Mailboat II, page 7
Speaking of whom…
He looked up. His mother stormed into the kitchen. Her hair, the color of dishwater, hung haphazardly in her face, and her chest, bra-less, sagged inside her tank top.
“Look at this mess!”
To which did she refer? His eyes traveled from the table, piled with unpaid bills, to the counter, cluttered with a disassembled toaster oven, to the sink, overflowing with dishes. Any one of them fit the description provided, including his mother herself.
“I fail to comprehend to which—”
“Quit talking like a goddamn professor. Look.” She pointed at the floor.
His soggy shoes had left an unmistakable trail through the layer of dirt on the linoleum, turning his footprints to mud. And her point was?
“What have you been up to?” she demanded.
“Experimenting.”
She folded her arms, as saggy as every other part of her body. “Oh, and what set-up were you testing this time? A dunking tank at the fair?”
Her jibe stung. But he would never let her know that. He lifted his chin. “As a matter of fact, the nature of my experiments are, in general, on such a superior level to the brainpower of the average individual that I doubt many could attain to it, much less a specimen of your feeble intelligence.”
She furrowed her brow at him. “Did you just dis your own mother?”
Jimmy placed his hand over his heart while mocking a gasp. “The subject is cognizant! A groundbreaking discovery.”
She stormed forward and grabbed him by the ear. Jimmy let out a yelp and dropped the bowl. Pink jello salad sprayed across the linoleum and splattered his legs.
“Now look what you’ve done,” his mother bellowed. “You are going to your room this instant, young man!”
He attempted to beg for mercy—or at least the release of his ear—but to no avail. His mother escorted him all the way to his room, shoved him in, and slammed the door. The lock snicked shut from the outside. His mother had installed a doorknob backwards specifically so she could dispose of her son at will. It had been his fourteenth birthday present—only, he was sure his mother had forgotten it had been his birthday.
He rubbed his ear until circulation returned, then crashed into the chair behind his desk and pulled out a pencil and a sheet of paper. The lock didn’t matter. His mother seemed to have overlooked the idea that Jimmy could simply climb out the window—a fact which merely led weight to Jimmy’s argument regarding his mother’s intelligence.
Jimmy licked the tip of his pencil. Thanks to his conversation with the elderly millionaire, he now had a new experiment to design.
Searching for inspiration, he cast his gaze around the walls and the many scientific displays that adorned them. A periodic table of the elements. A hanging model of the solar system. Artists’ glowing representations of an atom, light waves, and the multiverse. A marker board the size of a plate glass window crammed with equations in his own handwriting. Any remaining sections of blank wall were adorned with posters featuring the greatest minds of the centuries. Galileo. Edison. Einstein. These were his true peers. A lesser mind like his mother’s would simply never understand. But here he was, trapped, a fish suffocating in an unnatural, unforgiving environment.
Roland Markham had said that all Jimmy needed was a plan, and had proceeded to expound upon the value of drafting an outline of one’s own life-to-come, complete with career goals, financial goals, personal goals, logical steps to achieve all of the above, and deadlines by which all should be accomplished.
Jimmy leaned over his page and scribed a title: The Master Plan of J. A. Beacon. After a moment’s thought, he added a subtitle: A Pre-Autobiography. Brilliant.
First, to graduate high school as soon as possible. He would find a way to escape the local public institution and get into a private school for accelerated learners. In such an environment, he expected he could polish off his diploma within the next twelve months—a full year ahead of his fellow students. It pained him that he clearly could have had his diploma by now, had his parents only realized he was being suffocated in classrooms designed for the ordinary masses.
Next, college. He had his eye on the physics program at Harvard. He expected he could claim his bachelor’s degree in a matter of two or three years, his master’s in another twelve months. His doctorate couldn’t possibly take more than three or four years. He chewed his eraser and stared at the wall. It was very likely he’d have his Nobel Prize by then, as well. He jotted this all down, then proceeded to financial goals. A multi-million-dollar mansion on the lake by the age of twenty-five didn’t seem out of his reach…
As his dreams took shape, with its long list of honors, degrees, and accomplishments, Jimmy cast his eye over the page with approval. Surely, this plan would propel him to the life of greatness he’d always known should be his. The mere sight of it on paper made it feel more real. More attainable.
But if not, there was always his alternate plan. The Backfire Model. The Backfire had nothing to do with the diminutive bomb he’d tied to Roland Markham’s pier. That was only ever meant to be the precursor—the foreword before the textbook, the orchestra warming up before the concert. And while he’d diagrammed the Backfire itself—long ago—he’d never fully laid out his plans for how or when to detonate it. The whole idea was more of a fancy in the back of his mind. But he did like to toy with it.
Should he outline his plan for the unveiling of the Backfire, as well? Just in case The Master Plan failed?
He put his pencil away. Perhaps not. At least, perhaps not yet.
He threw himself into the pile of blankets and pillows on his bed, nestled his head in his folded hands, and gazed again at his posters. He met the black-and-white, glossy-finished gaze of his true hero, J. Robert Oppenheimer. This man had been the genius behind the most powerful force of physics the world had ever witnessed, the atomic bomb, only eclipsed in more recent years by its progeny, the hydrogen bomb. A brilliant mind, Oppenheimer, though he had eventually abhorred his own creation. Like Frankenstein did his monster. Like Jimmy was despised by his mother.
Across the bottom of the poster, Jimmy had scrawled Oppenheimer’s most famous quote. Granted, it had its first origins in a religious text, the Bhagavad Gita. But they had been made famous by the mouth of the great physicist.
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
Somehow, the words had always resonated with Jimmy.
MONDAY
JUNE 23, 2014
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MONICA
The great goal of many on a Monday morning is to drag their carcass to work half alive and roughly on time. I have no sympathy for such people. On this particular Monday, my only motivation was to get back to my office pronto—but without being spotted. Especially by the chief.
The weekend was over and the tourists had migrated back to Chicago and elsewhere, leaving the streets of Lake Geneva easy to navigate once again. Still, I tapped my steering wheel impatiently while strategizing how to get into the police department and up to my office. If I came in through the main doors instead of the employee entrance, I’d only have to slip past the telecommunicators behind the public service window. Half the time, our staff on the other side of the mic were buried in phone calls and radio traffic. I could breeze past them, then a flight of stairs would take me directly to my office—my fuzzy gray cubicle—and I would be home free.
The chief had made it clear I was to take a long weekend. And I think it was safe to say I had. I’d run errands, cleaned the house, re-arranged the furniture, mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, changed the oil in my car, re-painted a room, and even fit in my daily jog. I had too much steam built up to sit around and do nothing.
And despite all that, I could think of nothing but the Wall and its cataclysmic collapse at the hands of a teenage girl. She had left me vulnerable and exposed in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
About the time I’d begun to consider a complete remodel of the guest bathroom, I realized I was running out of projects to distract me at home. So I was running the gauntlet and sneaking back into work.
Charles Hart’s missing accomplice bothered me—and not just because we had no leads as to his identity or whereabouts. The more I thought about the case, the more I knew in my gut that we had no idea what we were dealing with.
I breathed deeply, letting the clean lake air revitalize my brain cells. The smell of the hunt was a refreshing brew; the stress of the chase, a drug that both fed and starved my soul.
I pulled into the parking lot outside the PD, grabbed my portfolio off the passenger seat, and made tracks for the front door.
“Monica?”
I stopped and crunched my eyes shut. Damn it, I hadn’t even made it inside the building yet. Sighing, I turned to face whoever had busted me. I caught an eyeful of sculpted pectorals showing through a snug black tee shirt. Ryan Brandt. I scowled. It pained me that I still knew my ex by his muscle mass. I would have been happier if he’d turned flabby and bald over the past ten years. Not because I was still attracted to him in any way, because I assure you, I was not. I simply craved his utter downfall in all areas of life.
I glanced over his shoulder at his car—a sleek, black two-door with four interlaced circles glittering across the grill. I hoisted an eyebrow. “Audi. Really?” The contrast of this particular set of wheels to a cop currently working bike patrol was too much.
He worked his jaw, but his eyes were obscured behind blue-tinted sunglasses. He shrugged and dropped the keys he’d been twirling into his jeans pocket. “I got a good deal on it used.” As if to quickly change the subject, he shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I thought you had the day off?”
“I thought you did,” I shot back. The snark had returned. Nothing like a little taste of Ryan Brandt to put the Wall back in place. Security systems up and activated. Weapons locked and loaded. It was good to be back.
He motioned towards the building. “Just thought I’d pump some iron in the gym.”
I let my eyes flicker up and down his buff figure and shifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think you’d better.”
Shit. My sarcasm was showing. He belonged in advertisements for things like whiskey, cologne, and men’s briefs. Every time he walked into a bar, mini-skirted hopefuls slipped in their own drool just to win a glance from him. The worst part was, he knew it. Played it. Embraced it. With a stab to the gut, I reminded myself that my ex was nothing but a womanizer. I flipped open the portfolio in my hand, turned, and continued toward the door, my nostrils flaring. Damn, it felt good to put him down.
“Um…” Ryan muttered, for once in his life at a loss for words.
I spun. “Nothing,” I said with a dramatic shrug, arms spread. I was riding this bitch wave all the way to the end. “I meant nothing. Why do you always think I’m on your back?” But of course, I was. On purpose. Because I could. Stupid Wall.
His brows wavered. “I didn’t say—”
I snapped the portfolio shut and planted a hand on my hip. “So, have you applied for a permanent position here yet?” Despite his twenty years of experience in law enforcement, he was currently only employed in a temporary job, pedaling two wheels around the tourist district. Why he’d given up his rank as a sergeant in Minneapolis for a rookie position, I couldn’t fathom. It only underscored the already pathetic image he cut in my mind. But like the other rookies, he’d be out of a job by the end of the summer when the tourists went home and the workload dropped drastically. I couldn’t wait.
“No, I haven’t applied,” he said.
“I thought you wanted to stay.”
“There aren’t any openings.”
“Really?” I smiled sweetly, like a cupcake with too much frosting. “That’s too bad.”
Ryan ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck—the way he did when he was starting to lose his patience, but trying not to.
There she was again—my inner bitch. She’d been the defining element of my character ever since Ryan had cheated on me. I hadn’t always been like this. But I couldn’t remember what I’d been like before. That version of me had died a long time ago, and this piece of crap was what had come to take her place.
I was on the verge of walking away again when Ryan stopped me.
“Monica, I was wondering about that necklace—the one Jason Thomlin gave to Bailey. When are you going to release it?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t verified its role in the investigation yet.”
“Then you haven’t proved that it had anything to do with the commission of a crime. I already talked with Lehman. It’s been photographed. Logged. Noted in the documentation. There’s no real value to it.”
I looked at him through slitted eyes. “Why is this a big deal?”
His gaze dropped, like a bad card shark checking his hand. Whatever Brandt saw in that hand, he apparently decided to lay it all out on the table. He met my eye again. “Jason meant for her to have it,” he said simply.
I snarked out loud. This was unreal. I knew Brandt was strangely protective of the kid Bailey, but did he seriously expect me to compromise an investigation just for nostalgia? “I refuse to underestimate anything connected to this case,” I retorted. “For all we know, two murders could hinge on a necklace.”
Brandt spread his hands. “You have no proof that it was involved in the commission of a crime. So you have no grounds for keeping it. It’s a charm. You can buy one for five bucks at Walmart.”
I raised a snide eyebrow. “Then get her one from Walmart.”
“Monica.” He sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. His next word appeared to pain him. “Please?”
“Oh, well, if you say the magic word.”
“Then you’ll release it?”
“When I’ve had time to look into it.” I lifted my portfolio. “I have a million things to do, Brandt. So take a number.”
He rolled his eyes and growled under his breath, then turned and strode toward the employee entrance.
I straightened my shoulders, feeling a little better. The Wall was back, and the bitch was in.
I probably shouldn’t have been proud of that.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RYAN
I shoved my way through the door into the gym, still steaming. The last time Monica and I had talked, she’d been almost warm—as warm as she ever got with me these days. And now, apparently, we were back to her factory preset. I must have bumped the wrong button, but I wasn’t sure which one it was, or how to fix it.
Something snapped me on the back of the legs.
My body tensed and I whirled. A grinning Mike Schultz, one of the patrol officers, stood behind the door, twirling a towel and snickering like a school boy.
“God, Schultz!” I gasped—probably more dramatically than the situation called for.
“Bro,” he laughed, ducking back and holding up the towel like a shield, “I guess I’d better not try that when you’re armed.”
I took a slow breath and forced myself to loosen up. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been a little jumpy lately.” Specifically, ever since I’d nearly been gunned down in the street a few nights ago. But I’d been trying not to dwell on that, afraid the automatic replay might take root like a volunteer tree that refused to die, no matter how many times you ran it over with the mower.
I pulled my tee shirt up over my head. I’d planned on a light workout, but after the exchange of gunfire with Monica in the parking lot, I was ready to work up a sweat. “Warmed up the equipment for me?” I asked.
He slung the towel around his shoulders. “I put sand in all the moving parts.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“Dude, you’re purple.”
I glanced down at my chest. Three slugs had hammered into the trauma plate of my body armor that night. The Kevlar had saved my bacon and left me with these multicolored mementos. I rubbed at them, as if I could wipe them away, but the ache told me they’d be around for a while. “It’s looking better, believe it or not.”
“God, I thought you were a goner. That was some shit.”
I grimaced and turned my attention to the bench press, wishing Schultz would quit talking about it. I was doing my best to push the whole thing out of my mind. A picture kept flashing through my head of an active shooter scenario… people falling, helpless… and me just standing there like an idiot, frozen to the spot, obsessed with my own mortality.
I slapped my shirt down on the seat of the bench press, grabbed a forty-five–pound disc, and slammed it onto the bar.
“Hey, are we cool?” Schultz’s voice wavered with nerves. “I’m sorry, Brandt. I was trying to cover you, I swear to God. I was a bit slow on the uptake, I admit it. But man, it just came out of nowhere. I’m sorry.”
A pang jabbed me in the chest. I hadn’t meant for him to think I was mad at him. Truth be told, I couldn’t have testified whether Mike had hesitated, or charged into the gunfire screaming like a banshee and wielding a pair of rocket launchers. I’d been flat on the pavement myself, staring into a street lamp, completely dazed. He hadn’t hesitated nearly as long as I had.
“God, I unloaded a whole magazine,” Mike sputtered on, wringing the ends of his towel as it hung over his neck. “I can’t believe I never hit him. I promise, I passed my last firearms qualification, but shit. It’s not like the paper print-out at the shooting range, man. I don’t know what got into me—”
I held up a hand. “Hey, Mike, it’s all good. I’d be lying in a morgue right now with a tag on my toe if you hadn’t been there to keep him busy. I owe you, bro. Big time.”
Mike exhaled and clapped a hand over his heart. “Oh, God.”
I grinned and lifted another weight onto the opposite side of the bar. Mike and I had only been working together a week, but he was about the most true-blue kid you’d ever want to know. Even though I’d been away from the LGPD a good ten years, I recognized this particular department’s fingerprint all over him. This place wasn’t just a job. It was a family. Your brothers and sisters had your six no matter what, and it made little difference whether you were on shift or off, whether your call for assistance was for an unruly subject, or a family emergency. ETA, five minutes, armed with either a shotgun or potato salad. I’d forgotten how good it was. Especially the potato salad.
