Inherit the Dead

wasn’t pretty, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
    “My massage therapist,” she said. She looked away from him, started twisting a ring on her hand. The chunky emerald was as big as a Volkswagen. “He works wonders. I’m carrying so much tension. I’m sure you can imagine.”
    She coughed a bit, reached for her water, took a long sip.
    Is she using the illness as a prop? he wondered. “He’s been here before?”
    “Many times,” she said. Again a little flash of something across her face. “But never so late. It was an emergency; I’m in so much pain.”
    A massage emergency—that was a new one. He thought about pressing her. Wouldn’t the doorman have known her masseur? But she’d covered that by saying he’d never come so late. Still, why would the masseur refuse to give his name? Something off about that, but her fragility kept him from pushing her too hard. After all, she’d hired him to find Angel. If she was having a handsome young man up to meet whatever emergency needs she had, what business was it of his?
    “So you’ll keep working?” she asked. “No police?”
    It wasn’t right. It was a matter for the cops. But he found himself nodding, reaching out a comforting hand, which she took and squeezed.
    You never could resist a damsel in distress, his wife used to tease.
    But it was more than that, wasn’t it? He wanted to be the one to find Angel. It was his case. He’d started it, and he wanted to finish it. And there was a tangle of other feelings knotting up in his gut, too many, too complicated, too messy to contemplate.

    Outside, he pulled his too-thin coat tight around him and wound Nicky’s scarf even tighter. The cold air snaked up his cuffs and down his collar, chilling him to the core. Fatigue, which he’d been holding at bay with caffeine and junk food, was now a weight on his back, pulling down his shoulders, making every step feel as if he was slogging through mud. Trekking down the street, he pulled out his phone and dialed his daughter’s cell. He didn’t want to talk to his ex-wife, endure her snipes, all delivered in the happy lilt of her voice. She was happy—rich new boyfriend (whom Perry’s daughter just loved by the way), living in the boyfriend’s nice big apartment in Brooklyn Heights, working in a preschool (she’d always wanted more kids; now she had ’em). He wanted to be happy for her. But he wasn’t, because he was a prick—as she was fond of reminding him.
    “Hey, Dad,” Nicky answered. “Where are you?”
    “Heading home,” he said. “Sorry to call so late. What are you doing?”
    “Ugh,” she said, “calculus.” He heard the television going in the background, some sitcom with laugh tracks. It sounded tinny and strange on the line, almost mocking.
    “With the television on?”
    “Its helps me concentrate,” she said. “A little noise helps you focus, you know. It’s proven.”
    The kid was a brainiac, a 4.0 average, star of her track team, frighteningly gorgeous—as pretty as her mom and then some. Every time he saw her, he just wanted to wrap her up in blankets and hide her away somewhere. Did they still send girls to the nunnery? Was that an option?
    “You sound tired,” she said.
    Kid, you have no idea. I’m tired to the bone. I could sleep for a thousand years. “No,” he said, forcing himself to sound bright. “I’m good. I’m great.”
    “Are we getting together tomorrow?”
    Shit. Was that tomorrow?
    “I’ve got a case,” he said. The words stuck in his mouth, tasted bitter, like a piece of gum he’d chewed way too long.
    “No problem,” she said, light, resigned, as if she was used to being disappointed by him. She expected very little. Do you know what it is to fail your child? Julia had asked him. Of course he knew. Of course, he did. He hadn’t abandoned her, no. He wasn’t a deadbeat. He’d always paid his alimony and child support on time. He was saving for her education. He’d never missed a birthday. But he’d failed her in a million little ways. It added up. She’d learned she couldn’t count on him, and now she didn’t. Not at all.
    “You didn’t let me finish,” he said. “I just need to do it a little earlier.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “No, really. Tomorrow is Saturday, so how about brunch? I have an eight o’clock appointment and—”
    “Oh my God. Not at eight.”
    “No. After. It will be closer to nine thirty or ten. You can handle that, right?”
    They chatted a