I think I flinched.
"She's just angry right now, Jacqueline. Angry and hurt. I'll talk to her."
"She was stuck on the bathroom floor, in pain, for four days--"
"I know."
"--lying in her own mess--"
"I know."
"She could have died, Mr. Griffin. I can't let that happen to my mother again."
Mr. Griffin put a hand on my shoulder, patted.
"You have to understand something about getting old, Jacqueline. We can't hold on to our health. It's impossible. But we try like mad to hold on to our dignity."
My eyes teared up, but I refused to cry.
"I just want my mom to be safe. Dignity doesn't matter."
"But it does, Jacqueline. Once dignity is gone, the will to live isn't far behind."
I walked away, heading for my overnight bag.
"Fine. I'll stay at a hotel."
"You can, but your mother was quite clear. She refuses to speak to you until you stop bullying her. I'm sorry."
I clenched my teeth and my fists, wanting to scream. Instead of picking up my carry-on, I walked past it and headed for the bathroom. Seeing where it happened, seeing the mess, would help steel my resolve.
The bathroom was spotless.
"I cleaned it up earlier." Mr. Griffin put his hand on my shoulder again. "She'll come around. Just give her time. Asking for help just isn't your mother's way."
I spun, ready for a fight.
"Neither of you seem to think she needs help."
Now it was his turn to look sad.
"Oh, she does. Yes, she does."
"So you agree with me?"
He nodded.
"Why does that make me feel even worse?"
Mr. Griffin, with the spring-loaded pelvis, hugged me, and I hugged him back, and we spent a moment trying to understand the unfairness of it all.
"Should I get a motel room?" I asked. "Try to force her hand?"
"She doesn't want you here right now, Jacqueline. It's best if you go home. I'll talk to her. This will all work out."
I nodded, but deep down I knew differently.
The three-hour plane ride back to Chicago seemed to take a million years.
Chapter 5
I made it home a little after three in the morning. I live in Wrigleyville, in an apartment on Addison and Racine. It's a loud neighborhood, the streets always full of Cubs fans and barhopping kids, many of whom like to spend their evenings directly under my window, shouting at one another. As a consolation, the rent is too high.
Exhaustion hammered at me like the tide, but sleep and I weren't close friends. On good nights, I could get two hours of REM before stress woke me up.
Tonight wouldn't be a good night.
I blame my job, since it's easier than blaming myself. I've been to several general pracs, but haven't broken down and seen a shrink yet. The latest wonder drug, Ambien, worked for me, but with consequences -- the next morning I swam in an unending groggy haze that severely impaired my ability to serve and protect. So I only took it as a last resort. Besides, insomnia gave me an edge; less sleep equaled more productivity. Plus, my boyfriend found baggy eyes sexy.
There was a message from him on the machine. I let it play as I undressed.
"Hi, Jack. The conference is going well. Accountants are actually a fun bunch, once you get a few drinks in them. Naw, I'm kidding -- we become even more boring. I just had a two-hour argument with some guy about accruals. I'll be back in Chicago tomorrow night, so tell your other suitors you're mine for the evening. I have an important question to run by you. Miss you. Love you. Hope you're keeping the city safe. Bye-bye."
I smirked. I met Latham Conger, head accountant at Oldendorff and Associates, ten months ago, through a dating service that Herb had conned me into joining. Latham was pleasant, attractive, attentive, employed, and heterosexual. Which, for a forty-something woman in Chicago, was like winning the lottery. He also loved me, and wasn't put off that I didn't return the sentiment yet.
I liked Latham, a lot. And I might love him someday. But my heart muscle atrophied when Alan left me, and I haven't been able to get it up to speed since.
I pulled on an old T-shirt and climbed into bed. Latham's cologne clung to the pillows, and I hugged one to my chest, thinking about his phone call.
I have an important question to run by you.
What could that mean?
As if I didn't have enough on my mind.
Rest, as expected, defied me. I tossed. I turned. I did deep breathing and relaxation exercises that brought me close to sleep, and perhaps actually into sleep for short periods of time, but I always jerked myself awake after a few minutes.
I felt immense relief when my alarm went off and it was time to go to work.
After showering and changing into a yellow blouse, a tan jacket, and matching slacks, I did a quick makeup job with extra attention to eye concealer and headed for work.
Eight in the morning, and already the temp hovered in the nineties. Chicago, a city that didn't smell good on average days, reeked in heat like this. I had to pass an alley on the way to my car, and the smell from the garbage cans hit me like a punch.
Kitty-corner to the 26th District, a gourmet coffee place had set up shop. I got a Colombian dark roast, black, for myself, and almost ordered a double chocolate hazelnut cappuccino for Herb until I remembered his diet. He also got a dark roast.
Caffeine in hand, I entered my building and was surprised to find it cool. In fact, it was downright chilly.
Violent Crimes Division was on the third floor. Herb sat in his office, hand in a box of fat-free chocolate cookies. He brightened when he saw me.
"Jack? Why aren't you in Florida? Is your mom okay?"
Rather than get into it, I nodded a yes and handed him his cup.
"Coffee, thank God. I'm freezing."
"I see they fixed the air-conditioning."
"They did, but the temperature regulator isn't working. They can't shut it off."
"Feels good."
"Give it ten minutes, and you'll start seeing your breath. I tried opening a window, but I can't handle the Dumpster smell. This is just what I needed." Herb took a sip, then made a face. "What's this?"
"It's coffee. That's what it tastes like without cream and sugar."
"It's supposed to be this bitter?"
"Yeah."
Herb dug through his desk and pulled out a fistful of little pink packets.
"Well, I'm glad your mother's okay, and it's good that you're back. Index got a match on the prints."
As Herb added carcinogens to his brew, I leafed through the reports on his desk.
The arms belonged to Davi McCormick of 3800 North Lake Shore Drive. Arrested once for solicitation, but clean for the last five years. Mug shots were known to be unflattering, but hers looked good enough to print. Davi was an attractive woman, much more so than the average prostitute.
I read her case details and it made sense. At the time of her arrest, she'd been working for Madame Pardieu, a high-class escort service that charged up to a grand a night. That would account for the nice neighborhood.
"Does she look familiar?" Herb asked. His jowls were stuffed with fat-free cookies, giving him a chipmunkish appearance.
"Yeah, she does."
"You've probably seen her a few dozen times. When we got her name I cross-reffed with Missing Persons, and found a report from yesterday, called in by her agent. She's Sure-a-Tex Girl."
Sure-a-Tex was a brand of tampon marketed to the younger crowd. Sure-a-Tex Girl, wearing a not very subtle red cape, flew to the rescue of women who started their period in extreme situations, such as mountain climbing or white-water rafting. The product came in a variety of designer colors, including neon green and hot pink.
"Did you contact the agent?"
"He'll be here any minute." Herb took a sip of coffee and searched his desk for more saccharine.
Phil Blasky's postmortem report was the shortest I'd ever read, due to the amount of material he had to work with. An elevated histamine level and platelet count indicated the victim had been bleeding prior to her arms being severed. Tests for several dozen drugs came back negative. Lipid levels normal. No evidence of heart disease, STDs, or pregnancy. Everything else about the arms was unspectacular.