“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
“Starting tomorrow, I’m back in Homicide. Bernice said it would be selfish of me to waste all of this talent in Robbery.”
We embraced. It felt good.
“Welcome back.”
“She also said there were zero casualties. The plant and the water absorbed most of the blast. The mayor of Skokie is giving her, me, you, and that idiot McGlade keys to the city.”
“I’d settle for a new purse. Mine blew up in that truck.”
“It could have been a lot worse.”
“Are you kidding? That purse was a Gucci.”
Herb offered to share a cab back to Skokie, to pick up our cars, but I couldn’t pick up my car without my car keys, which were in my purse. Along with all of my cash and credit cards.
“Can you even get in your house?” Herb asked.
“No.”
“You want to stay with us tonight, until you get everything worked out?”
I looked past Herb to Special Agent Rick Reilly, who was headed in our direction.
“No need,” I said. “I know someone who won’t mind giving me a ride and putting me up for the night.”
“You sure?” Herb asked.
I thought about it. Thought about it really hard.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon, partner.”
“Bye, Herb.”
He waddled off, and I waited for Rick to approach.
CHAPTER 47
“THANKS FOR CALLING ME. I know we didn’t part on exactly the best of terms.”
The Eisenhower Expressway was packed as usual, even on a Sunday. But rather than frustrate me, the stop-and-go traffic had a rhythm to it that was kind of soothing.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I told him. “I just needed a ride and a place to sleep.”
“I understand.”
We were silent for a while.
“Are you hurt?”
“A little. Twisted my ankle, got a bump on the head.”
He took his right hand off the steering wheel and went to touch my head. I flinched away from it.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s… too soon. We need to take this slow. I’m not even sure if this is the right thing to do.” I laughed humorlessly. “Mom is going to hate me.”
Wilbur smiled. “Your mother is a tough cookie, but she could never hate you.”
“She sure hates you.”
“Staying would have been bad for her. She wasn’t getting the love she deserved, and I was holding her back.”
“How do you mean?”
“She always wanted to be a police officer. Talked about it when we were dating. But when we got married, she dropped the subject. Married women don’t have careers, she said. I’m a wife and a mother now. When I left, I offered to support both of you. Your mother took child support, but she wouldn’t take alimony. Proud woman. Strong. Like you.”
“Wilbur, I’m really not comfortable with you talking about me like you know me. How do you know I’m strong?”
“I know.”
I turned away from him, closed my eyes until we arrived at his house. I thought about Rick, about his final attempt at the Schimmel residence to make a play for me, and how empty it felt. Then I thought about Latham, about the opportunity I’d blown by not immediately saying yes to his proposal, and if there was anything I could do to make it up to him.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew the car door was opening. Wilbur held the door, grinning foolishly.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. I didn’t want to seem grateful.
“It’s a pleasure. Are you hungry?”
“No. Just tired.”
“I have an extra bedroom. It hasn’t been used in a while, but I have some clean linen in the closet.”
I restrained myself from saying thank you, and followed Wilbur into his house.
“It’s the last door at the end of the hall. Let me get you some fresh sheets.”
I frankly didn’t care if the sheets were fresh or soiled, as long as they weren’t covered with bees. I was so tired I could sleep on anything. But when I entered the room and flipped on the switch, all of my exhaustion disappeared.
There were three large picture frames on the wall, each containing dozens of photographs in individual borders. And I was the subject of every picture.
The first frame was all from my youth. Baby pictures. School pictures. I’d seen most of them before, in my mother’s photo albums.
But the second frame contained entirely new pictures. New to me, at least. They were from my teenage years. I wasn’t posing for any of these; they’d been taken from the side, from behind things like cars or trees, or from a distance using a long lens. There were a few closer, clearer shots; pictures of me at my high school graduation, college graduation, police academy graduation, shaking the mayor’s hand.
In the third frame, my wedding. My eyes welled up. I had no wedding pictures, and to see me in my wedding dress was an unbelievable gift. It was a little blurry, as if taken in a rush, but I touched the glass and a sob escaped my throat. Next to it, me walking down the aisle, with Mom. Exchanging rings with Alan. Even one of us kissing.
“Oh, my. I’m sorry, Jacqueline. I should have told you about those.”
I looked at Wilbur, standing in the doorway with some folded sheets. “You were… at my wedding?”
“I had to stay in the background. I didn’t want your mother to see me. Jacqueline, I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of crazy stalker-”
“And at my graduations?”
“Yes. I didn’t mean any harm. I was so proud of you and-”
I opened up my arms and held him, held him so tight, I thought I might break him.
“You actually do care, don’t you?”
“Of course I care. You’re my daughter. I never stopped loving you.”
I sniffled, rubbed my eyes, regained a little composure.
“I missed you at my wedding.”
“I was there. Hiding in the shadows.”
“I missed dancing with you. I remember thinking, at the reception, that there was no father-daughter dance, and it made me sad.”
Wilbur said, “Hold that thought,” and then turned on the clock radio next to the dresser. An oldies station came on, a classic Sinatra tune. Wilbur bowed.
“May I have this dance?”
I giggled, suddenly feeling like a little girl again. “I think I can squeeze you in.”
He was a better dancer than I was, and after a few failed attempts at spins, we settled for holding each other and moving in small circles.
“You know,” I said, “I’m seeing someone else now.”
“Who?”
“His name is Latham.”
“The accountant? The one from the Gingerbread Man case?”
I held him at arm’s length.
“How do you know about that?”
“Want to see my scrapbooks with all of your press clippings?”
I laughed, hugging him again.
“Maybe later, Dad.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said, putting my head on his shoulder. “Later, for sure.”
EPILOGUE
Three Weeks Later
I WATCHED LATHAM FROM BEHIND. He was standing between a set of parallel bars, his effervescent physical therapist urging him to take another step. He did, followed by another, and another, until he reached the end of the bars and had to turn around. I walked up behind him and kissed his cheek.
“Hi, honey.”
“Are you here to save me, Jack? It’s like a prison camp. Terrible food, unbearable torture.”
“Can I borrow him for a minute, Julie?” I asked the therapist.
“Just for a minute. Then we have to do our sets.”
Latham rolled his eyes in mock horror. “God, I hate sets. Carry me out of here, Jack. I don’t need to walk anymore. Walking is overrated.”
“Latham, I need to be serious for a moment. Can you do that?”