The Profiler. Lori A. May
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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!” she says desperately, grabbing hold of my hand. I pause, my patience running low, and stare blankly at her with little curiosity as to why she is dragging out my stay.
“Please, Angel,” she begs, and I cringe when I hear the pet name. No one except my father called me Angel, and hearing it now, from Denise, is like being sucker-punched without warning.
“I know you haven’t always accepted me as part of your father’s life. I don’t blame you. The two of you were inseparable, like twins who have their own language. Believe me, it was hard on me, too. The two of you had something most people could never understand, and I respected that. It’s what made you both so special.”
It’s true. Growing up as I did in a single-parent home, the relationship I had with my father was unique and indescribable, the passions of both of us revolving around solving crimes and understanding the motives of those who commit them.
“But you cannot remain chained to the past. I know you feel regret and sorrow for having to go back to your work, just as you need to feel guilty for leaving the city after Joshua’s death. You mustn’t, Angela. You must look toward your future now. It’s what your father would have wanted you to do. You must let your heart begin to heal.”
She means well, I know. Every word she utters about my father, though, reminds me of all that I have lost. And I don’t need any more reminders. There are enough at home, on every street, with every breath I take.
“Goodbye, Denise.” Her eyes moisten as I turn away, but I can’t stay here.
They were involved for years. Her attachment to him is still clear, and the fact that she put up with me—the protective daughter—every step of the way…. But I’m just not ready to make friends with Denise. Accepting her condolences would mean accepting my father’s death, and I’m not yet ready to do that.
As I exit the shelter, my cell phone vibrates against my hip and I’m surprised at the feeling. I must have leaned on it at some point, causing it to switch to an unobtrusive vibe.
“Angie, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where ya at?”
I peer at my watch and note I still have several hours before my shift officially starts. But apparently Cain enjoys shuffling the schedule. “I had an errand to run. What’s up?”
Through the earpiece, I hear Cain exhale from a cigarette before he speaks. “I got something you’ll wanna see.”
“All right, all right. Where are you?”
Through his cursing and spitting sounds, I decode my destination. “Riverside and 112th? Why?”
“Angie, you’re going to church.”
Chapter 3
I hail a cab to the curb, and just as I am about to open the back door, my hand meets that of a stranger.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, looking at the man, whom I gather is also leaving the shelter where Denise works. His clothing, specifically a tattered bomber jacket with the hood pulled over his head, and old worker-style jeans, looks frumpy and worn, clearly aged from the streets.
He quickly steps back to allow my entrance to the cab, and his slumped, limping body begins to walk away from me, the fabric of his jacket pocketing air with the wind that recently picked up. With December just around the corner, the city streets are no place to wander, and I get the feeling this man spends more time in alleyways than indoors.
“Hey, mister?” I call after him, my hand keeping the cab door open. “You take this one. It’s okay.”
He pivots slightly, taking his time to evaluate my offer, and I think of Cain awaiting my arrival. “Or better yet, we can share it on my dime. I’m going to Riverside and 112th. Does that work for you?”
I watch as he stands there, obviously debating my offer, and then gradually accepting it by walking toward me. I know the city is no place to pick up strangers, and maybe I shouldn’t have offered. But my father taught me to accept people regardless of their position in life, and to not hold prejudice against those who are less fortunate than others.
Over the years, I’ve developed a soft spot for the homeless, poor and needy. This city, despite its magnitude, can be lonely for most of us, even on a good day, with countless strange faces walking by and in and out of our lives. For those with little hope, it must be so much worse.
I give the driver my directions and twist in my seat to face my fellow passenger, who smells faintly of cheap cologne and musty newspapers.
“Just tell him where you need to stop,” I say, and his hooded head nods, acknowledging me without meeting my glance. Peeking out from the fabric are loose curls, mousy-brown hair long and matted, the streaks of gray evidence of his tired age. Some mystery is concealed by his bundled clothing, but it’s not my business to ask.
“I can’t believe winter is just about here.” My small talk may not offer much to this man, but at least it’s keeping the quiet between us from turning into discomfort. “I just got back to the city after spending some time in Virginia. I forgot how cold it gets.” Only a few states away, it’s amazing what difference a few degrees makes once winter kicks in.
Thankfully, the stranger’s hands are covered with woolly gloves, keeping his fingers protected against the weather. Today is bitterly cold, and though the sun shines on deceivingly, it wouldn’t take much to lose body heat out in the wind. I can’t imagine spending my days without the shelter of a warm home or even the comforts of a café.
My thoughts prompt me to reach into my wallet and hand this man a voucher for a free beverage at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. I doubt he ever hangs out in Chelsea, but who am I to judge? Maybe it’ll add some warmth to his life, even if just for a few minutes.
His gloved hands wrap around the voucher, his covered fingers momentarily grazing mine, and he nods again. I have to wonder if he’s shy and reserved, mute, or simply doesn’t want to speak with me. But he shoves the coupon into the ragged pocket of his jeans and I have to leave the rest up to him.
Dialing some digits into my cell phone, I spare this stranger from any more useless chatter as I wait for my next-door neighbor to answer the phone. “Hey, Mrs. Schaeffer, it’s Angie,” I say when the widow answers. “Looks like I’m starting work earlier than expected, so I was wondering if you’d be able to check on Muddy later this afternoon?”
“Sure, sure. That’s fine, Angela. He’s about due for a visit with me.”
Her friendly voice brings a smile to my face, and I’m glad I can depend on her, knowing Muddy has a friend to walk his old bones around the neighborhood block. After all, it was she who took care of Muddy during the months between my father’s death and my return to New York. Said she liked the company in my father’s absence.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
We say goodbye and I tuck my cell phone back into its cradle against my hip.
“This is good here,” I say to the cabbie, seeing our approach to the cathedral across the street. I hand the driver twice as much as I need to.
“Drop him wherever he wants to go,” I say, trying to make eye contact with the stranger, to no avail. He modestly turns his head