Safeword (5 page)

They introduced themselves as the Mickelsons, Arnold’s immediate neighbors to the east, and friends of his.

“Was that Arnie the coroner took with him?” Mrs. Mickelson asked, her eyes bright as she huddled into her husband’s side.

“I’m afraid so,” I answered. Mr. Mickelson closed his eyes against the news, and his wife buried her face in his arm. The moment stretched while we gave them time to gather themselves. After a bit, I spoke. “Would it be all right if we ask you a few questions?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Mickelson replied for both of them. “But can we do it inside? Old bones don’t like this cold, especially today.” He shot a distrustful glare at the sky.

“Yes, of course,” Myah said, and we followed them across their lawn to their tiny house next door.

The interior was inviting and cozy, despite its cramped size. There were dozens of pictures on the walls, kids, grandkids, all with large smiles and bright eyes. Crocheted afghans draped the back of the couch and recliner and doilies sat beneath every lamp. A basket of yarn parked beside the couch and a curved lamp gracefully arched over a well-loved chair denoted Mrs. Mickelson’s hobby. She noticed me looking.

“Useful past-time to have, making blankets, when we’re both always cold. Can I get you some coffee? Or tea?”

“Coffee would be lovely,” Myah said. “How long did you know Arnold?” she asked Mr. Mickelson as he sat in a well-worn indentation in the recliner, releasing a sigh of relief to be off his feet.

“Years, ever since he moved into the neighborhood. He was real good about helping us with our yard work. Did minor repairs I could no longer trust myself with. I’m too old for ladders or roofs. But he never made me feel inadequate about it. Always insisted I help him. Said he hated working alone and even if my only job was to talk to him, that was good enough.” His eyes crinkled at the memory, though his expression remained sad. “That was one thing I could always do well. Gab.”

“Did you ever meet friends of his? People who might have come to visit him?”

Mr. Mickelson shook his head. “He talked about a few people. A colleague he played racquetball with sometimes, or meeting his sister for dinner. They were close, and we met her a time or two. But he had no lady friends. Had his hands full with the ex-wife, I expect.”

“So Arnold was once married?” I wondered at that, having never heard him talk about his family at work. Then again, none of us did. Work intruded in so many ways on our lives, it was best to keep them as separate as possible.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Mickelson said as she returned to the room, carefully carrying a tray of mugs. She set it on the coffee table and gestured for us to help ourselves. “To a wretched woman who refused to let Arnie see their son. Seems she got full custody due to his working hours, and he said the boy had seen enough of them fighting to have to listen to it any more. He was supposed to get visitation, but she always came up with some half-baked reason not to show. He was in the process of filing papers with a lawyer to make her comply with the custody arrangement.” Mrs. Mickelson shook her head, her shock-white hair floating around her like a halo. “He didn’t talk about it much, though. Loved his boy, hated the situation.”

“Did you ever see her visit Arnold?”

“Nah.” Mr. Mickelson waved his hand. “Best we could tell, they dealt with each other through the lawyers.”

“What about strange vehicles?” Myah asked.

“Nothing like that. We keep a pretty good eye on the neighborhood while everyone’s working. Trying to stay safe.” Mrs. Mickelson sighed heavily. “Not easy these days.”

“If a cop ain’t safe, who is?” Mr. Mickelson chimed in, shaking his head.

“So did you get a good look at this man, the one who prompted you to call the police?” I sipped my coffee, trying to warm up, my fingers wrapped around the heated ceramic.

“Not really,” Mrs. Mickelson frowned. “I don’t see far away so well anymore, and it was still dark out. I heard a noise and thought the raccoons was going after our trash again. You’d think we wouldn’t have such creatures in the city, but they’re all over. So I peeked out the front window to see if I had to get the broom handle and scare ‘em off. Wasn’t a raccoon, though. Guy walking fast away from Arnie’s house knocked over a neighbor’s can.”

“Was he carrying anything you could see?” Myah asked.

“He was turned away and hunched over. Could have been against the cold, could have had something in his arms. Don’t rightly know,” she answered.

“What about his features? Clothing? Anything make him stand out? Did he run away, or walk? Maybe have a limp? Get into a car you could see?” I was hoping for something, anything identifying about the intruder.

Mrs. Mickelson shook her head, frowning. “It was dark, and he was getting farther away from me, so I couldn’t see real well. Definitely a man. Could have had dark hair, but it could have been a skull cap, too. I just didn’t see him other than to know there was no car. I figured better safe than sorry, and called for help.” Regret bled from every pore, and she sniffed. “If I’d have known, I’d have gone outside for a closer look.”

“It’s good you didn’t, Mrs. Mickelson,” Myah assured, reaching for her hands to soothe her. “There’s no telling what might have happened if he’d known you saw him. You did the right thing.”

“But Arnie was such a kind man. He didn’t deserve someone hurting him.”

“No, ma’am, he didn’t.” I replied softly.

§§§

ARNOLD STEVENSON’S autopsy was later that afternoon, and while Myah was busy at the ME’s office, I made a multitude of calls to the lawyers on file for the divorce case, as well as Arnold’s insurance company, to request a list of belongings he might have filed for his homeowner’s policy. While the divorce had been bitter, there wasn’t much reason, on paper, to believe the ex-Mrs. Stevenson was involved. None of their disputes had revolved around money, and Arnold had changed the beneficiary on his life insurance policy to his sister, Angela. He’d had a will drafted that left a modest amount in trust for his son’s college, but it was ironclad and Angela was the executor. A quick visit to her house told me much the same as the Mickelsons. No relationship to speak of, few friends outside the force, none of whom were particularly close. And a bitter mess over the custody of his son. She was helpful in agreeing to provide a list of things Arnold owned she thought might have value.

“My money is on that bitch he married,” Angela nearly spat, disdain etched into her haggard face. “I bet she hired someone to get Arnold out of her hair. Always trying to skirt the court papers with Billy’s visits.”

“Billy is Arnold’s son?”

“Yeah. He’s nine, and she used him like a pawn to try to hurt Arnold. Seems she did enough of that, floozying around behind his back. Poor kid doesn’t know his mama is a loser.”

I stayed quiet about that, making a note to follow up on Mrs. Stevenson just the same. And perhaps ask around if her routine activity had had any unusual breaks.

As Angela walked me to her door, she turned abruptly, eyes wide. “Do you think this might have something to do with a case he was working on? Someone he maybe helped put away getting out on parole and coming after him?”

The rage at the scene certainly made the idea plausible. Kittridge had all Arnold’s current files pulled as well as old ones whose perps were up for or recently released on parole. The stack of paperwork on my desk when I returned would be daunting, to say the least.

“It’s a possibility we’re certainly exploring right now, Miss Stevenson.”

She wrung her hands, looking every bit the grieved sibling. “He was just so nice, detective. So helpful to everyone. It made him a doormat, but he always said he’d rather be the stompee than the stomper. Slept better at night.”

I placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, swallowing a lump in my throat. “We’re doing everything we can to find who did this. Arnold was a great guy. One of the best.”

She nodded, tearing up. I was surprised when she impulsively hugged me, fitting her head on my shoulder. I stood stock still, unsure what to do. Realizing it was about comfort and nothing more, I gingerly patted her back before extricating myself. She sniffed, pulled herself together, and without another word, showed me out.

“WE MIGHT have hit the jackpot,” Myah said, dropping heavily into her chair after shrugging out of her coat. “Jencopale found semen on and in the body, and a number of hair and fibers. I sent them to Cole with a rush on them.”

I peered at her from behind the stack of files that had been Arnold’s caseload, wondering how she managed to turn off the hurt on this one so easily. Myah constantly astounded me, though, and in the nearly two years we’d been partners, I had yet to see something she couldn’t handle. She’d been beside me at my worst, distracting me from the nightmare that had become my reality when no one else could. She’d been my shoulder to lean on, my caretaker in many ways, making sure I ate, encouraging me to be open with Ben and Dr. Ribaldi about things that needed to be talked about, and in general, behaving like she was already one of my family. I hoped Cole would get off his ass and ask her to marry him soon, but I’d learned long ago, the rest of my family would take care of that pressure. I didn’t need to chime in, too.

“You doing okay?” she asked, taking a handful of files from my side of our butted-up desks and dropping them on her blotter.

“Maybe,” I said. “If I stop too long to think about it, not really, but the amount of work to do is keeping me afloat.” I filled her in on what I’d discovered in her absence.

She pursed her lips. “I don’t think it’s the ex. It wouldn’t be for money, and even if she did want the kid all to herself, she was fighting it out with a cop. She had to know he’d be knowledgeable enough to know what she was up to and stop her. Also, DNA evidence. Unless she planted it.”

“Maybe that’s why she did it. Because he stopped her at every turn, as was his right as Billy’s dad. Maybe she was tired of him looking over her shoulder and demanding equal time.”

“She’d be an idiot to go after a cop.”

“Anybody’s an idiot to go after a cop,” I grumbled, the deeper meaning rattling through my sarcastic tone like a train with no brakes.

She looked at me shrewdly, eyes narrowed. “That’s very true. Though we’re not clairvoyant, even if we wish we were.”

I didn’t reply, burying my face in the open file in front of me. It was selfish to think of my situation in the midst of this new case. Someone I knew and respected was gone, brutally beaten and murdered. It was a betrayal not to give that my full attention while on the clock. I also knew I’d have to leave work for the day soon, or it would catch up to me, likely in a spectacular and messy way. Goddamn Lane for making me so fucking fragile.

“Have you eaten?” she asked quietly.

“Not yet. I need to, though. Decompress before going home.”

“Want to get a cheesesteak from that nasty diner you love so much?”

“That place burned down. Grease fire.” That had been a sad day for me, but happy for my waistline.

“That sucks. Somewhere else then?”

I slapped a case folder shut and locked the pile in my desk. “Yes. I can’t look at this anymore or I won’t sleep.”

We donned our coats and walked into the cold January air. The weather had finally made up its mind what it would do, and snow swirled in eddies and whorls in the wind whipping around the building as we trudged to our cars. The forecast called for a few inches by morning, and I planned to be back at my desk before the bulk of rush hour snarled the highways.

I followed Myah to one of the chain restaurants which pretended familiarity with the neighborhood by trying to insert itself in the city’s culture with posters and knick-knacks of local celebrities. John Goodman smiled down at us with his mop of curls circa the
Roseanne
years.

“If I wanted John Goodman smiling over my shoulder and looking like he’s about to steal my fries, I’d have gone to his restaurant instead,” I grumbled.

“John Goodman owns a restaurant here?” she asked, folding her coat over her purse in the booth. I kept forgetting she wasn’t from St. Louis and wouldn’t have known that.

“Yeah, he’s a partner of O’Leary’s on Lindbergh.”

“Good food?”

I shrugged. “Been awhile since I’ve eaten there. Good fried pickles.”

She made a face. “Fried pickles? Because they aren’t salty enough, you have to batter them?”

“Oh, you have to try fried pickles, Hayes. You haven’t lived.” I was rhapsodic, and I looked for the appetizer on the menu in my hand, disappointed when I saw none on offer. “Well, next time. They don’t have them here.”

The waitress took our orders, and when she left, Myah leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “You’re different this week, Gav.”

“Different how?” I asked carefully, not sure how much I wanted to tell her while in public.

“Calmer. You’re panicking less. Fewer elements whispered in tense moments.”

I chuckled. “Good conversation last week with Ben. Opened my eyes to some things.” Dr. Ribaldi had seized on revelation of my conversation with Ben about fault and pursued it with dogged determination in our last therapy session. I met with her on my own and then weekly with Ben. For the first time since Lane’s verdict, I could see the pieces of myself coming back together. Slowly, like spilled mercury drawn to itself with a tiny shove in the right direction. Wearing gloves, of course.

“Gavin, that’s great!” Myah proclaimed as our food arrived. I picked up my club sandwich and threw the confetti tipped toothpick at her playfully.

“Just don’t say ‘I told you so,’ since you’ve been telling me I’m flawed from day one.”

She grinned, attacking her burger as if it offended her.

“I don’t care how you get there, Gavin. Just that you do.”

We talked about Cole and the weekly family brunch coming up Sunday. News was sure to travel to my father, a retired lieutenant, about Arnold Stevenson’s murder, so we set a boundary we wouldn’t cross for discussing an open case. She even suggested distracting them with relationship talk. Lately, she and Cole had been in the crosshairs of familial pressure, and I marveled at how easily she let it slide. Very little rattled her. It occurred to me how much I already considered her a part of my family.

“Think Cole will pop the question any time soon?” I finished my last fry, pushing my plate away and draining my Coke. I grinned at her, making it obvious I was being a shit, but I was curious, as well.

“Not you, too,” she groaned. “I swear, no one’s just happy we’re together. What’s the big damn hurry to get us hitched?”

“I am happy you’re together. Sorry, but I don’t have a lot of experience with women who aren’t looking for the whole shebang.” My brother, Shawn, had married his girlfriend Chrissy the previous spring, and while she’d never pressured him, she’d been over the moon when he proposed. “And this is Cole’s longest relationship. Can’t help but wonder.”

“Well, then consider it a victory already instead of thinking about what we’re lacking. We
are
happy. I see no reason to change things. When we’re not happy anymore, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well, it’s not like they can pressure me into getting married again.” While my parents had a mixed bag of reactions to my gay status, they had gone out of their way to make Ben welcome, but didn’t quite know how to behave around him. Sometimes it was endearing. Most of the time, it irritated the piss out of me.

“In time, maybe,” she mused. “Isn’t a collaring the same as getting married in your world?”

I shuddered at the thought of something as restrictive as a collar around my neck. “It can be. It’s just as symbolic. But I don’t think I can—”

“Oh, of course not,” she said quickly. “That was thoughtless of me.”

I waved her off, not wanting to make it an issue. Grabbing the check, I glanced at my watch and realized how late it was. Ben would be worried, even though I’d called him upon returning from Angela Stevenson’s house. He knew what kind of day it had been for me, and with the deteriorating weather, I needed to get home.

As I handed the bill to the waitress, something struck me.
I’m looking forward to Ben holding me tonight.
I suddenly craved his touch, needed to fall into his arms and reassure myself life went on. I wanted to hear his heartbeat, feel his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest. The waitress couldn’t return with my receipts fast enough. Progress indeed.

Myah, to her credit, didn’t pry at what must have been a very revealing expression on my face. She merely winked at me, squeezed my hand briefly, and once the bill was settled and we were bundled up, we trundled to our cars. The snow stuck to everything, leaving a thin veneer of white that gave the world a preternatural calm. I walked her to the driver’s side of her little compact and used her scraper to clear her windows while she let the engine warm up. I rapped on the glass to pass the scraper in to her.

“Let him take care of you tonight,” she instructed. “We both need some TLC. If your demons get ugly, you know you can call me, no matter what.”

I said nothing, getting into my car after she’d vacated the adjacent space. My mind a whir of details, concentration on the road, and the plan of attack I had for the morning, I didn’t once think about Lane on the way home.

§§§

I LAY on my side, arm snaked under the pillows beneath my cheek, focused beyond the sliding glass door to the night beyond. It was eerie, how bright it was due to the white powder coating everything. I watched it pile up, listening to Ben breathe steadily beside me. Without thinking, I plucked his hand off my hip and pulled his arm across my chest, snuggling into him as the little spoon.

A killer was out there. Why had he done it? What purpose had it served? Did he feel better about his actions, or worse? Was he riddled with guilt or feeling smug to have pulled it off? Or was he scared? Was he looking over his shoulder, even now, wondering if someone was coming for him?

I’m coming for you. I will find you.

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, I willed my eyelids to droop, for sleep to take me, but it remained elusive. The snow swirling against the glass patio doors seemed to cheerfully mock me with their jaunty swirls, a party in the air just beyond the warmth of my cocoon.

“Shut the fuck up, snow,” I murmured. A chuckle sounded behind me followed by the tightening of the arm across my chest. My breath hitched and Ben immediately released me. I grabbed his arm, stalling its retreat. After a moment, he resumed his hold.

“Go to sleep, Gav.”

“I’d love to,” I grumbled.

“Everything okay?”

I stared for a moment longer at the white outdoors, then turned to face him, pulling the thick down comforter over my shoulder, blocking out the ambient light.

“I just can’t shut my brain up.”

His profile was a shadow peeking over the edge of the comforter. “Anything I can do?” He trailed his hand along my hip in short, soothing strokes.

“You can make me go to sleep.”

That got his attention, and I saw one of his eyebrows rise in the dimness. He stared at me as though he was wondering what it was I was asking for. He knew, though. He was no fool.

“Come here,” he ordered. His voice may have been quiet, but it wasn’t soft. It meant business, velvet wrapped around steel. “Scoot closer.”

I complied, responding instinctively. He flattened to his back and maneuvered me into the crook of his arm, my head on his left pec. His hand linked in mine and pulled it across his waist, and he hooked my top leg over his with his foot. His other hand carded through the hair at my temple.

“Focus on your breathing,” he commanded. “Feel the air rush in and rush out. Feel your lungs expand and contract. Oxygen trading for carbon dioxide. Feel the warmth of my skin seep into you. Listen to the beat of my heart.”

My restless mind slowed, surrendering with the merest whimper, unable to ignore his instructions.

“You are mine, Gavin. I’m here for you, and you belong to me.” A shiver pranced up my torso, shaking my limbs. He tightened the fingers holding my hand. He rhythmically tugged my hair in counterpoint to the beating of his heart.
Tha-thump, tug, tha-thump, tug.
I gave up the tension in my shoulders, my muscles becoming compliant to both his touch and his command.

“I don’t want you tired tomorrow. You have a tough day ahead, and no sleep will make it worse. So right now, last chance to relax. Flex your feet.” I pointed my toes, then relaxed them. “Now your calves.” I did, then let go. “Thighs and butt.” He tugged on my hair a little harder when I snickered. I still did what he said. He progressed up my body until I’d flexed and relaxed from the tips of my fingers and toes to my neck, which cracked with the movement. The trick worked, though, and my awareness of my body, of his body, our breathing, the tug-tug-tug of his fingers in my hair all served to shut down my overactive mind.
In, out, up, down, tha-thump, tug, tha-thump, tug.

“You do my bidding, and I will watch out for you,” he murmured, as my consciousness began to slip. “Your Dom orders it, you obey. Sleep.”

My last reaction to his words was a flash of lust wrapped in security before I submitted to him.

I woke up two minutes before my alarm clock, refreshed and well-rested.

Huh. So this is what human feels like.
I’d forgotten that. The shower steam was heaven, as was the smell of coffee from the kitchen. Ben had gotten up to start the single-cup machine and crawled back in bed. He’d begun doing the coffee bit for me when I returned to work, and while it was a nice gesture, it felt wrong to me, somehow. Yes, he was taking care of me, and his “job” as my Dom was to do that, but coffee felt like something I should do for him. Our dynamic had worked before by him showing me how fulfilling his requests satisfied me, not the other way around. I wanted to make
him
happy by doing what
he
wanted. It was who I was, a natural submissive. Without that purpose, I was just Gavin DeGrassi, broken sub, damaged goods. And he was Ben Haverson, Dom who didn’t dominate, ignoring his needs in favor of me. It was backward.

Despite feeling better physically, I emerged from the bathroom cranky. Standing at the counter, I glared at the coffee, deciding it would be childish and rude to ignore it, even if it did represent everything that was out of balance with our relationship.