He cut me off. “Can’t take her on the T,” he said, gesturing to Tulip. “We might be open-minded,” his tone was wry, calling my bluff, “but Boston mass transit isn’t.”
He had me there. Taxi had cost me thirty bucks, nearly a third of my shift. Take another taxi home, and after taxes, why had I bothered to work at all?
I still hesitated, old instincts dying hard. Detective D. D. Warren had advised me to confide in my officers. They didn’t have ties to Randi or Jackie. They couldn’t be part of the problem, so I should make them part of the solution.
Except…In war movie logic, Officer Mackereth’s use of my name meant I’d die next. But in the story of my life, if I used Officer Mackereth’s name, he’d be the next to go. There was a reason I kept to myself; not just because I was trying to limit the pool of people who could hurt me, but because I was trying to limit the pool of people I might hurt back.
“Come on, Charlie,” Officer Mackereth said gruffly. “Cut a guy a break. You probably saved my life tonight. Least I can do is save you cab fare.”
He turned toward the door. And Tulip and I followed, Tulip with a fresh prance in her step at the unexpected attention.
I wondered what Jackie had been doing this time last year. I wondered what she’d been thinking, who she might have recently met. And I wondered, if she had known, if our trio’s erstwhile planner had foreseen her own death, what would’ve she done differently.
Said no or said yes?
That’s a central life question, don’t you think? Do you regret the things you did, or the things never done?
Eighty-four hours and counting, I followed Officer Mackereth to his vehicle.
I TOLD OFFICER MACKERETH I lived in Cambridge, by Harvard Square. Close enough, I figured. Tulip and I could walk the rest of the way from there.
Officer Mackereth, I learned, lived in Grovesnor. Meaning, given morning rush hour traffic northbound on I-93, he was now driving at least an hour out of his way. I protested again. He led me to his patrol car, which all officers drove home.
I climbed in the front, taking up position in a genuine black leather passenger seat that was quite comfortable. Tulip got the hard vinyl-covered bench in the back. Perfect for hosing down. Not so good for smooth-haired dogs. Tulip slid off twice, then gave up and lay on the floor.
“Where you from?” Officer Mackereth asked me as we hit the on-ramp for 93.
“New Hampshire.”
“Concord?”
“North, the mountains.”
“You ski?”
“A little. Cross-county.”
“Used to downhill in college,” he offered. “Tore my ACL. Cross-country might be better for me. Family?”
I squirmed in my seat, looked out the window. “Not married. You?”
“Never tried it. Seeing anyone?”
“Tulip’s pretty special,” I offered.
He chuckled. “You two been together long?”
“About to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I’m hoping she’ll bring me flowers. You have any pets?”
“No girlfriend, no kids, no pets. Two parents, one pain-in-the-ass older sister, and three adorable nieces and nephews. That’s enough for me.” His turn again: “Hobbies and interests?”
“I like to clean.”
He paused, glanced at me with his left hand on the wheel. “Seriously?”
I shrugged. “I work all night, then sleep all day. Cuts into a girl’s social life, you know.”
“Fair enough.” He glanced down at my hands fisted on my lap, stating shrewdly, “Bet you didn’t get those knuckles cleaning.”
I stared down self-consciously, wishing I’d put on my mittens, or at least tucked my hands beneath my legs. My knuckles were a mess, the valley between the joints of my pinky and ring finger swollen and purple on both hands. The remaining knuckles were abraded in several places, a collection of old and new injuries. Prizefighter hands. Not pretty, not feminine, and yet I valued this new and improved look very much.
“Boxing,” I admitted at last.