Page 34 of Jealous of the Clouds
Karl picked up two bags. “All set. We’ll get Mrs. Davis last, right?”
“You got it. She won’t like it, but it makes more sense than putting her in a strange car first. She hates to ride in the car.”
Karl standing there near my front door, bags in hand, unleashed a feeling of gratitude and warmth in me. Where was he when I was looking for someone special? Despite the circumstances, something about him called to me. He was real. Protective. Safe. Someone I could lean on and against. And damn, if he didn’t look good. Impulsively, I kissed his cheek.
The gesture didn’t seem unwelcome. Surprised, he put a hand to his cheek, but he was smiling.
“Thank you.” I didn’t think I needed to say for what. There were so many things.
Chapter 13
Josh
God forbid me for saying this, but Ted’s not the brightest bulb in the package. I mean, I’m sitting right here, practically directly across from him on his own street. And does he notice?
No.
I’ve been waiting here since the wee hours of the morning, when I got extremely frustrated at his not returning my calls. To vent, I called that infernal podcast that has the ability to ruin my life and steal my freedom. I told Karl exactly what he needs to know, for all the good it’ll do me.
But even after that, my rage and frustration are off the charts. Why hasn’t Ted responded? He could have taken a second or two to shoot me a text, for Christ’s sake. Then I would have left him alone.
I figured it out after a while. He blocked me.Block away, you son of a bitch. I have other methods for keeping in close touch…
…Like the surveillance I’m doing right now.
Today is only beginning and it’s already quite sour. Like a sucked on and spit out Sweet Tart…
Aside from that infernal podcast closing in on me, I have other more worrisome people knowing too much and getting too afraid. This isnottenable.
The knock at my door at seven a.m. was a surprise. I was already up—since I’d never really been to bed—so I moved to my front door and peered through the peephole.
I didn’t recognize the person standing out there, consulting her watch. She was middle-aged, dark eyed, with very short salt and pepper hair. She wore black round oversize frames and blazer and slacks, both black, as was her blouse.Definitely gives off a lesbian-goes-to-funeral vibe. The only spot of color on her was a pin on her lapel that held some sort of red stone. Garnet? Ruby? Even though I knew she couldn’t seeintothe peephole, I felt observed, as though she could. Her irises were almost as dark as her ensemble.
“Who is it? How did you get in the building?” I called through the thick metal-core door.
She reached into her pocket, brought out a slim leather case, and opened it to reveal her detective’s badge. “Detective Aubrey Gordon, Chicago Police Department. I need to speak with you, Mr. Kade. It won’t take long—just a few questions. Could you open the door, please?”
Shit.
I complied, peering out at her with the dourest expression I could muster. I’m sure it broke her heart. “What’s this about? I have to get to work soon.” A lie. I didn’t plan on returning to work for many moons.
Although I’d opened the door, I didn’t invite her in. “Make this quick. I have a meeting downtown in an hour. I’ll be lucky if I make it on time even if I leave right this very moment.”
She pursed her lips and gave my attitude a look loaded with disdain. She might as well have said, “I don’t give a damn about you or your schedule. It will take as long as it takes.” What she really said was, “Could we step inside? It might be easier to talk if we can sit.” The corners of her lips turned up in what might generously be identified as a smile.
“That may be. But I don’t have the time for a social call. Ask what you need to and let me get on my way.”
Her mouth opened and then closed. Maybe she wasn’t used to being challenged.
“Okay. Have it your way.” One of the neighbors, Vic D’Angelo, an aging former grocer, passed me on his way down the hall with a trash bag in his hand. He eyed me and didn’t say hello. He kept turning his head as he progressed down the corridor, probably dying to know what was up.Fuck him.
“Are you sure you want to stay out here? Where it’s so—public?” Gordon asked, her gravelly voice tired and fed up. “Inside is more private.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. Now, what do you need to know, Ms. Gordon? I have nothing to hide—from you or my neighbors.”
And she proceeded, in a louder-than-needed voice, to explain she was there about a cold case from a decade ago. Of course, I was aware of which cold case and what had prompted her to take a new look at it. But I didn’t let on. “Oh? I can’t see how I could help with anything from that long ago.” I softened my demeanor a bit, replacing it with a bland and, I hoped, innocent countenance.
She proceeded to ask me lots of questions—many of which I’d been through before, all those years ago—when Reggie passed away. I hope I exhibited the appropriate amount of bafflement. I claimed to know nothing about Bailey’s podcast when she brought that up. I answered her quickly, wasting no words. I repeated my story from then. At the end of the ten-minute interview, she took out a card from the other side of her badge case and handed it to me, saying the usual, “If you think of anything else…”
