Shallow Graves

there were two messages on my telephone machine. The same two were on my office answering service when I checked in with it. The first was from Harry Mullen, asking me to call him about the Dani case. I decided to handle that instead with a face-to-face, the next morning at his office. The other message was from Nancy, asking me to call her at home.
    “Hello?“
    “Nance, it’s John.“
    “Oh, John.“ A gap, as though I’d woken her up. “Can you come over?“
    “Now?“
    “Please.“
    “Sure. Anything the—“
    “When you get here.“
    “Twenty minutes.“
    There was something in her voice, something I didn’t recognize right away. Then I remembered her note between the salt and pepper that morning. She was taking Renfield to the vet’s, and I was supposed to have called her. Shit.
    I made the drive shaving five minutes off the twenty.
    Nancy met me at the downstairs door to her building. She was wearing an old New England School of Law sweatshirt, jeans, and no makeup. Unless you counted the red nose.
    Nancy Meagher, Assistant District Attorney for the County of Suffolk, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was stiff as a fish.
    She said, “Don’t say anything. Just c’mon up.“
    I followed her, bracing myself at each step to break her fall if she went over backwards. As we passed the Lynches’ landing, Drew and I exchanged nods. On the third floor, Nancy had to grope through the pockets of her jeans before finding the key to her place.
    The kitchen table was cleared except for a single short tumbler and a half-empty liter of Stolichnaya. I suppose you could have said the bottle was half-full, but things didn’t look that optimistic.
    “Nance—“
    Her right hand rose in a stop sign, then flapped down to her side. She crossed to the sink, steadying herself with her left palm on the porcelain while reaching up to the cabinet for another glass. After two tries, she managed to snag one.
    Nancy crossed back, put the new tumbler on the table, and poured three fingers of rough justice into each glass before handing me the new one. “I don’t want to be the only in-need-brit... in-e-briate in this conversation.“
    I accepted the glass, thinking that was the tone I hadn’t recognized in her voice over the phone. I’d seen her drinking before, but never drunk.
    She downed half her booze, took a breath, and downed the rest.
    I just nipped at mine, covering the tumbler with my hand to mask how much was left. “What do you say we go into the living room and talk about it?“
    Nancy turned, taking the bottle by the neck and caroming past me toward the front of the apartment. At the couch, she yanked two cushions onto the floor, plunking herself into one of them. I took the other.
    She started to pour herself another drink, stopped, and set the bottle and glass heavily on the rug. “I’m gonna be real sick, right?“
    “If that bottle started the evening intact.“
    A nod. “When?“
    “You eat anything?“
    A shake.
    “Then pretty soon and pretty bad.“
    “Before that happens...“ She suppressed a belch. “...I have something to say. Renfield’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna take a while, but he’s gonna be okay.“
    “Nancy, I’m sorry—“
    The stop sign again. “Wasn’t you. Wasn’t your fault, I mean. And wasn’t his hip, either. The vet said he has a congenial... congenital problem with his back legs. I can’t remember the science name, but it’s like his kneecaps aren’t in the right place, so he has to have an operation to put them back. Where they should be. So it wasn’t your fault. It would have happened sometime, when he jumped off a chair or down a step or...“ She waved the last phrase away.
    “If Renfield’s going to be okay, then why the bottle?“
    Nancy flapped both hands in her lap. “They called me at the office and told me he should have the operation or else be... put to sleep, and I guess I just realized how... fragile everything could be. When I’m with you, I’m fine. When you’re not here, and Renfield is, I’m fine. But when I got home tonight, and he wasn’t here, and no word back from you, I just realized how lonely it was to be alone.“
    “Nance—“
    The stop sign came up halfway. “John, this isn’t easy for me. I’m trying to tell you something, okay?“
    “Okay.“
    “When I first started seeing you, I said to myself, ‘Girl, this could be the one.’ But then I realized that you have your life, and your job, and that’s fine.