Page 145 of Long Way Down

“Why the shift? Why carve the words into one woman, but leave notes with Lana and Lynn?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Doug asked, voice starting to slur. “I’m done talking. Tell my doctor I want my meds, now.”

~*~

In the waiting room, Doug’s mother lurched up from her chair like a drunk woman, clutching for a grip that wasn’t there, her husband a beat late, hands outstretched as if to catch her if she toppled backward.

Both wore the faces of people who’d spent an entire night and most of a day in a hospital. They’d been dressed for dinner, when they got the call, and Melissa recalled how wealthy they were as she noted Mrs. Waxman’s gray slacks and sparkling sweater, her diamonds, her manicured nails, her red-bottomed shoes, the soles of which she’d glimpsed as a peripheral flash before the woman slapped both feet onto the floor and surged toward them. She was a pretty woman, trim and fit for her age, blonde hair piled up on top of her head in what had been a chic ‘do hours ago, straggling hairs fallen around a face crumpled and smudged from crying.

“Detectives!” she called, reaching for them, staggering on her high heels. “Are you the detectives?”

Contreras lifted both hands and moved to intercept her, but she lunged around him and gripped Melissa’s biceps in surprisingly strong hands, fingertips digging in through her coat sleeves. She was much taller, and for a moment, Melissa stumbled and nearly lost her footing. Her pulse leaped wildly, and panic clutched at her insides just as Doug’s mother clutched at her arms.

“Ma’am,” Contreras said, and gripped her elbow from behind. “Ma’am, please, let’s–”

The woman didn’t seem to notice him. “Please.” Up close, her face was a mess of mascara streaks and tear-tracked foundation that had caked into the fine lines on her cheeks. “Please, miss, you have to understand – Doug’s a good boy! A sweet boy! But he has emotional problems. Whatever he did, he didn’t mean to!”

Her husband had finally arrived, and he wrenched her bodily away; Melissa glanced down, a little numbly, to check that the woman’s nails hadn’t shredded her coat sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” Donald Waxman panted, pale and sick-looking, his own gaze quietly furious. He gave his wife a shake – she whimpered – and turned back to Melissa. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and she had the sense that he wasn’t simply apologizing for his wife’s actions.

His wife collapsed onto his chest, sobbing noisily.

Melissa turned away and walked toward the doors. They would need to interview both parents extensively, but she couldn’t stomach the idea now, not after looking Doug in the eye.He didn’t mean to.

“You okay?” Contreras asked.

Doug’s a good boy! A sweet boy!

“Yeah.”

~*~

Despite being a member of a big, loud, rowdy found family of misfits, and despite his natural talent for striking up conversations with any- and everyone, Pongo didn’t have very many (or any, really) people he considered friends, in the true sense of the word. He knew most people found him annoying, and he leaned into it most of the time, but he got lonely. Working solo all the time could get monotonous and more than a little bleak. Having Kat along – driving, even – felt a bit like the start of a friendship, and Pongo was giddy as a kid about it.

“We’ll take my car,” Kat had said outside Hauser’s. “People remember a bike. Might wanna turn your cut inside out.”

He wasn’t used to flying under the radar – the Lean Dogs were not a subtle organization – but in this case, given the NYPD’s involvement, it felt like a good idea to strip off his insignias.

The rec center Dixie had directed them to occupied a pre-war, redbrick building with yellowing windows and a sad sign out front. The yellow carried through on the interior: peeling linoleum floors, scuffed walls, an old, baked-in scent of cigarette smoke. Inside the front hall, a doorway opened up into a room of pool, ping-pong, and foosball tables occupied by a handful of bored-looking teenagers. A short flight of steps led up to a wall hung with pinboards, and a half-open door marked OFFICE.

A man sat slouched over a desk inside, in white polo shirt and khakis, balding and with a beer gut straining against a belt that let out a loud creak when he noticed them and sat back in his chair. His gaze narrowed when it landed on Kat, with his hat, and his blank expression, and long hair. He’d pulled black leather gloves on over his hands, to hide the ink – Pongo meant to ask him, if their friendship did indeed develop, why he’d chosen to put such obvious and memorable tats on the back of each hand, identifying marks like beacons – and looked now like he might be out for a little burglary. Pongo, with his cut left in the car, with his fresh face and curls, offered a lazy smile and adopted an intentionally unbothered posture.

“Can I help you boys?” the man asked, like he’d rather do anything but.

“I hope so, sir.” Honorifics were in rare use these days, and usually stood him in good stead – though Pongo could see that, in this case, it had been taken as mocking. Oops. “Uh, yeah. We’re looking to join a group that meets here. Had it recommended by a friend, and wondered if there was someone here we could talk to about it. It’s called Eyes Ahead, I think?” He screwed up his face and scratched his head so he looked unsure, rather than too eager.

The man gave him an unfriendly stare a long moment, then jabbed his pen toward the door. “All the groups have pamphlets and shit out there in the hall. There’s a schedule that tells you when they meet, and a number for the organizers if you wanna call ahead.”

Pongo waited, in case anything else was forthcoming, then smiled and said, “Thanks!”

“Helpful,” Kat muttered when they were back in the hall.

Pongo had found the printed-out schedule and was scanning it. “No offense, man, but you’re not exactly throwing out a trustworthy vibe.” A darted glance revealed the expected sour frown. “Hey, in fact, you could totally infiltrate this group thing. I’d buy you have aggressive impulses.”

Flat stare.

“Okay, suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned back. “It says Eyes Ahead meets on Tuesdays, so not ‘til tomorrow.”

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