8. Tallus

“Ten letters. The second and sixth letters are N. Artistic gymnastics event.” Kitty Lavender, my eighty-something-year-old coworker, hovered a sharpened pencil over the newest crossword puzzle we’d been working on. We went through a book a month. It was a great way to pass the time during lulls, and the records department wasn’t exactly a happening place most days.

Kitty spent three afternoons a week semi-working. Mostly, she showed up, tidied unnecessarily, gossiped, and did her puzzles. Her refusal to fully retire was likely more to do with loneliness than anything. Kitty liked a social atmosphere and could initiate a conversation with anyone who happened to stop by. She knew every person in the building by name, and enough about their personal life, anyone would think she was part of their family. I enjoyed the company. Records clerk would be a dreary job without her presence. She was a wealth of information, and her endless stories gave me life.

Plus, I was convinced she was a witch.

“Artistic gymnastics event.” I hummed, clucking my tongue. “Umm…”

I paused the hunt I’d been doing on the two editions of the Toronto Star Beth had linked to Olivia. When Diem had shuffled me out of his office two days ago, I knew he didn’t plan to involve me in the case anymore, but I was invested. I wasn’t giving up, so I’d paid for my own subscription to the newspaper—which put a painful dent in my grocery budget—and proceeded to investigate what the two editions had in common. I would find answers if it killed me, and when I did, I would present them to Diem.

“Oh, I’ve got it,” Kitty exclaimed. “Uneven bars.”

She penciled the answer in the correct spot. Kitty rarely needed my help. She was far better at the puzzles, but I appreciated her attempt to include me.

“Oh, here’s one for you. You should know this with all the time you spend at that gas station place. Eleven letters. A cocktail with peach schnapps and orange juice.”

I snorted. “It’s called Gasoline. It’s a nightclub, not a gas station.”

“I know what it is. They serve drinks, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the answer?”

Kitty must have thought I spent all my time off doing nothing more than dancing and partying at gay nightclubs. I considered the clue and jotted a few drink ideas on the notepaper I’d been using. I counted the letters and eliminated a few. “It might be fuzzy navels, except that one’s plural, so maybe not. Try screwdriver.”

“Are those drinks?”

“Some of the best. I’ve had many a hangover from peach schnapps. Trust me.”

Admonishingly shaking her head, Kitty penciled a word in the book. “Let’s go with screwdriver.”

Before she could toss me another clue, I interjected. “Hey, Kitty Kat. What can you tell me about Diem Krause?”

Kitty had wheeled her office chair into the front room of the records department. She glanced to where I leaned against the counter, fiddling on the computer, acting as though it was the most flippant question and wasn’t of any importance. In truth, the burly man made me curious. He was six and a half feet of misery, mystery, and muscle.

I hated to admit it, but I liked it when he paid me attention. I liked it when he couldn’t take his eyes off me and tripped on his words. He was brooding and prickly, but when we’d been forced to hide in Olivia’s office closet at the gala, I saw beneath the surface and realized Diem’s struggles were no joke. The man had not been okay. He’d had a visceral reaction to the tight space and physical contact. I’d always assumed he had issues, but I got the sense Diem was far more damaged than I realized.

And that awareness made me feel bad for judging him on our one frigid fuck.

“Krause?” Kitty set her puzzle book on her lap and peered through her stylish cat-eye glasses. I couldn’t tell the color of the frames—they appeared as a dull grayish blue in my visual spectrum—but I had a feeling they were outside of the realm of something so neutral. Regardless, their style paired fittingly with the patterned muumuu and intricate swan-shaped barrette holding back Kitty’s wild white curls. “Now, why are you asking after Mr. Krause?”

“No reason. He came in a few weeks back looking for you. It was your day off. We got to chatting, and I was curious who he was.” Okay, not weeks, more like months, but whatever. She didn’t need to know specifics.

Kitty narrowed her eyes. “You chatted with Diem Krause?”

I laughed. “Well, I chatted, and he grunted and snarled. When he found out you weren’t here, he left.”

It was a load of shit, and Kitty knew it. Yes, I’d met Diem when he’d come looking for Kitty at the end of last year. In fact, our first meeting was an embarrassing debacle that included me falling off the counter while trying to change a light bulb and landing in Diem’s arms with my dick pressed against his face. Not one of my finer moments. A hell of an icebreaker though.

But again, Kitty didn’t need those details.

About how I’d wound up bullying my way into his case.

Or how I’d caved and let him fuck me.

Kitty was a great friend, but she wasn’t Memphis. He got all the juicy details. Kitty could have the PG version if and when it was necessary.

“Diem was a patrol officer for District 14 for a while. He had a few issues with his partner and superiors, so they took him off the streets and moved him here. Gave him a desk job for a while. It didn’t go over well. No one should try to contain Diem. Anyhoo, there was a kerfuffle one day, and Diem had a few choice words, did some property damage, left, and never came back.

“Don’t get me wrong. He’s a sweetheart. I call him my cuddle bear even though his hugs are like squeezing a corpse still in rigor. That’s not his fault either.” Kitty tsked. “The poor man has been through hell and back, but no one around here empathized with his struggles or recognized his steps to better himself. Losing him was a shame if you ask me.

“I knew his grandmother for a time back in the nineties. Sweet lady. I met her at a knitting convention in Waterloo and found out she didn’t live too far from me. A whole group of us used to get together on Saturday afternoons, drink tea, share gossip, and work on whatever projects we had on the go. Hazel’s her name. Last I heard, she was suffering from dementia. Not sure how she’s doing or if she’s walked the golden bridge outta this place.”

Kitty sighed. “My cuddle bear is close to his nana. If she passed, it could set him back. I should give him a call and see how Hazel’s doing. Now, why do you want to know about Mr. Krause anyway?”

Cuddle bear?

“No reason.”

Kitty wasn’t buying it and pinned me with a look over the top of her glasses. I busied myself on the computer again, continuing my search, feigning indifference. I figured Diem had a slew of shit in his background, but Kitty confirmed it. My curious nature made me want to ask what she meant by “hell and back” because I had a feeling my aging coworker had all the details about Diem’s past. She was a wealth of information; It was baffling how she could retain so much. The woman knew every intricate detail about nearly every case filed in our massive records storage room. I’d quizzed her many times and only managed to stump her once or twice. When it came to people, she was the same.

“You aren’t looking to have a fling with Diem, are you?”

I choked on my spit. “Excuse me, what now?”

“Oh, come off it. I was born at night, but not last night. You’re both gentlemen of an age who like swordplay. I’m not judging. If you want to knock your weapons together for fun, you should.”

“Our weapons? Wait… swords? What are you…”

“Oh, don’t be coy. You know exactly what I’m saying. Belly-bumpin’? Dinky-ticklin’? I’m an old woman, Tallus. I don’t know what you kids call it these days. Is that what you’re about with my cuddle bear?”

“Did you say dinky-tickling? No, don’t answer that.”

“I certainly did.”

“Kitty, I love you dearly, but I’m not sure how to respond. Can we go back in time about ten minutes or so and pretend I never asked?”

“So you aren’t interested in Mr. Krause in that way?”

“No.”

Unless…

No. The answer is no.

But the man had a hell of a sword. If he wasn’t so frigid, maybe…

No!

Kitty was astute, and I got the sick sense she could read my mind, so I tried to empty it of all thoughts of Diem and our exchange. I focused on the computer, hoping she would end the conversation I’d inadvertently started.

Finally, after much staring, she returned to her puzzle. “Four letter word. Outback birds… Oh, never mind. I know that one.” She bent over the book and penciled the answer.

Seriously though, cuddle bear? That was the last thing I would call Diem. An oxymoron if there ever was one.

With the pressure off, I continued searching the newspapers. My goal was to make a list of every article in the first one—along with a brief summary if the headlines weren’t obvious—and then go through the second edition to see if any of the topics matched. Then, it would be a matter of deciding which articles might relate to Beth, Olivia, and Noah. In theory, it seemed simple. In reality, it was giving me a headache.

Kitty continued with the crossword, sharing clues out loud but mostly finding the answers herself. Every so often, she would veer into random conversation.

Although I had plenty of other work I should have been doing, I wasn’t worried. On the days Kitty wasn’t in, I spent time reorganizing the crypt of a storage room or transferring paper files to digital. When she came to work, I felt it was my duty to keep her company.

It was after four when I completed my inventory of both newspapers. Once I’d eliminated world events, sports, and other clearly irrelevant topics, I was left with four that stood out:

An investigation into the downtown area’s prostitution problem. The follow-up article claimed there had been several instances of unnamed working women being dropped off at hospital emergency rooms after suffering abuse. The police claimed to be cracking down on the problem.

A local politician’s reputation was being dragged through the dirt after his scorned wife had released videos of him engaged in sexual acts with his secretary. How utterly unoriginal. The follow-up article claimed the same man might have been involved with several women, including an underage girl he’d taken on as a co-op student.

A university professor at York was under investigation for inappropriate transactions with female students. The follow-up article mentioned the professor might be charged with other crimes that had recently come to light—something to do with drug trafficking.

The final piece I’d highlighted was an ongoing protest at an independent bookstore. The bookstore hosted a drag story time event once a month where popular drag queens from the area came in and read books to children. How cool was that? The protesters needed to get a life.

I couldn’t see how any of the articles tied back to Noah, Olivia, or Beth, but it was a solid start. To add bulk to my knowledge—impressing Diem was the key—I researched the four events in more depth and took random notes in case there were important details the articles didn’t cover.

Shortly before five, Kitty packed up her puzzle book and found her light jacket, ready to head home. Her daughter, Laurie, came to pick her up most days after finishing her workday at the courthouse. Whenever she couldn’t come, I drove Kitty home myself.

“I’m out for the day.” Kitty fit a plastic rain cap over her curls, tucking flyaways underneath.

“I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Most definitely.” She wandered to the door, hiking her sagging stockings as she went, but stopped and turned back before leaving. “If you see my cuddle bear, tell him to call me. I’d like to know how Hazel’s doing.”

Kitty shook a finger before I could interject and question why she thought I might see Diem. “And don’t go telling me any bullshit lies. I know what you’re up to.” She pointed to the computer, where I’d been busy with non-work-related stuff all day. “If he gives you a hard time, you tell him Kitty Kat said to smarten up and listen for a change. He could do worse than you for a partner, and I mean that two ways.”

I gawped. “How do you do that?”

Kitty winked and headed out the door without answering.

Only then did the second implication sink in. She meant we would make a good couple. That was laughable. If I wanted to date—which I didn’t—Diem would be the last man to fit the bill.

At five thirty, I locked the office door and sat back at the computer, puzzling over how to approach the situation. Should I call Diem and present my findings? If I did, he could take the information and dismiss me. Who knew? Maybe he’d figured it out on his own, and I was embarrassingly behind.

Or I could go to his office and bully my way back onto the case and see what he’d learned over the past two days. Two heads were better than one. It was time he got over himself and let me help.

The latter sounded like the best choice. Less chance of being ignored. Higher chance of being rejected, but I’d deal with that if and when it happened.

I arrived at Diem’s office shortly after six, and there was no answer when I knocked. Since there was no peephole, I didn’t get the feeling he was avoiding me either.

I went with a modified plan B. I called him, but I had no intention of giving up my information unless we were face-to-face. I would dangle a carrot in front of him until the beast caved.

The phone rang six times, and I was prepared for voicemail to kick on when Diem answered, snapping with vitriol, “It’s not a good fucking time,” before I had a chance to open my mouth.

“Well, hello to you too, cuddle bear. You’re more like a scorpion. Anyhow, make it a good time, Guns, because I might have information.”

A male voice shouted in the background. A familiar deep-throated growl resonated through the line. With a level tone and gritted teeth, Diem repeated, “It’s not. A good. Time. I have to—”

Something crashed, and Diem yelled, “Maybe you’d have hit me if you weren’t so fucking drunk, asshole. Go on. Try again. I fucking dare ya.”

The other party yelled a response, but it was muffled. Another crash came through the line.

“Put it the fuck down. I’m leaving,” Diem shouted.

A door slammed, and Diem’s breathing turned labored like he was jogging. Wind cut across the line. A second later, another slam, possibly a car door. “I have to go.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Just fucking peachy.” Then he hung up before I could say more.

I stared at the phone for a solid minute before returning it to my pocket. Unsure what to do, I glanced from Diem’s office door to the stairwell at the other end of the hallway. Did I take off or wait for him to come back? Something told me he would be in a ripe mood, and my chances of coercing him into letting me help would be slim. Despite the level of violence I’d heard on the phone, I wasn”t afraid of his temper, but out of respect, I figured Diem might need a minute to cool off.

Besides, I was hungry. I called my mother instead and invited myself for dinner because I didn’t get paid until Friday, my fridge was empty, and my bank account was in overdraft.

“Hey, Mom. What’s for dinner?” I asked when she answered.