to get from Point A to Point B. Lately, though, it seemed like we were using it to go from Corpse A to Corpse B.
At least George had quit, for which I was equal parts grateful and amazed.
“I’m sensing a long drive,” Emma Jan said from the backseat, and never had I heard a more profound truth. “Don’t worry, though.”
“We aren’t,” George replied, half listening.
“I still think you guys are pretty interesting.”
My partner and I traded glances but said nothing, a rare moment of … of … what was the word for not wishing the other person was dead?
chapter forty-eight
We stood over the body, the four of us, and even George looked disgusted. He summed up my feelings perfectly when he led with, “What a fucking waste.”
Yes. That was exactly right. A waste of a life, a waste of a future. A waste of government resources because we had to catch the jerks. A waste of money … our budget had to come from somewhere. All of it: a waste.
The Edina cops had let us in straightaway; they knew what it was the minute they’d broken down the door. They were grim and subdued, and I couldn’t blame them.
Edina was one of the tonier suburbs in the Twin Cities; it wasn’t uncommon for graduation presents for high school seniors to be new cars or trips to Europe. Edina was clean and beautiful and bustling and full of people who had never worried about where their next paycheck was coming from.
So when an ugly murder—though to be fair, all murders were ugly—when a truly awful murder like this happened within the city limits, there was a lot of the “This Kind of Thing Doesn’t Happen Here” mentality. Even from cops, who of all people should know better.
This house was vintage Edina. Sizable, with a large corner lot, and beautifully maintained. Wood gleamed everywhere—the floors, the built-in bookcases, the staircases, all had the mellow glow of meticulous maintenance.
Aaron Mickelson, fourteen forever, had been stretched out beside the black piano in the parlor/library. He was surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, and had been placed almost exactly between the piano and the fireplace.
“This is bad,” Emma Jan said.
“Duh.” From George, of course.
“Poor boy poor boy poor boy.” Paul was shaking his head. His hands, covered with gloves, were jammed into his pockets wrist-deep. He almost seemed to vibrate. “Poor poor boy; HOAP.1 will help you you you do you guys smell that?”
“I can’t smell anything over George’s aftershave.”
“Hey, back off, New Girl. There are women in this state who would bathe in my aftershave.”
Emma Jan glanced at me. “I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration.” In fact, George only wore the nauseating Stetson to crime scenes. It was his version of Vicks. A Significant Male Figure in his life (he always phrased it just like that: “Significant Male Figure”) had worn it when he was a kid, and it was a scent he cordially despised. Whenever I smelled Stetson I knew corpses were imminent.
Emma Jan snorted. “Bathe. Uh-huh.” Then she sobered. “He’s accelerating all over the place, boys and girls. Boys being Paul and George, and girls being—”
“We get it get it get it.”
“This is really bad. What happened to one a year in June? What, it wasn’t ambitious enough to get away with twenty-some murders over two decades? Now he’s trying for overachiever status?”
“Maybe he thinks we’re stupid and can’t catch him.” George’s expression was pretty eloquent: dammit, dammit, dammit! “And guess what? So far, he’s right.”
“Calm down, George.”
“You calm down, Cadence.”
“Something’s not right.”
“No shit.”
Paul twitched madly in place. “Does anyone else smell black?”
“I smell black,” Emma Jan sighed. “Since I got into this damned room I’ve smelled black. You guys. Tell me we’re gonna nail this asshole.”
“Worse than Jesus got nailed,” George promised. That was him being encouraging, which often came off as blasphemous and gross. “Like I need more weekends like this?”
“You guys. Pay attention. Something’s not right.” I was squatting beside the body, tentative ID: Aaron Mickelson, age fourteen, blond and blue. Strip it all away and we had a boy who hadn’t lived to see his senior prom. Or his sophomore year, come to think of it. The only thing ahead of him now was a cemetery plot, and who wants that for a milestone?
We heard a fuss at the back entrance, and I saw a couple of the uniforms running. Suspect? Not likely; the killer was long gone. Some neighbor lookey-loo; my least favorite kind of neighbor. Some people just haaaaad to peek at a nearby dead body. It was behavior I could never understand.
There was a thud we could almost feel, and then here came another cop on the run. Thank goodness for the sizable, clean windows.
“What the fuck?” George whined. “How hard is it for the flatfeet to keep the area clear? Like this job doesn’t suck enough.”
Wow. That’s how I knew the boys, the dead boys, were really getting to my sociopathic partner, a man who cared for nothing beyond his own pleasure (usually). Perhaps it was an issue of convenience—the killer was certainly pressing in on George’s playtime. Or perhaps all those fresh-faced dead boys reminded George of another fresh-faced boy. One who lived … after a fashion.
“Sorry to bother you, Agents, but we caught this guy—”
“Caught? I disable
d your vehicle and led you the wrong way.”
“—hanging around—”
“Hanging around?” A deep laugh. “I led you here. Maybe you should show me your paperwork before you file that report.”
We all stared. It wasn’t every day the head of the blood bank made his way onto a crime scene uninvited.
“Him, now, he smells like yellow.”
“Dr. Gallo!”
“We never did get around to talking about my nephew.” His voice was muffled, probably because an officer was leaning on his shoulders.
“So you followed me to a crime scene?”
“Hey, I’ve got a good staff at the bank. They had everything under control. And Dr. Welch left me with, like, no paperwork. Who keeps their charts that up to date? It’s not natural.”
“Who’s this?” George asked. “And should we get a couple more cops to jump on the back of his neck? Because he doesn’t seem too inconvenienced by the one on him now. Or the two drawing down on him.” He knelt by the wriggling bodies and cupped his hands, as if they couldn’t hear him without a fake megaphone. “Hey, mysterious weirdo at the crime scene! If you turn out not to be the killer, we should probably go out. I’m always in the market for a reliable wingman. This is an excellent town for getting laid and then never seeing the woman du jour again.”
“De la nuit,” Dr. Gallo corrected from the floor. “And you can be my wingman.”
“Let him up,” I begged. “This is Chris Glazier’s uncle.”
“Oh,” Emma Jan said. Then: “Oh! We’re very sorry about your nephew, Dr.—Dr. Gallo, is it?”
George was shaking his head. “Dude, we get it if you feel out of the loop, but there’s easier ways to get updated. And less painful ways.” George put his hand on the cop’s elbow and carefully pulled him off the prone Dr. Gallo.