Page 13 of 3rd Tango
“I’m not kidding,” he says. “Why can’t he be in witness protection or something? Back in the nineties, the mob was huge in New York and you just found some New York lighthouses. Maybe he’s a rat.”
Who knew my artsy Jerome even understood street slang? It reminds me how much I’ve yet to learn and fills me with excitement.
Each day lately is like unwrapping a new gift.
Gifts aside, Jerome has a point. For years, my mother’s working theory has been that Gayle is a murderer.
What if he is and testified against a bunch of other murderers?
Jerome sets the notes on the sofa cushion and folds his hands in his lap. When he closes his eyes, I take in the lush thickness of his dark eyelashes. I like to tease him about them, insisting on butterfly kisses every time we say goodnight.
It’s become routine. Some women want the euphoric rush new relationships bring, the absolute high of being in love.
Me? I have enough drama in my life. I want the reverse. I want boring, steady comfort.
Jerome’s eyes snap open and he busts me staring at him. “You’re thinking,” he says. “What about?”
“Butterfly kisses and rats.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me. “You like that theory, huh?”
“It’s a good one. Someone living in witness protection would lay low, right? Maybe not go out when most folks are doing errands and whatnot. If he sticks to evening, darkness keeps him shadowed.”
“I agree.”
I reach for my laptop and hit the spacebar, bringing it to life again. “He might not be in witness protection. But if he’s on the run, he’d probably behave in the same manner. Staying out of sight and such.”
Jerome tilts his head, watching me as I click on my browser. “What are you doing?”
“A search for the FBI’s most wanted lists from the early nineties, the years before Gayle moved in across the street.”
7
Charlie
It’s a good day to be Charlie Schock.
I sit in my air-conditioned office, rocking in my chair and staring at a framed photograph I’ve hung on the wall. It’s a painting of mountains, woods, and vast open blue sky that reminds me of my favorite U.S. District Attorney’s eyes.
JJ bought it at the fair for me, and I have to admit, it catches my attention throughout the day and makes me pause to take a deep breath. I can almost picture myself there, the clean mountain air, a backpack, and JJ. We’ve discussed our bucket lists. Hiking with him is on mine.
In front of me is a stack of seven cases. The rush in my blood and the tick of my pulse is like that of a sprinter at the starting line, waiting for the gun to go off. There are too many jobs, too much work, but I’m excited anyway. I can’t wait to dig in.
The stress of being successful is one I thrive on, as does Matt who is currently down the hall, on the phone for the case I’ve assigned him. Like me, he welcomes the workload. We could still use another hand, and if this uptick in cases continues and brings in the dollars to pay for it, the temporary position could turn permanent.
Out front, Haley sings along with her playlist. Meg is MIA, and that’s okay. My sister has finally gotten a life, and she doesn’t haunt the office as much as she used to. The missing and the unidentified do not trouble her obsessively now, thanks to Jerome, and for that, I’m thankful. She’s working normal hours, taking long lunches, and sometimes not coming in until well after the day is in full-swing.
Haley stops singing and I hear the arrival of a visitor. I turn my attention to the first case, but the familiar voice of Alfonzo makes me pause. He texted earlier to let me know he had a condensed file on the three bodies found in Virginia that might be linked to Mom’s case against Gayle.
Haley shows him to my office. The biker is gone, and today, he’s dressed in a white button-down, charcoal gray jacket, and black jeans.
He’s still wearing motorcycle boots, so I guess his inner rebel is alive and well. He’s shaved and has combed back his salt and pepper strands, and looks nice—more like the agent he used to be, and probably still is at heart.
He smiles and we shake over the desk. He plops a large white envelope on top of my blotter. “Here you go. I condensed the details about the bodies, the identities of the two we have, and their family members’ information. If you want to comb through the originals, I’m sure I can get copies.”
I motion him into one of the chairs and resume my seat, opening the envelope and glancing through the neat set of notes. If I didn’t already know he was former FBI, I might guess it from the way he’s categorized everything and cross-referenced certain details, in color, no less. “I appreciate this. Saves me a ton of time.”
“Happy to help.” He glances around, his eyes admiring the functional furniture, sparse decoration, and landing for a moment on the painting. “No point in you having to hunt through all of those yourself when I’ve done the work. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
