Double Indemnity (10 page)

“Are you sure we can't convince you to stay for another round?” Anchor Tatt asked. He had a pretty smile, and he bestowed it on Sam with interest.

Sam shook his head. He was going to be feeling that thick cock in his ass for days. “I've gotta head out. But thanks, I had a great time.”

“Well, you've got our number. Call us the next time you're in town.”

“Sure thing.”

Outside in the wee hours of the night, Sam walked quickly toward Houston to catch a cab back to the station. His mouth tasted like yesterday's garbage. He could already imagine the look Yuri would give him if he showed up to work like this, hung-over and stinking like sex. A quick trip home first was definitely in order. He pulled out his cell to check the time and noted a couple of missed calls, both from a number he didn't recognize with a Stonebridge area code.

There was one voice mail, and Sam listened to it on the ride to Grand Central. His heart started pounding as soon as he recognized the voice.

“Hi, Sam, this is Nathan Walker calling. I was wondering if you had any free time. If you'd like to talk. Or rather, I'd like to talk to you, if you have some time. Call me back.”

He had to replay the message twice more just to make sense of it. At first, his tired, semidrunk neurons couldn't process what Nathan meant, but then he remembered telling Nathan to call if he wanted to talk. Nathan had said he would, but after two months of radio silence, Sam had almost forgotten the initial offer. Now, out of nowhere, Nathan wanted his help.

The idea appealed for reasons Sam tamped down. He'd call Walker back at a reasonable hour and see what he wanted. If he could offer help, he would. Nothing more to it.

 

S
AM
THOUGHT
about calling Nathan for days before he finally did. The remembered awkwardness of their last encounter made dialing the number a daunting prospect. But the guy had sounded ragged around
the edges on his message—not much different than he had right after the murder. No new information had come to light about Emma's death. In the few times Sam had gone to the station to ask around, he'd been given the typical “this case is still open” brush-off. Either they had no leads, or the police were still gathering evidence and biding their time.

Even though weeks had passed since he'd seen Nathan, nervous adrenaline kicked in once Sam hit send and the phone started ringing. There was no formal greeting or hello. Instead Nathan launched right in over the din of background noise.

“You called back. I wasn't sure you would.”

“Sorry it took me so long.” He flushed as he thought about what he'd been doing when Nathan originally left the message.

“It's all right. I'm glad you did.”

A car honked in the background. It sounded like Nathan was out of town. Stonebridge didn't bustle anymore.

“It's nothing. So what's up? How are you?”

“Oh, not great. But better since the last time I saw you. I apologize for how I acted, by the way.”

Sam wasn't exactly sure what Nathan was apologizing for—not calling? Avoiding Sam? By now Sam had concluded his hard-on in the pool had made Nathan uncomfortable. Still, he said, “There's no reason for you to apologize.”

Loud construction noise jackhammered through the phone.

“Sorry about the commotion,” said Nathan. “I had to leave town for a couple of days on business, but I'll be back tomorrow. Can you meet?”

“Yeah, sure. Where and when?”

“Eight o'clock at La Fronde. I'll make the reservation.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer someplace a little more casual?” La Fronde had an excellent reputation, but Sam had never been. A five-star French dinner would put him out at least a hundred bucks.

Nathan cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

“My local—the Lucky Star. It's a little more in my price range, if you know what I mean. They have excellent burgers and fries. French fries.”

Nathan didn't laugh at the joke. “If you'd rather, sure, though I was planning on paying, just so you know.”

Fuck. Had he misread this entire situation? Had Nathan asked him on a date?

Ridiculous.

“That's generous of you,” Sam said. “But I'll feel more comfortable at the Star. I don't think I even have anything to wear to such a fancy place.”

“All right, Sam. Eight o'clock tomorrow at the Star. I've got to go. I'll see you then.”

Without another word, the line went dead. Sam stood with his cell phone in his hand, staring at it as though it could explain what had just happened.

He spent the rest of the night scouring the Internet to see if he'd missed any developments in Emma's case over the past couple of weeks. The incident—the murder—had been fading from his mind under the avalanche of his regular worries. It had faded from the news too, it seemed. Nothing turned up. After a few newspaper mentions and an obit that Sam—thankfully—hadn't had to write, the case disappeared from the headlines, replaced by the news du jour.

He leaned back in his desk chair, sighed, and rubbed his temples to ward off an impending headache. Sam's parents' deaths had been accidental, and he still hadn't figured out how to make it stop hurting. He couldn't imagine living with the knowledge that a killer was on the loose, possibly never to be found.

It would be like hell on earth.

 

 

A
T
A
little before eight, Sam left his apartment to head down to the Star, hoping to get there early and station himself before Nathan arrived. Rachel was behind the bar, wearing a black leather vest. She'd streaked her Afro with purple, and it suited her. Sam sauntered up and took a seat.

“Hey, Rach.” He leaned forward and fished his wallet from his back pocket. “I'll take a triple Jack on the rocks.”

“It's Monday. Are you serious?”

“I consider Monday part of the weekend. And anyway, I'm meeting a friend.”

“Oh, Yuri's coming?”

“I'll have you know I have more friends than you and Yuri, thanks very much.”

“Oooh.” Her eyes went devilish. “A date, then.”

“It's not a date.” In spite of himself, his cheeks warmed.

Rachel arched an eyebrow and grabbed a pint glass. “You get Guinness.”

The place was pretty quiet, but he recognized a couple of guys sitting at one of the high tops beyond the bar as friends of Cowboy Boots. One of them gave him the eye and smiled. Maybe old CB had given him a good report.

By the time Nathan showed up, Sam had been nursing his beer so long it had grown warm. He knocked back the last sip with a grimace and stood up to face him.

Nathan looked like he'd come straight from work. He wore one of his trim-fitting suits and a dark tie. The whole ensemble made him stick out like a sore thumb at the Star.

“Hi.” Nathan extended his hand. “Sorry I'm a little late. It's good to see you, Sam.”

“You too.”

They shook, and Sam relished the warm touch. He wondered if he imagined Nathan brushing his palm gently as their hands released. Surely the gesture hadn't been intentional, yet the mere fantasy of Nathan's interest made Sam's heart speed up.

“You want to grab a table?” he asked to settle himself.

“Sure. Can I get you another?” Nathan gestured toward the empty glass and beckoned to Rachel. She did a slight double take, a flash of recognition passing over her face before she schooled her expression and cleared her throat.

“Nathan, this is a friend of mine, Rachel Mayer. Rachel, Nathan Walker.”

Unlike most of the men in the place, Nathan kept his gaze on Rachel's face as they shook hands and he placed his order.

“My condolences to you and your family,” Rachel said. “I hope they find the asshole who did it, and he gets what he deserves.”

“Thank you.”

“This round's on me.” She looked again from Sam to Nathan. Sam could see the wheels turning, but he didn't have time to explain. He followed Nathan away from the bar to a quieter corner of the room. The lights dimmed as they sat, and Sam contemplated murdering his best friend.

“Sorry about that back there,” Sam said. “Rachel's a little on the outspoken side.”

Nathan shrugged as he stretched his long legs under the table. “No apologies needed. I appreciate her directness, to be honest. Everyone else is afraid to talk about it.”

Sam nodded, rubbing his finger over a bead of condensation on his glass.

“That's one of the reasons I asked you to meet with me,” Nathan said. “I confess I have an ulterior motive.”

“I figured. I know there aren't any leads so far.”

“And you're a reporter. So tell me what that means—months without an arrest.”

“It's not good.”

“I want this case solved. For Emma,” Nathan added quietly. The flash of fresh, real pain across his face cut like a blade deep into Sam's gut.

“So, how can I help?”

“You can tell me, for starters, what happened that day. I remember—well, I don't remember much, aside from seeing you down at the station. But you'd been to the house, before….”

Sam took another sip of beer, relieved Nathan wasn't going to bring up the swimming and ensuing awkwardness. Good. “It's hard to remember all the details.”

“Try.”

While the conversation he'd had with Emma had grown foggy with time, he still remembered the gist of it. Nathan might not like what he had to say, but if it would help, he had a right to know.

“We had a bit of a strange conversation, to tell you the truth. Pretty personal. She seemed to be having a rough day.”

“How personal?” Nathan leaned forward.

“Well, it was a little vague. She asked what I would do if I ever found out someone I cared about did something terrible. Whether I would forgive them.”

Sam kept his eyes down given the awkward nature of the conversation, but the silence from the other side of the table compelled him to glance up. Nathan had gone rigid and pale. His dark eyes focused on a place beyond Sam's head, as though he were seeing something horrible played out in detail, like a man caught in the midst of a revelation—or a memory. The dull noise of other bar conversations faded, and an uncomfortable pressure squeezed at Sam's chest.

Once-clear facts started to blur and twist. Sam had been so convinced of Nathan's innocence the night at the police station, and then later during their nightly swims, that he hadn't even bothered to consider the alternative. Nathan's shock and grief didn't rule out the possibility he'd killed Emma. Out of pity, empathy, or something else entirely, Sam had let that possible reality slip away, and now it stared back at him through the hollows of Nathan's eyes. Guilt.

Sam's thoughts must have been plain as day, because Nathan's face changed, the emotion traded for a wary expression.

Instead of speaking, Nathan knocked back the rest of his drink, squinting his eyes shut as he did so. When he finished, he stood and asked “another?” before going to the bar.

It didn't add up. Nathan had been devastated when Sam took him back to his apartment, and since the last time they'd seen each other, he'd obviously been having a rough time. And what about his obsession with bringing the killer to justice? If he were guilty, he wouldn't be pressing for further investigation now that the police had lost the thread. Or would he?

That thought kept Sam in his seat once Nathan came back with two more drinks—whiskey, this time.

He got straight to the point. “You think I did it?”

“I admit the thought crossed my mind.”

“I don't blame you.” Nathan sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I'd probably think the same thing, in your position. But I want you to know, I didn't. I would never—Listen,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Whatever was wrong between Emma and me, I would never have hurt her. What you told me threw me for a loop.”

“So she
was
talking about you? I'm sorry, and I don't mean to pry into your personal life, but I'm totally lost here.”

Nathan seemed to be considering Sam's words as they stared at one another. The intensity of the moment stretched for several beats, until Nathan folded his hands on the table and leaned even closer. “I'm sorry I'm being cryptic. Let's say I have a solid alibi for the night Emma was killed, and it's not what you think. Not exactly, anyway.”

“You weren't having an affair?” The liquor burned a path down Sam's esophagus, warming his stomach. He resisted the urge to knock back the entire drink in one go.

“Honestly, I can't say any more.”

Sam couldn't stop himself. “James Bond fan?”

At that moment one of the guys from earlier, the friend of Cowboy Boots, decided to make his presence known. “Hey,” he said to Sam, standing a little too close to the table for friendly conversation. “Don't I know you?”