CHAPTER 20
Dylan
After we’d finished on the pool table, I’d politely recused myself to put on some clothes and go speak with the bartender.
“Did I miss anything?” Charlie asked while laying on the couch in the back office.
“Everything is taken care of,” I said.
“I guess I’d better come out. You would think that one would get used to having a hangover after the first couple hundred.”
I chuckled and returned to the bar, where I found Zoe fully clothed and sitting at the counter as if we hadn’t just been intertwined in romantic embraces. She sipped thoughtfully at her scotch, pausing to stare into the glass, as if reading tea leaves.
The grimy old dude returned to his post behind the bar, and promptly plopped into a stool and laid his head down on the sticky surface. Some service.
I moved to join Zoe at the bar, easing myself into the uncomfortable bar stool, knowing full well that she might not like what came next.
“Zoe,” I began. “I wish we could spend the night together. Maybe driving out in my car, sitting in the flat and lookin’ up at all the stars and the moon. That would be a blissful evening.” I cleared my throat and continued. “But, as you know, I have a kid, and I’ve gotta get home to him.”
She lowered her head and ran a tongue over her lips. I thought I saw water forming at the corners of her eyes, but that might’ve been my imagination.
“Is this the part,” she asked grimly, “where you tell me you regret everything that happened, and that it’s ‘not fair,’ and that we can’t keep doing this? Because if that’s what this is, just say it.”
“No, no,” I rushed to say, “that’s not it at all.” I dropped my voice. “I don’t regret a single thing we did. Every moment of it was perfect.”
That brought a smile to her face. “Really?”
“Really. But, as much as I’d like to stay with you, the biggest thing in my life is Danny, and he’s gotta come first. I haven’t been spending enough time with him, and he’s a great kid, who deserves better than an absent dad.”
I watched Zoe consider this, and ultimately decide I was telling the truth. “Okay,” she agreed. “Go take care of Danny.”
“Thanks,” I replied, and leaned in close. She arched her neck up, waiting for a kiss to land on her lips, but I denied her.
“Why not?” she whispered. “Are you sure you’re not regretting anything?”
“Nah. Just wanna make sure I leave you hungry for next time.” I winked, turned on my heel and walked out of O’Reilly’s.
The next morning, I awoke in a good mood. A really, really good mood. Sure, I’d had to leave early to take care of Danny, but what came before was — you know. Pretty awesome. And when I got home Danny ran into my arms and kissed and hugged me. And, to cap it all off, my mom had made roast beef.
I’d found myself laying in bed, minutes before sleep, thinking about how lucky I was. It had been a long time since I’d thought myself lucky, or since anyone in the community had looked upon me with a feeling besides pity. But I could feel my course shifting, partly through fate, and partly through the conscious efforts I’d made to piece my life back together.
Finally, things were looking up.
I moseyed on down to the station that morning, driving my truck at a swelteringly slow ten miles per hour, cruising under blue skies and dazzling snow. I whistled a jaunty prairie tune. I pulled into the station regretfully, thinking about how nice it would’ve been to spend this beautiful day with my son, or Zoe, or even the two of them together.
I shocked myself with the last thoughts. First, I was always eager to go to work, it gave me a purpose, and stability. Second… was I already thinking about introducing Zoe to Danny? Could that be? Realistically, I barely knew her. And yet, I knew the parts of her that couldn’t be spoken aloud. Didn’t that mean more than some life stats? Besides, she’d like Danny. I could just feel it.
The clock on my dashboard said five to eight, and I realized it was time to hustle. I parked quickly, locked the car and went inside the station. As per usual, it smelled of mothballs and fresh coffee. Tom was waiting in the lobby, which was definitely not usual, he never left his desk if he could help it.
“Tom,” I said, a small but persistent worry dawning. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he replied reassuringly, but continued. “Maybe lets us two step into my office.”
“Okay,” I agreed, and allowed him to escort me back through the rows of desks and into his private office.
We’d spent plenty of afternoons in here, so I was familiar with the red leather armchair in the corner behind the desk, the one with the brass fixings, which had probably been passed down through generations of staunch police officers. If you looked closely, you could almost make out the different indentations from where each person had shifted to find their comfortable spot. The arms had been worn down with worrying fingers.
Tom groaned as he sat down in the chair. His back had been going to shit for the last twenty years, but he didn’t like to talk about it. Not very manly, at least by his obscenely high standards. Me, personally, I thought men oughta talk about what hurt ‘em — physically and emotionally.
“Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing to one of the low-backed swivel chairs. I plopped down.
“All right, we’re in your office. So, what’s going on?”
“I thought you might want to see this file we’re building.”
He reached into the crevice between leather cushion and arm, and pulled out a manila folder, stuffed to the gills with documents. I swallowed.
“For which case?” I asked, though there was no need. I knew which case it was for just by the look on Tom’s face. He didn’t gratify my stupid question with a reply.
Hesitantly, I peeled open the folder, and began to sift through the documents within. As I read, the blood drained from my face.
“Kid,” Tom said, while I continued to read. “It doesn’t look good.”
“But this can all be explained—”
“One of ‘em, sure. But all of ‘em? I don’t think so.”
“But there’s no way—”
He sighed, and steepled his fingers like a lecturing teacher. “The items the thief stole were ones the average Joe — sorry, um, the average person — wouldn’t recognize as expensive. Blender, knives… they weren’t recognizable as being nice. Only someone in the know would’ve clocked it.”
I shook my head. “That’s not evidence.”
“You’re right. But it is suggestive. Especially given that the alarm was turned off by someone inside the shop.”
“No, that’s wrong,” I replied urgently. “When we got there, the alarm was ringing.”
“It’s on a self-timer, so after something like an hour delay, it automatically restarted. Long enough that we wouldn’t be able to firmly place the time of the break-in. Or so they thought.”
“This still isn’t enough.”
“Right again. But Dylan… the till wasn’t just smashed open. I had Martin help review the entry history, and the till was opened after the shop closed that afternoon, possibly around the time of the burglary.”
I gulped, not wanting to hear this next part. “Please, Tom—”
“The final code in the till was Zoe’s personal entry code.”
I didn’t want to hear any more. I stood abruptly from my chair and began to pace the short length of the office. Tom’s eyes followed my back and forth.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked at last.
He sighed. “Come on, Dylan. I taught you better than that. What am I trying to say?”
“You’re saying… you’re saying that you think Zoe faked the robbery, maybe with the help of a friend or employee.”
“Yes,” he affirmed. “And why?”
“Because if the insurance money would cover the costs of the staged robbery, there’d be enough left over to pay all her debts.”
Silence. I knew I’d hit the nail on the head. I wished I’d been wrong. Thoughts raced in my head as I tried to reexamine the case from every angle, to dispute evidence and to exonerate Zoe.
“Well,” Tom interjected, “what do you think?”
I closed my eyes, and tilted my head to the ceiling, shocked by what I was about to say.
“I think,” I replied, “that she may have — may have — had something to do with this burglary.”
And, I thought to myself, I’ve been sleeping with the enemy.