34. Diem

34

Diem

I didn’t sleep. After leaving Tallus’s, my inner demons took over, and I didn’t have the strength to fight. I regretfully ended up at a twenty-four-hour convenience store and bought a pack of cigarettes. At home, sitting on a concrete barrier outside the building, I smoked through far too many as my mind spun over details of the evening, none of it case-related.

In one week, I’d crossed a handful of bridges I’d convinced myself I would never be able to cross. I’d kissed a man, brought him to my bed, and we’d shared a shower. Okay, Tallus had been the initiator of all three, but I’d willingly participated. I hadn’t told him no. I hadn’t walked away. However clumsy and inadequate, I was part of it.

But it didn’t mean I was suitable boyfriend material.

It didn’t mean I could enact the level of intimacy Tallus sought.

I wasn’t. I couldn’t.

I lit another cigarette and checked the time. Six thirty. Traffic was picking up. The sun had risen, crisp and bright. Dew blanketed the world. It was damp. The humidity from the previous week was gone. A hint of fall hung in the air with a morning chill. A few pedestrians, dressed in business attire, passed me by, chatting on cell phones or listening to music so loud it leaked through their earbuds.

Among the exhaust fumes and pollution, I could smell the syrupy breakfast choices at McDonald’s down the street.

It was too early for the construction workers to start their day, so it was still quiet. Although the city had finished whatever they were doing on my road, they had started a new project the next block over. It was interminable. Year after year. Some projects never saw completion.

The scaffolding outside my building’s front entrance would forever remain. Whatever plans the owners had made must have fallen through. It had been years since I’d seen anyone from their crew.

At seven, I made a phone call, drawing on Tallus’s jovial, friendly nature, so hopefully, I could convince the person on the other end to do me one last favor.

“I’ve got your golden ticket, but there’s a catch.”

We made plans to meet for an early lunch. I stubbed out my cigarette and headed for the Jeep. I didn’t want to call my therapist and make extra appointments, so I headed for the gym, hoping I wouldn’t wheeze through a much-needed workout. Smoking and cardio had never meshed.

When I was done, I would visit Nana, brush her hair, fix her knitting, and pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Hopefully Dad would be long gone to work by then. Nana wouldn’t understand my problems, so I would keep them to myself. She barely knew who I was anymore, but I took comfort in having her near me.

***

At ten to eleven, I pulled into Casey’s diner near the Toronto Police Headquarters building and scanned the lot. It was busier than I’d have liked, but to be agreeable, I’d refrained from arguing when Doyle had suggested it as a meeting point.

I grabbed an unmarked paper bag from the passenger seat and headed inside. It was a cop joint, and with its proximity to headquarters, it was often filled with detectives from every department. Like today. During my short stint under probation, when I’d worked in the same building as Doyle, I never went to the diner. I’d never fit in.

I was a loner then, and I was a loner now.

The bell chimed, announcing my arrival. A few heads turned to see who had arrived. Inquisitive stares. Judgmental expressions.

My skin itched, but I tamped down my nerves and scanned, finding Doyle alone in a corner booth, focused on his phone. A waitress approached, mid-forties, huge, welcoming smile. I indicated I was meeting someone, grumbled something incoherent, and she winked and headed to another table, coffee pot in hand.

I slid onto the bench across from Doyle, and he glanced up from his phone screen, grinning.

“Krause, my man.”

I grunted, tipping my head in a subtle nod.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.”

“Yeah.”

“Got yourself entwined in a goodie, huh? Need help from the pros?”

I didn’t know how to politely respond, so I stayed silent.

“Where’s your sidekick?” Doyle glanced toward the door.

“Working.”

Before he could ask more questions, the same waitress who’d greeted me at the door sidled up to the table and set down two clean mugs, filling the one in front of Doyle while speaking to me. “Well, ain’t you a handsome fella. New hire?”

“Krause is a consultant,” Doyle said by way of explanation.

I wasn’t, but I didn’t correct him.

“Ah, okay. Well, I’m Vanessa, and you can’t go wrong at Casey’s. Best food in a ten-mile radius. Am I right?” she asked Doyle.

“Believe it. Even Quaid eats here, and that’s saying something.”

Vanessa laughed. “Ain’t that the truth. Are you a coffee drinker, sweetie?” she asked, gesturing to the empty mug.

I grumble-nodded, and without missing a beat, Vanessa filled it with steaming brew, dropping a handful of coffee creamers and tiny milk cups onto the middle of the table. I preferred Dr Pepper for caffeine, but coffee worked in a pinch.

“Sugar’s in the caddy. So where is my grumpy bear today?” she asked Doyle. “I haven’t seen him in a while. He ain’t avoiding me, is he?”

“Nah. He’s working hard. You know him. Eating out is not his favorite pastime.”

“Don’t I know it. You tell him Matthew put grilled salmon on the menu. I know he likes fish.”

“I’ll pass it along. Do you have a complete nutritional breakdown of the meal? You know he’s going to ask.”

Vanessa laughed and slapped Doyle’s shoulder. “Oh stop.”

“It’s true,” he said, laughing along with her.

“You’re trouble. Is Foxy joining you?” Vanessa glanced at the front doors as though expecting someone to walk in at any moment.

“Nope. You won’t see Torin for at least another week or two. He’s on leave.”

“Leave?” Vanessa gasped and clutched her shirt collar as her eyes widened. “Am I calling him Daddy Fox now?”

Doyle’s grin widened. “You are.”

“Oh my goodness. When?”

“August twelfth. He’s taken a month or so off.”

“And why am I just finding out now?”

“Sorry, Nessa. I’ve been busy without him.”

“You send him my love and tell him he has to stop by with the little one. What did he have?”

“Baby girl. Ainsley Madeline. Seven pounds, three ounces. She’s got her mama’s good looks and her daddy’s spunky attitude.”

I watched the conversation as I added cream to my coffee, wishing for all the world I hadn’t needed to call Doyle. The cocky playboy I’d once known had been domesticated in my absence. For whatever reason, as much as I’d never much liked the guy, I was more apt to get along with the rebellious asshole I’d once known than the man across from me who talked about babies and husbands.

Their conversation came to an end. Vanessa left us with menus. An awkward silence filled the air. If I was meant to make friendly chitchat, I didn’t know how.

Luckily, Doyle cut to the chase as he opened a sugar pack. “So, I’ve got a golden ticket,” he sang. “Wanna elaborate?”

Heaving a heavy sigh, I glanced around. “This is off the record. Between you and me.”

“Sounds like someone has been up to no good.”

I grunted and broke down the case, leaving nothing out, stopping only once when Vanessa came to take our orders. Doyle seemed amused at first when I mentioned Tallus’s theory of mind-controlling psychics. But by the time I got to the list of deceased, he sobered.

I ended by placing the paper bag in the middle of the table.

Doyle stared at it for a long time. “Need I remind you what kind of shit you could get into by breaking and entering into a doctor’s office and stealing his files?”

“Save it. I don’t need a fucking lecture.”

Doyle held my gaze a beat, then drew the bag forward, opening it. After visiting Nana, I stopped by Janek’s store and purchased a real bottle of echinacea. As Tallus and I had suspected the previous night, the label on the actual product was not the same.

“I bought these this morning and removed the seal to compare. The pills are different.”

Doyle dumped a few into his hand, shifted them around, then did the same with the fake bottle. Not only were they a different shade of green, but they were also different in size and consistency.

“And you found two garbage bags full?”

“Yes.”

He studied the phony pills for a minute before replacing them in the bottle and setting the paper bag aside. He took a long sip of his coffee. “A few things first.”

Vanessa arrived with our food, so he stopped talking, making friendly chitchat with her instead. Once she was gone, Doyle snagged the saltshaker and covered his fries in a thick, snowy layer. “ Do not tell my husband how much salt I use. He restricts me at home. Makes me crave it more. I’m pretty sure this is a direct violation of our marriage contract.”

I grunted. In what century was I chummy with Valor?

I’d also ordered a burger and fries but didn’t bother adding extra salt to mine. I ate a couple while waiting for Doyle to elaborate on his few things .

It took several bites of his hamburger before he wiped his fingers on a napkin and cut to the chase. “You dug these out of a garbage bin?”

“Yes.”

“But we don’t have any proof of who put them there.”

“Tallus saw Sally get rid of them.”

“No. Tallus saw Sally get rid of something , but you don’t know that the bags you retrieved are the ones she tossed.”

“No.”

“And other than Tallus being an eyewitness, is there proof she threw garbage from the back of her car into the bin? Parking lot camera?”

“No.”

Doyle ate another bite of his meal, chewed, swallowed, and sipped his coffee. “Okay. Let’s say these pills are straight-up cocaine.”

“They’re not.”

“I know. I mean, let’s say they’re toxic and whoever got rid of them had been distributing them. Let’s say you’re right, and they’re responsible for indirectly killing eleven people over the past sixteen or so months.”

I grunted with acknowledgment.

“What proof do you have that these bottles connect with your psychic or the secretary or her kid, for that matter? You found them dumpster diving. Anyone could have gotten rid of them.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I’m playing devil’s advocate, Krause. Connect the dots for me.”

“Fingerprint them. You’ll get a match for Sally or her kid. I’d bet anything.”

“And Sally and her kid are in the system?”

Probably not.

“Because,” Doyle went on. “As it stands, I have no cause to ask them to come in and be printed for comparison.”

“Wait. The kid was arrested last week for dealing in York Cemetery. If he wasn’t already printed, then there’s your viable reason. He worked for Janek, and the allegedly toxic pills were recovered in Janek’s garbage bin. Drug dealer. Drug.”

“Okay. That’s something. But how does the kid connect with your psychic? His mother was the hypnotist’s receptionist. A man who came and threatened you at knifepoint. These eleven people you told me about were his patients. Any judge would think that’s a better connection than a psychic ex-wife he hasn’t seen in years. Even if Hilty and Rowena used to room with Sally in the eighties while doing a sideshow circus act, it’s all far-fetched. My god, this sounds like a soap opera. How the hell did you get tangled in this?”

“Tallus. I know it wasn’t Hilty. The guy is on my shit list, believe me, but he wasn’t involved. The psychic—”

“Frightened your boyfriend. I get it. You’re angry.”

“He’s not my…”

Doyle smirked when I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know Hilty isn’t involved.”

“But do you? You don’t know exactly how these pills—if they’re anything—got into those people’s hands—if they even did—and you can’t exactly ask them since they’re dead.”

A thought struck. “They aren’t the only ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Over half the people in the stack of files we retrieved are still alive. We could—”

“The stack of files you confiscated illegally by breaking and entering.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter how I got them. The point is, we can still talk to those people. Can you have the substance tested? If it’s fucking ground grass, then the whole thing is fucking pointless anyhow. But if I’m right, and it’s something toxic your lab doesn’t typically test for, it could be the answer to why eleven people are dead.”

“Christ, you swear like my partner.”

“Test it, Doyle. You have the means. I don’t.”

“And if it’s toxic, it would mean rerunning labs on all those people.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a mighty big ask, Krause. I’m unsure I can convince anyone to agree to that expense on a whim.”

“It’s not a fucking whim. If I’m right, it’s murder, and more people are at risk. Do you want your golden ticket or not?”

Doyle grew quiet as he ate. He knew I was right.

“All we need to do is find out what’s in those pills. Maybe the rest won’t matter.” I stuffed a fry into my mouth. “Or maybe it will.”

Vanessa came by to see how we were doing. Maybe she sensed the tension or overheard our raised voices, but her smile was strained.

“Do you do takeout?” I asked, my tone unintentionally snappy.

“Of course. What did you need, sweetie?”

I placed a second order for a turkey club wrap and fries to go, knowing Tallus probably hadn’t eaten since his saltine and peanut butter snack the previous night. Since I was so close to headquarters, I figured I might as well drop off food, or he would have the same insubstantial lunch.

“Do you make lattes?” I asked when Vanessa was about to walk away.

“We sure do.”

“One of those to go when I’m ready, and a peanut butter cookie if you have any. If not, something sweet.”

She winked and said she’d take care of it.

When Vanessa left us alone again, Doyle met my eyes with a knowing smirk.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” Doyle tossed his dirty napkin on his plate. “I’ll have someone test these pills, and we’ll go from there.”

“Thanks.”

“If it’s something toxic, who am I arresting?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“It could take a week or so.”

“I need it sooner.”

Doyle chuckled. “That’s not how it works, my friend. I’ll do my best.”

We finished our meal, and Doyle took off while I waited for Vanessa to wrap up Tallus’s lunch. Was I making excuses to go see him? Maybe. But the man needed to eat something other than crackers.

And we had a case to discuss, not that I’d learned anything new.

Fuck it. I was making excuses.

***

Tallus ate ravenously while I updated him on my meeting with Doyle. Kitty wasn’t in, so he was glad to see me, claiming boredom would put him in an early grave. He talked about a closed case he’d read about while filing. He explained how he and Memphis had made up that morning on the phone. He told me about his mother and stepfather’s trip to Punta Cana in the fall.

The endless chatter was typical Tallus, and I listened, taking him in and wondering how I would walk away when our case was over. He’d done something to me, and I couldn’t deny that our parting would hurt.

“Do we need to contact these other people from Hilty’s files? The living. See if they were offered phony echinacea?” he asked, stabbing a wet finger over the remaining crumbs of his cookie and licking them off. I wanted to be that finger.

“Depends on what Doyle discovers. Over the course of about sixteen months, eleven people died. I’m apt to believe the deaths were rare reactions to whatever’s in those pills, and the majority are unaffected.”

“I agree. I get off at five thirty. We could start by—”

“No.”

Tallus paused his cookie crumb collecting. “No? But I thought—”

“I told Doyle we would wait for the results and back down.”

“Back down, but it’s my case.”

I nodded, cutting my gaze to the counter, hating the dejection on Tallus’s face.

“So… we have to wait?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“However long it takes.”

“And in the interim?”

I shrugged. “Nothing more to do.”

He stared dumbstruck for a long time before uttering a quiet, “Oh.”

The following moments were filled with uncomfortable silence, and I had the distinct feeling we were thinking the same thing.

It meant time apart. It meant no more ridiculous leads to chase. No more late nights tossing around absurd theories. No more spontaneous moments of connection. I’d begun to crave those moments more than I cared to admit. It was back to our regularly scheduled programs. I had other cases I’d been ignoring. Tallus had his job. We couldn’t be more than what we were, so it was time to say goodbye and live our lives.

Separately.

I rapped my knuckles on the counter and backed up a step. “I’ll call you when I hear from Doyle.”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting, I guess.” Tallus wore contacts that day. His glasses would need to be repaired. Again. It meant his hazel eyes stood out, and I didn’t miss their silent message.

Unless you want to see me sooner , they said. Unless you want more. Please want more.

But it was hopeless. Even if I wanted to pursue a relationship, it wasn’t possible. People like Tallus weren’t meant for people like me, and the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him.

I left with regret, shame, and a heavy dose of sadness weighing heavy on my shoulders.

Since I couldn’t come up with a viable excuse to see Tallus again that didn’t involve a middle-of-the-night hookup, it was a long, lonely eight days before Doyle called with answers.