A Body to die for

sister.”
    Annabelle rolled her black eyes like eight balls. “I know that. But don’t you want to visit with her?”
    “Not really. Long story.” I waved good-bye. I hit the waiting room. It was just time for official visiting hours. Alex was chomping at the bit to go inside. I told him I’d see him later: I was on a mission.
    Alex asked if he should call Max and tell him what happened. The words were barely out of his mouth when Max burst into the waiting room. He was wearing work clothes: A blue summer suit with a white shirt and paisley tie. His cheeks were redder than his hair, and from the glisten on his forehead, I got the idea he’d run all the way from the subway. When he saw me, he lunged forward and circled his arms around my waist. He hugged me so hard my spine bones cracked. It felt swell.
    “What’s going on?” he blurted after he dropped me. “I got a call at the office that someone got hurt and was in the emergency room at Brooklyn General. I thought it was you. I thought you got shot. God, I hate your job.”
    I loved him when he was desperate and upset. “I’m fine, honeybunny. It’s not me. Alex is fine, too.” Alex came up behind me and waved sweetly at Max. Max didn’t even acknowledge him.
    Max asked, “Leeza?” We nodded. I figured he’d last at least a few seconds before erupting. “God damn it. I knew this would happen,” he fumed immediately. “And I’d love saying ‘I told you so’ if Leeza weren’t in the emergency room, clinging to life by a thread for all I know. Didn’t I tell you to keep her out of this? She was totally unprepared to deal with guns and violence. And look at you—you don’t even care.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I knew Leeza was all right. I also knew I wasn’t the one who gave her the bright idea to meet a john up in Ameleth’s suite. That was her own idea. Sure, I felt lousy that she got pummeled, but I’m not about to forget everything else that happened so I can cry at her bedside. I said, “Hold on one second. If you got a call, Leeza herself must have given them your number. She’s pretty bashed up. Most people in that condition can barely remember their own names, much less the work phone number of an ex-boyfriend.” Obviously, it was a number she knew well. It must be burned into her cerebellum. “Not to turn this around, Max, but how does Leeza know your number at the bank?” I tapped my foot impatiently and waited for Max to answer that one.
    He couldn’t. He just stared at me, dumbfounded. My heart sank. That could only confirm that Leeza had been calling Max pretty often at work. And he’d told me that they hadn’t seen each other or talked for years before she called him just last week to say she’d be in town. Ergo, Max was a liar. I felt tears rising, but managed to squelch them by thinking about how uncomfortable I felt in my tattered dress and trashed platforms. Was it possible that Max and Leeza had been planning her return? Was I paranoid?
    I had to go. “I’m leaving.” To Alex, I said, “Try and get some more information out of Leeza.” To Max, I said, “Try to get your shit out of my apartment by nightfall.” If he really loved me, he’d know that I meant it—unless he made some lavish apologetic display. And came up with a damned good explanation. I wondered, not for the first time, if I were an impossible girlfriend.
    I split like a banana for the gym. A slow banana. I took my time walking down Atlantic Avenue. The sun was bright. Some kids rode by on Rollerblades. Max and I had once talked about buying a couple of pairs so we could roll off into the sunset together. That’s shot to hell, I thought. I shook off a pang of depression. Max had been talking to Leeza all that time. He lied about it. I remember reading a* survey in Mademoiselle that said the number one thing women want from their boyfriends was honesty.
    I felt a crushing pain where there once was a heart. The feeling was familiar. Shit, I practically wrote the book on heartbreak. I got a flash of Detective Falcone. I wondered how many disappointments she’d had with men before choosing ham sandwiches over hot dogs. Was it possible that I could ever make that choice? I vowed for three blocks to never put myself in the position of being hurt again. This pain was no gain. And there was no way to cure it. I didn’t care what women’s magazines said. They were all bullshit anyway.
    I approached the Brooklyn Detention Center on my