She had on a light cream suit, a purple silk shirt, high heels. She looked too classy and adult to be going to a club. She appeared to be in control of herself.
He quickly rolled the twenty-sided dice again and held his breath. Counted the numerals. His heart leaped. This was what the Horsemen was all about.
She was waving her hand at him, signaling. “Taxi!” she called. “Taxi! Are you free?”
He guided the taxi over to the curb, and she took three quick, delicate steps toward him. She was wearing shimmery, silken high heels that were just delightful. She was much prettier up close. She was a nine and a half out of ten.
The cab door swung open and blocked his view of her for a second.
Then he saw that she was carrying flowers, and wondered why. Something special tonight? Well, that was certainly true. The flowers were for her own funeral.
“Oh, thank you so much for stopping.” She spoke breathlessly as she settled into the taxi. He could tell that she was letting herself relax and feel safe. Her voice was soothing, sweet, down-to-earth and real.
“At your service.” Shafer turned and smiled at her. “By the way, I’m Death. You’re my fantasy for this weekend.”
Chapter 7
MONDAY MORNINGS I usually work the soup kitchen at St. Anthony’s in Southeast, where I’ve been a volunteer for the past half-dozen years. I do the seven-to-nine shift, three days a week.
That morning I felt restless and uneasy. I was still getting over the Mr. Smith case, which had taken me all over the East Coast and to Europe. Maybe I needed a real vacation, a holiday far away from Washington.
I watched the usual lineup of men, women, and children who had no money for food. It was about five deep and went up Twelfth Street to the second corner. It seemed such a pity, so unfair that so many folks still go hungry in Washington, or get fed only once a day.
I had started helping out at the kitchen years before on account of my wife, Maria. She was doing casework as a social worker at St. Anthony’s when we first met. Maria was the uncrowned princess of St. Anthony’s; everybody loved her, and she loved me. She had been shot, murdered in a drive-by incident not far from the soup kitchen. We’d been married four years and had two small children. The case has never been solved, and that still tortures me. Maybe that’s what drives me to solve every case I can, no matter how bad the odds.
At St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, I help make sure nobody gets too riled up or causes undue trouble during meals. I’m six-three, around two hundred pounds, and built for peacekeeping, if and when it’s necessary. I can usually ward off trouble with a few quiet words and nonthreatening gestures. Most of these people are here to eat, though, not fight or cause trouble.
I also dish out peanut butter and jelly to anyone who wants seconds or even thirds, of the stuff. Jimmy Moore, the Irish American who runs the soup kitchen with much love and just the right amount of discipline, has always believed in the healing power of p.b. and j. Some of the regulars at the kitchen call me “Peanut Butter Man.” They’ve been doing it for years.
“You don’t look so good today,” said a short ample woman who’s been coming to the kitchen for the past year or two. I know her name is Laura, and that she was born in Detroit and has two grown sons. She used to work as a housekeeper on M Street in Georgetown, but the family felt she’d gotten too old for the job and let her go with only a couple weeks’ severance and warm words of appreciation.
“You deserve better. You deserve me,” Laura said, and laughed mischievously. “What do you say?”
“Laura, you’re too kind with your compliments,” I said, serving up her usual extra dish. “Anyway, you’ve met Christine. You know I’m already spoken for.”
Laura giggled as she hugged herself with both arms. She had a fine, healthy laugh, even under the circumstances. “A young girl has to dream, you know. Nice to see you, as always.”
“Same to you, Laura. As always, nice to see you. Enjoy the meal.”
“Oh, I do. You can see I do.”
As I said my cheery hellos and dished out heaped portions of peanut butter, I allowed myself to think about Christine. Laura was probably right; maybe I didn’t look so good today. I probably hadn’t looked too terrific for a few days.
I remembered a night about two weeks back. I had just finished working a multiple-homicide case in Boston. Christine and I stood on the porch in front of her house out in Mitchellville. I was trying to live my life differently, but it’s hard to change. I had a saying I really liked: HEART LEADS HEAD.
I could smell the flowers in the night air, roses and impatiens growing in profusion. I could also smell Gardenia Passion, a favorite perfume that Christine was wearing that night.
She and I had known each other for a year and a half. We’d met during a murder investigation that had ended with the death of her husband. Eventually we began to go out. I was thinking that it had all been leading to this moment on the porch. At least it had in my mind.
I had never seen Christine when she didn’t look good to me and make me feel lightheaded. She’s tall,
almost five-ten, and that’s nice. She had a smile that could probably light up half the country. That night, she was wearing tight, faded jeans and a white T-shirt knotted around her waist. Her feet were bare, and her nails were dabbed with red polish. Her beautiful brown eyes were shining.
I reached out and took her into my arms, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world. I forgot all about the terrible case I’d just finished; I forgot about the particularly vicious killer known as Mr. Smith.
I cupped her sweet, kind face gently in my hands. I like to think that nothing scares me anymore, and many things don’t, but I guess the more good things you have in your life, the easier it is to experience fear. Christine felt so precious to me —so maybe I was scared.
Heart leads head.