Double Indemnity (18 page)

Alex rolled her eyes. “Dad's okay, but I think my mother's still in denial. She keeps telling me ‘one day you'll meet a nice Jewish boy' and this whole ‘phase' will be over.”

“Ah, that's one good thing about not having parents,” Sam said. “No one to dismiss your sexuality as a phase. No one who matters, anyway.”

“Oh, Sam.” Alex's mouth quivered. She drew her dark brown eyebrows together. “It must be hard for you. The holidays. I forget, sometimes.”

Thanksgiving was only a couple of days away, and Sam had been doing his best to avoid remembering. “It's okay. I'm used to it by now.” He finished the last of his beer and glanced around, looking for distraction. If everyone else was getting laid, he might as well scope out the scene.

Unfortunately however, pickings were slim. The place was filled with couples, mostly straight, as well as a huge gaggle of women out for a bachelorette party. There were two guys sitting at the other end of the bar, but one of them was eyeing up the prettiest girl in the group, and the other was… Rich Petersen.

“What the hell is that asshole doing in here?” Sam said aloud.

“Who?” Alex perked up.

“Rich Petersen. Went to high school with him. He's a cop now.”

Petersen seemed to sense the attention. He looked up from his beer. In the split second before recognition kicked in and the familiar sneer plastered across his face, Sam saw something else in his expression. It could have been regret or maybe sadness. It didn't last long enough to decipher. Still, though, the guy looked awful enough for Sam to know something was up.

“Hang tight, will you?” he told Alex before grabbing his fresh beer and sauntering over to where Petersen sat brooding into his.

“You're in my local, Richie.”

“I didn't see your name on the door.” Up close he looked worse than he had across the bar. A patchy sort of five-o'clock shadow covered his flabby jowls, and underneath the black hairs, his skin had taken on a sallow, grayish tinge.

“I'm only curious as to why you're here, is all. Just making a little friendly conversation.”

The guy who'd been sitting next to Petersen had moved on to the bachelorette party, so Sam commandeered his seat.

“I needed a drink, but if I'd have known it was a fag bar, I'd have stayed away.”

Sam clucked. “Now, now. See, I think you're getting defensive, since I know you were looking for me.” It was a long shot, but Petersen's movements—the way he wouldn't quite meet Sam's eyes, his uncomfortable shifting—pinged Sam's instincts.

“I was not looking for you.”

Something inside Sam made him hesitate. He'd promised Nathan he'd stay out of the spotlight, but Nathan was away doing God knows what with God knows who. And this was an opportunity he might not get again.

“It's okay, Rich.” Sam took a deep breath. He'd made his decision. “I was there, you know. I saw you after you got back from the bridge.”

Petersen's jaw dropped open. “What do you mean, you saw me?” There was a panicked edge to his voice, but the next time he spoke, he managed to suppress it. “You couldn't have been there.”

“I was. Got picked up for drunk and disorderly, and I was in the tank.”

Petersen sniffed. “Figures.”

“We all have our bad nights.”

Petersen's large jowls trembled. “So you saw me all shook up and you came over here to rub it in. Real classy, Flynn.”

“That's not why I came over.” Sam let his voice drop an octave, so no one around could hear. “I know what it's like to see something terrible like that. How it feels when a person slips away right in front of your eyes.” It was difficult not to let the emotion of the memory pull him under, and it felt even worse to exploit his recollection of his mother's last moments for the likes of Petersen. But it would be worth it on the off chance Petersen knew something.

Petersen seemed just as startled at the sincerity. He didn't rebuff Sam, but he didn't say anything else either. Then, finally, “I saw her jump. I tried to stop her.” Like he still couldn't quite believe it.

“Did she say anything to you before she did it?”

Petersen's face turned a furious red. “I see what this is about. Well, you can look somewhere else for your damn story, because it ain't gonna be me.”

Sam held his hands up and slid off the stool. He'd obviously touched a nerve—the question was why. “All right, Petersen, relax. There's no need to get angry.”

“If you don't get out of my face this minute, Flynn, I swear.”

Rachel arched her eyebrow curiously when he rejoined the group. Petersen stormed out almost immediately after the confrontation, not even acknowledging Sam and the rest as he passed.

“What was that all about?” Rachel asked. “You were all nicey-nice, which was weird, not gonna lie. And then, all of a sudden, he's about to tear your head off.”

“He saw Patricia Feldman kill herself. I was asking him about it and I pissed him off.”

“Patricia? He was the one who saw her?” Alex's voice trembled.

“Yeah. Hey,” Sam turned to her. “You're the one who used to babysit the Feldman kids, right? Rachel said you knew Patricia pretty well.”

“I did. Yeah.”

“I'm only wondering, and there's no way you can know for sure, but did you see any signs, anything that said she might be suicidal?”

She shook her head. “No. Not even after Mark died. I mean, she was upset about it for sure, inconsolable even. But she loved her kids so much. That's why I've had such a hard time believing it. The Patricia I knew would never have left them behind.”

 

 

S
AM
STARED
at the frozen turkey dinner on the counter. The gravy resembled baby vomit, and the tiny ice crystals on the corn guaranteed the thing would taste of freezer. Still, it was better than nothing. He popped it in the microwave, then cracked his knuckles and sat down at the table where, for the past couple of days, he'd been considering every possible outlandish scenario. The funny feeling that had blossomed in his gut the night he'd confronted Petersen at the bar had taken over like a weed, consuming his sleep as well as his waking hours. He opened his word doc and reread the list.
Blackmail, murder, adultery.
Maybe it seemed like the synopsis of a
Law and Order
episode, but the stories weren't adding up. In less than six months, three prominent and respected citizens had either killed themselves or been murdered, and Sam would be damned if there wasn't a connection between all the cases. He just had to find out what it was.

Too bad he seemed to be on his own.

Two weeks had passed with no word from Nathan. For all Sam knew, he really had taken off for good. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did, and it only got worse with each passing day. Especially when the delayed realization hit him—Nathan could actually be injured, or worse.

The microwave dinged, breaking the silence and Sam's morbid concentration. His stomach rumbled as he peeled back the thin plastic film that covered his crappy Thanksgiving feast, which only looked slightly more appetizing when hot.

He forked a bubbling bite into his mouth, burning his tongue in
the process, and continued scrolling through the massive archive of
newspaper clippings that described Feldman's myriad
accomplishments—charity work, infrastructure repairs, prison reform. The Feldmans had a massive amount of wealth and their own foundation to distribute funds to those in need. Maybe if Mark Feldman had lived, he would have made a difference in this town. Which left questions. And several possible smoking guns.

Sam blew on his next bite to save his mouth some pain. His phone buzzed on the table and he grabbed it, still chewing. As powerful as it had been, his appetite vanished when he saw the unknown number. He swallowed the salty mush and answered.

“Hello?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Sam. How are you?”

Oddly formal for a man who'd rubbed his neck for almost half an hour the last time they'd seen each other.

“I'm fine. Uh… how are you?”

“Back. For a while, anyway. Sorry I didn't call earlier, but I got in late last night.”

“Did you have a nice trip?” He tried to keep the question neutral, but a note of sarcasm slipped in.

“I did what I had to do” was the cryptic and not-very-comforting answer. Sam decided he needed to stop acting like a jealous boyfriend. There were new developments to consider, and Nathan's input was far more important than his own misguided ego.

“Good. Some things have happened while you've been gone. I think I have a theory about Feldman's death, but I'd like to talk it over with you first—”

“Wait a second, Sam. Hang on. What's this about Feldman? You're not still working on the case?”

“Of course I am.”

“But I said—”

“Yeah. I know what you said, but I've got this pesky habit of thinking for myself, and you know how I feel about this case. I'm part of this now, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

A sigh. Sam could almost see Nathan rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. He didn't like to be contradicted, and suddenly Sam really, really wanted to see what Nathan would do in the right situation, with the right sort of contrary man.

“So, what do you think—” Sam started when a knock at the door surprised him. He frowned and turned toward the sound. “Hang on a sec. Someone's here.”

Holding the phone to his chest, he walked to the front door and peered through the keyhole. Nathan. Sam's stomach swarmed with butterflies, the likes of which he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

He opened the door. “How did you get inside without buzzing?”

“I'm an FBI agent, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Surprised?” Nathan's eyes crinkled at the corners. He wore a faded button-down under his leather jacket. His smooth face and damp hair were evidence he'd recently showered and shaved. The anxious knot in Sam's gut started to unwind. He opened the door wider.

“New phone?”

“A buddy of mine hooked me up. One of the perks of the job.”

Nathan hesitated a beat before stepping into the apartment. He filled up the space with his tall, lean presence, and it hit Sam again how much he'd missed him. The coffee table between them made things awkward. It was a barrier Sam wasn't sure he should cross. Nathan's eyes traveled over him, cataloging his body in a concerned way, as if to see all the pieces still fit together. Sam did the same to Nathan.

“So,” Sam said to break the tension. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. You? It smells like….”

“Frozen turkey dinner. Yeah. I had half of one, but I'd much rather go for a burger, if you're interested.”

“Is anything open?”

“The Star is.”

Sam ran to the bathroom to make sure he looked relatively presentable. His cheeks were flushed and his dirty-blond hair stood up at all angles, so he used some cool water to tame it and splashed some on his face for good measure. He needed to get himself under control and stop acting like a teenager.

Nathan stood waiting by the door when Sam rejoined him. “Is it cold out?” Sam asked, shrugging into his coat.

Nathan gave him a faint smile. “They say it looks like snow.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “I hate the winter.”

“I know.”

The two of them joined a surprisingly gregarious crowd at the Star. As one of the only places in the neighborhood open on Thanksgiving, the bar had attracted a motley crew of misfits and expats, as well as a group of hipsters protesting the holiday in support of Native American rights. Rachel had taken the day off to spend with Alex since Chanukah had already begun, so Nathan and Sam placed their orders with the relief bartender and got a pitcher of beer for the table—the same one they'd sat at during their first visit.

It didn't feel much like Thanksgiving, but that was fine by Sam. His leg grazed Nathan's under the table, and he barely resisted the urge to press closer. He had no idea why Nathan had come, but suddenly all of the details of the case seemed unimportant.

Nathan sipped his beer slowly, watching Sam over the rim of his pint glass, and Sam did the same. He didn't want to get drunk and risk ruining this.

“So, I suppose you can't tell me where you were.”

Nathan shook his head. “Sorry.”

“So damn mysterious.”

“Am I?” Nathan chuckled.

“Why are you laughing? You are.”

“You're probably the first person who's ever thought of me as mysterious.”

“I doubt that's true. Most people would never say it.” A heady, reckless feeling bubbled inside Sam. Something was changing between them.

“But you're not most people?” Nathan raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly.”

“I'd like some examples.”

“Examples of how you're mysterious?” Somehow they'd started flirting, Sam realized—that was the shift. It wasn't one-sided this time either. Naked amusement and interest shone in Nathan's eyes.

“Yeah. Out of curiosity.”

Sam licked the foam off his upper lip and set down his beer. “Well, for starters, you are incredibly vague about everything.”

“I have to be. It's my job. That doesn't mean I'm personally mysterious.”

“You're evasive about yourself too.” Sam paused as a server brought their food. His burger smelled delicious, but excitement had replaced hunger. He waited while Nathan squirted some ketchup—a lot—onto his burger and took a bite.

“Mmm.”

“Good?” The word came out sounding husky. Sam held his breath as Nathan chewed with obvious enjoyment.

“Very.”

Sam picked up a french fry and forced it down. He decided watching Nathan eat could be a new favorite hobby.