Among the Living (8 page)

I redial a couple of times, but her phone just rings. I try her cell, but if I know her, the thing is dead and buried in the bottom of her purse. She never thinks to charge it, and just as I expect, my call goes straight to voicemail. I stare around dumbly for a few moments as I try to formulate a plan. If I leave now, I can be at her apartment in twenty minutes, thirty at the most, but what will I see? If there is a shooting, the road and apartment will be blocked for hours. Will I be able to get in?

I go back to my desk and look up the apartment building. I find it on the web and dial the office. After about half a dozen rings, the phone clicks over to voicemail, which informs me of the virtues of living at Casa De Monaco apartments. “Stupid goddamn name,” I swear into the phone.

Erin is standing beside me. She rests a hand on my shoulder, and I look up at her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. There’s something going on at Rita’s. She said the cops shot someone; he attacked and bit them.”

“He bit them? Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“Druggie?”

“No idea.”

“Are you going over there?” She leans against the desk with her arms crossed under her breasts. Her shirt is nothing fancy, yet it plunges ever so gently over her curves. For all its demure style, I struggle not to stare.

“I don’t know. I mean I’m sure she’ll be fine, but now I can’t get through on the phones.”

“Why don’t we check Leonard’s scanner, see what’s going on?”

“You are brilliant,” I say and stand up. She doesn’t back away, and we are very close to each other. She is slightly shorter than I, but in heels she would look me in the eye—not that I’m a tall guy by any stretch. She is watching me, eyes fixed on mine, and I stare into those marvelous pools of brown for a few seconds. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Her eyes say it all; they look deep into mine and they smolder. For a stupid second, I see myself leaning over and kissing her, but the absurdity rocks me back. She can’t be interested in an old guy like me; I’m used up and tired. She is young, beautiful; she probably has men knocking down her door.

The moment stretches. I don’t know what to do, so I place a hand on her shoulder, something I wouldn’t normally do, but I smile to say she is a good friend.

Then I turn and walk to Leonard’s office. She follows me, shoes cracking across the floor. I sense that something has just passed between us, but I can’t figure out what. Then it dawns on me. Pity. She feels sorry for me, and I fight not to turn around and tell her that I’m fine, but the words die on my lips even as they form. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.

Leonard keeps a somewhat tidy office. He mainly handles sports, but he also likes to run longer pieces on crimes that are overlooked by the main media feeds. They aren’t hard to find. Mainstream news programs tend to focus on the sensational pieces, things that sell advertisements. He once wrote a three-part series about families that moved their loved ones into assisted living facilities and abandoned them while raiding their life savings. The piece garnered some national media attention, but ‘Britney Spears’ news quickly squashed it.

He’s perched behind a giant monitor that looks more like a TV than a computer screen. He is the only one in the office who has one that large. As it turns out, he purchased it for himself. I asked him once why he went to such expense, and he rationalized it by saying he spent half of his day at the office, why shouldn’t he be comfortable?

He is close to my age but is a barrel-chested outdoorsman with leathery skin from years in the sun. Premature age lines mar his face, making him look older than his forty-six years. They also give him a distinguished look.

“You got a minute?”

He stops banging on the keyboard with the first two fingers of both hands, and man does he pound on that thing. I have heard him typing from down the hall. He looks up from his display, eyes hazy behind glasses that are thick with a sheen of oil. Sometimes I want to take them off his face and subject them to a bath of Windex.

“Sure, what’s up? Hey did you see the Mariners trade today? Man, we need another relief pitcher like we need a hole in the stadium’s retractable roof.”

“I thought they had that area shored up. What is management thinking?”

“Hell if I know. They don’t pay me the big bucks to scour the west for new players.”

“And it is a real shame; remember how well your fantasy football team did last year?” Which was miserable. He somehow ended up with three injured quarterbacks.

“Sure, dredge up my past and blare it in front of Erin.”

“Hey, man, I don’t know how the game works or how you can suck at it so bad.” She grins, and Leonard can’t help but grin with her. He is as big as a bear, but at heart he is more of a teddy bear, or so Erin has pointed out to me more than once.

“I was wondering if your scanner was working. There’s some action up on Capitol Hill at my ex-wife’s apartment. She sounds worried, but her phone cut out and I haven’t been able to get through.”

He stares at me for a long time, face an expressionless mask. Then he digs out the scanner from behind a stack of paper. He switches it on, and we are greeted with static.

“It’s been like that since yesterday evening. At first the channels cut in and out, but then they all went dead. I think the police are using a different mode of communication for the time being.”

“Why would they do that?” Erin beats me to the question.

“Million dollar question. I have been asking myself the very same, and I got nothing. All I hear are rumors, and even those are barely creditable. Just hints on the web if you know where to look. Videos on YouTube that get yanked as soon as they’re posted.”

I curse quietly. I didn’t even think to check the video sites.

“I checked some blogs, but they’re being obtuse, covering up words with other words like they’re scared of being shut down,” I think out loud.

“Wait a minute, what are you guys even talking about? You make it sound like there’s some big conspiracy.” Erin has a determined look on her face like she is pandering to us. I can’t blame her; this is crazy talk.

“We already live in a world where people are used to ignoring stuff. Well, except for what the media tells them, and as a new paper, we know this better than most. ‘Don’t question, just live in fear.’” Leonard recites one of his favorite mantras. “Well, what if something bad is happening and it’s being covered up?”

“Absurd!” Erin says loudly.

“There’s something going on, I don’t know what it is, but we have a responsibility to find out and report on it, and that is what I intend to do.” And with that, Leonard turns his attention to his computer and starts typing again.

We leave his office and return to our desks. My mind keeps returning to what Leonard said. Erin also seems distracted. She keeps sighing and ‘hmphing’ every once in a while as she stares at her computer screen.

I still don’t know what to do about Rita, so I sit down and try to focus on work.

Shylah Rae Parker stands in the sweltering heat of another humid day in Seattle and tries to be patient. Just as she approaches the street crossing, the light changes and she is forced to wait. Cars zip by on Westlake Avenue. She ignores the old ones and glances at the shiny ones. She has her shades slung low, purse held high and a look that grants nothing but disdain to those around her.

A couple stroll up alongside her. The man is dressed in some crap you might see at Walmart. She stares straight ahead, but she knows he is letting his eyes rove up and down her body, hoping his wife doesn’t catch him in the act.

She doesn’t have time for this! She needs to get in quick, pick up her dress at the new Cambria Boutique store and then get her butt home so she can go out tonight.

The dress is a slinky little thing with spaghetti straps and a bustline that plunges about three inches below the start of her cleavage. She also plans to stop at Victoria’s Secret and pick up a new water bra. Sure, George says she doesn’t need it, that she has the perfect-sized tits, but that’s because he has to, especially if he wants to keep seeing them on a regular basis.

The light changes, and she steps into the road then has to jump back as a car belts past her, clearly running a red light. Asshole! She glares at the car, but the driver doesn’t even look at her in the rearview mirror.

Then the way is clear, and she is safely within the cool vestibule of the mall. People stream past her on their way to the food court on the third floor, the game stores below, and of course the sinful chocolate heaven known as Godiva. Not that she will stop there today; her butt doesn’t need any of that stuff. Again, not that George complains.

The smell from the food court one floor above is almost overwhelming. She has barely eaten today in preparation for going out tonight. A Power Bar for breakfast and a small salad for lunch. When they brought the salad, she almost started drooling at the sight of the bread they brought her friend Anne.

Anne had been married for a few years and ate whatever the hell she wanted to. Lucky bitch, but she would never be able to pull of the LBD Shylah is going out in tonight.

She takes the elevator to the second floor, hip popped out as it ascends. She avoids the glances of the men on the descending elevator on the other side, their eyes trying too hard not to stare at her cleavage. She puts on an air of diffidence, untouched by their stares. She loves the attention but won’t recognize it.

At last she strolls into Cambria Boutique, and Helen is at her side in a flash.

“I know it came in this morning, give me just a moment.” And she goes to a rack behind the counter. There are a few other items wrapped in fresh crisp plastic that crackle together as she checks tags. “Here it is,” she pulls out the item and tugs the plastic up so Shylah Rae can get a look at it.

The dress is a wisp of nothing. Sheer silk, the black seems to reflect the light in the room and pull attention to it. Something about synthetic fibers wrapped around the silk. Some new process from Japan that will be all the rage in no time.

She touches the fabric, and it is as soft as she remembers, soft as a baby’s rear end. George won’t be able to take his eyes off the tiny thing that barely covers her ass. Her rear end that she has been perfecting for a month at the gym with squats and more squats, leg lifts and a personal trainer named Stephanie who might as well wear horns and parade around like the devil.

“It’s beautiful,” Shylah Rae exclaims, and Helen beams a smile at her that is all pearly white goodness and could stop traffic. She is taller than Shylah and older, probably well into her thirties, but she is also tall, statuesque and probably gets looked at by every geek who wanders by the store.

“Want to try it on?” Helen asks, but she doesn’t have time. She has to stop for some undies and then get home, soak in a hot bath and get ready for the night. Her hair will take at least an hour.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Well you are all paid up, so enjoy your new dress. I bet your man won’t let you out of the house wearing it, he’ll be so jealous.”

She smiles and nods, thinking that George is anything but the jealous type. He is sometimes so indifferent to her flirty manner with other men that it concerns her. What if he isn’t serous about her? What if he is just in it for sex? Not that the sex is terrible.

He is very successful, vice president at a bank—even though he told her banks have more vice presidents than tellers. She knows he is joking about that, because he drives a nice car, a Lexus, and he always dresses in expensive clothes. In fact, he often looks like he just stepped out of a Hollister ad.

She clicks out of the store on her three-inch heels, skirt swaying over her hips. Her tanned legs look great against the maroon fabric, like she should be in a commercial.

Shylah Rae takes the elevator up one more level to stop at Victoria’s Secret for some new goodies.

Her brand-new platinum Visa weighing heavily in her purse after an hour at the shop, she leaves with a handful of bags and crosses the street. Taking a right, she walks to the parking lot and her little convertible BMW. It’s a deep blue and spotless in the fading daylight. It better be, for all the money she pays a detailer once a month at the Bear car wash.

A homeless man huddles near the pay machine, and she steers around him.

“Can you spare some change? Just a little?” He doesn’t even bother to meet her eye. He probably has crabs and other diseases crawling all over his body. She pretends she doesn’t hear him and walks out of her way to go around him. She skirts a silver Mercedes and then a Kia with a license plate that reads TOYBOYS.

A groan from the old man, and she turns to look at him. She doesn’t want to, but he sounds like he is in pain.

He wears a faded Levi t-shirt and squats against a pole. One arm is wrapped around his knee, and he holds the other against his chest. He keeps looking down at something on his arm, but she can’t make it out.

He is filthy, hair a frizz that goes in twenty-seven directions at once. A scraggly beard completes his look, and he even has dirt and smeared brown on his face that looks like dried Coke or something.