The Profiler. Lori May A.
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dumped, all right,” Cain says, barely containing a tainted laugh. “She did a job on him, boy. Just a few days before the wedding, too.”
The information jolts me, and I look to Cain for more.
“Ah, hell, everyone knew it was over months before she ditched him. He was just too stubborn to give up that easy. She was a detective, too. A real good one, I might add.”
Cain reacts momentarily as a bump in the road causes coffee to spill onto his sleeve. After he licks his wrist, he continues. “She was offered a promotion. Well, a transfer and a promotion. I guess it came down to choosing one or the other. No way in hell Severo was going to move his ass out of the city.”
“So she took the job?”
Cain hands me his cup as he parks the car in his designated spot outside 26 Federal Plaza, then takes it back from me before getting out of his seat. “Yup. The dumb schmuck was scrambling the week before the wedding to tell a hundred guests not to bother showing. Gotta love drama. I doubt he’s ever really gotten over it.”
I slam the door shut with my butt, coffee in hand, and walk with Cain to the entrance. “He still loves her?” I’m smug to think he can retain feelings for someone who humiliated him days before saying “I don’t.”
“Nah. I mean, I doubt he’s ever gotten over a dame leaving him for a job.” Cain stops at the double doors and looks at me, sort of surprised, and asks, “You mean, you haven’t noticed?”
I shrug.
“He’s got a chip on his shoulder about the whole thing. But he’s a dedicated sap, whether with women or on the job, so whatever makes him tick is apparently working. Unlucky in love, but a damn good detective. Schmuck.”
I tail Cain’s echoing laughter through the white-walled halls of the New York FBI Field Office, ready to start in on our night of business. Cain has much to familiarize me with yet in the office I’ll be calling home for at least four years. It’s good to get the formalities over and done with so I know what to expect of my work environment…and of my coworkers.
Though I still can’t shake the concept. Carson Severo hurt by love? Anything’s possible. I guess it explains his suspicious glances toward me. Maybe he thinks I’m one of the bad guys. Then again, I’ve never been all that skilled at being good.
“Me llamo Denise. Tome asiento.”
I keep my presence unknown, outside the reception window of the shelter, and listen to Denise welcome a new intake on this Friday morning. With only a few hours of sleep to my credit, curiosity couldn’t keep me away before heading into work for my next twelve-hour shift.
The young Hispanic man takes a seat, as instructed, and allows the social worker to touch his shoulder. Despite my attitude toward her, I have to give Denise credit where it’s due. She’s mild mannered and truly attentive, giving strays and misfits comfort they can’t find on the streets. But just because I respect her doesn’t mean I have to accept her as a friend.
Even though I’ve never really welcomed her into my life, I suppose I can understand why my father was so enamored of her. She’s a smart dresser and always smells like vanilla. Not like the simulated scents you can find at the perfume counters. More like Grandma’s kitchen vanilla.
More important, at least to my father, would be Denise’s ability to find the good in almost anyone. Her motherly approach to dealing with strangers in need of help must have melted my father’s heart. I wasn’t so quick to embrace her, though.
The newcomer catches my eye from inside the window, and Denise’s gaze naturally follows his. I’ve been made.
The door swings open as I push through, and Denise offers a meek smile as she approaches.
“Pase. Come in.” Her slender hand flows in the direction of an empty chair across from the man. I nod at him as I take a seat, and he asks Denise if I understand his language.
A broad, almost proud smile crosses her lips as she says, “Sí, y también habla francés y portugués,” letting him know I also speak French and Portuguese. To name a few.
I study his scarred face and he lowers his head. I don’t know this man’s misery, but he wears it full frontal.
I wait until his eyes again meet mine and say, “Hola.” It seems to lessen his shyness.
When I shake his hand, which he offers reluctantly, his skin is rough with calluses, and I feel for whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought him to this place.
Denise suggests Miguel follow a shelter volunteer to the kitchen and get something to eat, and when he does, we are left alone in the pastel-painted room.
“It’s nice to see you,” she says, retrieving a bottle of juice from the vending machine. “I half expected you would drop by, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
I remember the thief I sent her yesterday and am glad he took my advice. “Is he still here?”
She nods her head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe she thinks she needs to protect him from the law. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I came.
Now that I think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I bothered to stop in. I’d been carrying the shelter’s business card in my pocket since arriving back in NYC, but I can’t honestly say I planned on visiting Denise. Not this soon, anyway.
At least I have to work later. I can use that as an excuse to leave anytime I want. But Denise senses my unease, and when she speaks it’s as though she’s encouraging one of her clients to open up hidden wounds. Her voice is coated with sweetness, but the concern is evident.
“I see you have your badge now. Your father would be so pleased, Angela.” Her smiling eyes measure me for a response as she continues. “It’s hard to believe July is so far behind us now, isn’t it? That’s enough time to start healing. Or fester in pain. Which has it been?”
I don’t want to be treated like a street kid. Actually, I’m not sure what I want. There’s too much connection between the two of us to talk as strangers, yet this woman hardly knows me. And vice versa.
My momentary lapse of nostalgia has faded. “Look, Denise. I just came here to… Well, I don’t know exactly why I came. I guess I wanted to see you were doing okay. And you are, so—”
As I get up to leave, Denise rushes to my side and gently wraps a hand around my arm. My nose takes in a waft of her feminine fragrance as she softly begs, “Please don’t.”
Sadness fills her brown-sugar eyes, and though I can relate, I don’t want to share my pain with her. Not yet. I need to allow my feelings to settle on their own, before I can open up to a woman I never really took to in the first place.
I don’t sit, but I let my shoulders release some tension and I look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready for this.”
Her hands slip to her stomach, and she presses her palms to the tiny belly hidden under her sheath dress, emphasizing her emotions. “I miss him, too, Angie. But you have to let it go. You have to let him go.”
She steps back, out of my immediate space, and looks me up and down as a mother would. Only she’s not my mother.
“It was his job. His life,” she begins. “And he was shot during a terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t deserve it. No one does. But you have to let him go, Angie. You saw the reports yourself. He died while out there doing what he loved best—fighting for justice. You have to accept it and get on with your life. It’s what he would have wanted for you.”
They all make it sound so easy. Just accept his death and move on. I’m trying. Really, I am. There is nothing worse, however, than growing up to be just like my father only to have him miss out on everything he wanted to see me do.
I face Denise and release the cold words. “I have to go.”
“Wait!”