A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Ten

On their way back to Rufus’s tenement on East Fourth Street, Rufus had segued to grab some dinner from a Chinese restaurant called Super Flavor Plus 2. (He was uncertain of the fate of Super Flavor Plus 1.) It was a hole-in-the-wall in nearly every sense: no tables, no chairs, just the faded, backlit display of meal options hanging overhead the bulky cash register. And if you weren’t a neighborhood local, you’d have no reason to know that they’d been out of shrimp chow mein since at least 2003 but had never stopped advertising it. Once his takeout containers had been loaded to the brim with hot and aromatic food, Rufus passed the auntie working the register several wrinkled bills, grabbed the knotted plastic bag, and disappeared back into the cold night.

Upon entering 4D, and after kicking off his salt-crusted Cons and dropping his jackets and hat into their usual pile on the floor, Rufus removed containers from the bag and set them all out on the floor beside the bed. He said to Sam, “I got dumplings, hot and spicy beef, and chicken lo mein.” He sat on his knees before the food. “Pick your poison.”

“Dumplings,” Sam said, opening the closest container. Luck was on his side, apparently, and he sat back and grabbed the paper-wrapped chopsticks.

Rufus yanked open the container nearly bursting with noodles. Condensation splattered his t-shirt and he wiped it absently while saying, “So Shareed was using.”

“They thought she might be using. Which is the kind of rumor someone would spread if they didn’t like what she was looking into.”

“Ok,” Rufus answered, his tone as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. “I’ll shelve that. Can I ask you something else?”

Sam made a noise around a mouthful of dumpling.

“Who did Lew murder? You said on the phone, ‘that son of a bitch murdered’ and then you stopped.”

Sam swallowed. His voice had a flat obstinacy as he said, “Shareed.”

“That’s who you meant?”

“Well, he’s responsible for those soldiers with Stonefish. And Went; if Lew had manned up, if he’d kept them from piling everything on a kid who was barely old enough to shave, Went wouldn’t have done what he did. But I was talking about Shareed.”

“If you say Lew’s a piece of shit, I believe you, I swear. But we don’t know he killed Shareed. If it wasn’t an OD—don’t get mad, I’m just saying—if it wasn’t an OD, if she was murdered, and everything was set up to reflect this rumor that she was having drug issues…. Your Army wife made it sound like several people knew of her erratic behavior. All I’m saying is, when it comes to what happened in her hotel room, we’ve no idea if Lew was there.”

“That’s what we’re trying to prove.”

“It sort of sounds like we’re trying to make the pieces fit Lew Frazer.”

“Fine, Rufus.” He set the unfinished container of dumplings aside. “What am I missing?”

“I don’t know.” Rufus pushed aside his own untouched food and knee-walked across the floor toward Sam. “But maybe the narrative should be: I think Shareed was murdered by someone, and not, Shareed was murdered by Lew. At least, not yet.”

“Fine.”

“You’re just saying ‘fine’ because you’re mad at me.”

“I’m saying it because I don’t know what you want me to say. You think I’m wrong. Fine. I can’t prove it yet. Fine. There’s not a lot left to talk about.”

“I can call Erik—see if he’s willing to mention anything CSU might’ve found.”

As an answer, Sam grabbed the container and speared a dumpling.

Rufus nodded, muttered “Fine” under his breath, and got to his feet. He tugged his burner free from his pocket and dialed Erik’s number. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“What? Make it fast; I’m still dealing with the wreckage of a crime scene you and your butt buddy left me.”

“Did you find anything interesting at the pod?”

“Sure. I found my incompetent CI and his dong bait walking all over my fucking scene. You’re fishing, asshole, and I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t do that. Come on, I’m sorry I walked all over your scene. In my defense, there was a dead lady inside. Not that I knew she was dead. What if she’d been alive and I left her? Then you’d have a CI wanted for like, involuntary manslaughter or something.”

Erik made a noise of disgust. But he didn’t disconnect.

“I got you those pics of Chad yesterday, didn’t I? All I’m asking for now and then is a little pat on the head. Come on, I was severely neglected as a child.”

“You’ve got your boy toy. He can pat you on your head or your ass or wherever.”

“There’s something about it coming from a man with a badge.”

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“Not really,” Rufus answered. “I live and die for you.”

This time, all Rufus got was a grunt. After a moment, though, Erik asked, “Have you heard about anything over at the Javits?”

Rufus’s eyebrows rose and he looked toward Sam. “Maybe. Can you give me a clue?”

“There’s no clue, doofus. You’re my CI. I’m asking you if you’ve heard people talking about something at the Javits. That’s the extent of it.” He paused. “What about the last name Ridgeway? And if you make one of your fucking quips—”

“No quips, daddy, I promise. Should I know the name? Do you want me to?”

“That woman, Shareed, she called her from the hotel,” Erik said. “See what you can find out.”

“I’ve worked with less.” Rufus hung up, sat on the floor again, and crossed his legs under him. “Erik asked if I’d heard anything happening at the Javits. Asked if I recognized the name, Ridgeway?”

“I feel like I’ve heard that name.” Sam shrugged. “I can’t place it. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know.”

Rufus watched Sam stab another dumpling with his chopsticks before he busied himself balancing his noodle container on one knee, phone on the other, and did an internet search while eating. The name Ridgeway brought up a handful of the typical results Rufus expected from such a vague search. Some movie star named Bianca Ridgeway was in hot water over a nip-slip. Census records for a Manny Ridgeway who passed away last Tuesday out in the Rockaways—RIP Manny. A Zillow listing for a house on Ridgeway Street in Michigan. But at the bottom of the first Google page was a link to Conasauga Solutions, the gibberish of keywords underneath the website cutting off midsentence, but the name Evangeline Ridgeway had appeared in bold font.

Rufus clicked and was directed to a very simplistic page with a white and blue aesthetic overlaid with a sans-serif font proclaiming some very expressive talking points. Innovative! Solutions! Spirit! Restructure! He clicked around a moment before finding an option in the dropdown menu for: PROFESSIONALS. He chose that and was directed to a listing of thumbnail images showing off very white-collar folks smiling big for their employee photo. Beside each were bullet points of their education, work history, and accomplishments. Rufus scrolled down to R and found Ridgeway, Evangeline.

“Hey.” Rufus turned his phone around and held it out. “Do you recognize her?”

Sam frowned. “She was on the stage. At the panel, the Conasauga one. The corporate douche was doing all the talking, but she was up there with him.”

Rufus looked at the phone. “Says her role is Senior Business Developer. Hang on—there’s a Twitter account linked. Her last tweet was from this morning. ‘Back in NYC and this year’s MoDe promises to be the best yet!’”

“Hold on, do you still have that convention program?”

“Yeah.” Rufus set his phone and food aside, went to his pile of winter clothing, and tugged free the severely bent program from his sweatshirt pocket. He offered it to Sam while sitting again.

“So that panel was… ‘Tactical Vehicles: Challenges, Opportunities, Sustainment, Modification. Moderated by Delmer Jolly (Conasauga Solutions) and Evangeline Ridgeway (Conasauga Solutions). Col. Leslie Bridges, 194th Armored Brigade, Respondent.’ What the actual fuck?”

Rufus was scrubbing his head with one hand and could feel his shock of hair sticking on end. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“That woman calls herself a business developer, but my guess is she’s just doing sales. The company guys say, ‘Ra ra, look what we did.’ And the salespeople say, ‘This is how what we did can help you.’ And the colonel says, ‘Here’s the thing they did, and it’s great, so we definitely need more tanks.’ The usual circle-jerk.”

The uncertainty Rufus felt as he tried to wrap his brain around the workings of Big Money and Big Government and big everything—it was the only lame adjective he could think of—was making him break out into a self-conscious flush. “There was that accident—Stonefish. And the company that’d been involved was Conasauga. And now that company is at an expo here in the city, probably pushing similar gear? And Shareed Baker tracked you down to sell information about Stonefish, but is now dead. And my cop-daddy is asking about Conasauga’s hot sales lady. Did I miss anything?”

“Your cop-daddy,” Sam said in an undertone. More loudly, he said, “And Lew’s here. I know you think I’ve got tunnel vision, but I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Shareed said his name. He’d just made captain when Stonefish happened. The shit didn’t stick to him, and now, a couple years later, here he is: at a Conasauga panel, where they’re talking about how successful the Army’s partnership with Conasauga has been, all the benefits of Conasauga’s tactical vehicles, that kind of shit.”

“We should go back to the expo tomorrow. I can leave Dr. Donna a message and let her know I have to miss my session.” Rufus grabbed his phone.

“I don’t want you missing your session,” Sam said.

“Well, you’re not going to the Javits alone.”

“We can do both, can’t we? What time is your appointment?”

Rufus hesitated. “Two o’clock.”

“Great. We’ll try the convention in the morning, break for lunch, get you to your appointment, and then see where we’re at.”

Rufus set his phone down. A hint of attitude came out as he murmured, “You’re so thoughtful.”

“It’s important, Rufus.”

“I know. I love poking at old and festering wounds.” Rufus put the lid on his food and pushed the container aside. “Never mind. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Thank you for being willing to change your plans, but we can make it work.”

Rufus collected two of the three food containers and stood. He brought them to the fridge, tossed the takeout on the mostly bare top shelf, shut the door, then leaned back against it. He stared at Sam, still seated on the floor, dumplings now seemingly forgotten. “Can I ask you something?”

Sam nodded.

“Are you happy? I mean, with me.”

“Because I got mad about Lew?”

“I’m really asking.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t mind not having Pauly as a neighbor, but other than that….” He shrugged.

Rufus looked toward the left wall at the mention of his perpetually drunk and stoned neighbor in 4C, who didn’t sound like he was home at the moment. “So you like living with me?”

“What are you asking me?” Sam got up and moved over to the sink in the tiny kitchen. He ran the water, stared at it for a moment, and turned it off. “If you’re asking me if I’m happy with you, the answer is yes. I love you. If you’re asking me if I like living here, I mean, Jesus, Rufus. Does anyone like living in Manhattan?”

Rufus winced. Without realizing it, Sam had just confirmed what he’d been sensing, fearing, dreading . Into the quiet, Rufus answered, “I do.”

“Of course you do.”

“You think it’s bad that I like it here?”

“No. Not—” The light from the low-wattage bulb left shadows on Sam’s face. “I mean, this place works for you. Of course you like it.”

Pushing off the fridge, Rufus said, “Yeah.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I think you’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?”

Rufus had been halfway to the bathroom before he stopped and turned around. “I only like Manhattan because Manhattan is all I know, is what you want to say. And I think it bothers you that I’m not—I don’t know—worldly. That if we left the city I wouldn’t be able to survive.”

“Christ, Rufus. Where did you get that from?”

“It’s true,” he protested, walking back to Sam. “What the fuck would I do for a living if we ever left? I have no education, no job experience, my skills include lockpicking and petty theft, I mean, what the fuck. And so you stay here because, maybe you do love me, but mostly because you know if you left, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

Sam shook his head. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

Rufus wiped his face on his shirt. “A few weeks ago, I told Dr. Donna that when I feel like shit, when I can’t get out of bed or I can’t breathe, I always think about you. Thinking about you makes me feel a little better—a little more sane. Then I started worrying that that’s probably not healthy and I should figure out a better coping method because it puts too much expectation on you. That thought turned into disappointing you, which snowballed into you being unhappy with me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how I’m probably making you miserable because I’m being selfish—asking you to live in a place with too much noise and too many people when I know you actively despise both.

“I just… I don’t want to go to therapy tomorrow. I don’t want to talk about how scared I am to lose the one good thing in my life, but how it feels inevitable and I should sabotage my relationship now so it hurts less later.”

The radiator gurgled. Sam wiped his mouth. Then he came across the room and wrapped Rufus in a hug. “You’re not making me miserable. I love you. I don’t know what to say about the rest of it; we’ll figure it out.”

Rufus put his arms around Sam’s neck and said against his shoulder, “I thought therapy was supposed to feel good, but every step forward feels like three steps back.”

“Maybe every step forward is three sideways.” Sam smiled against the side of Rufus’s head. “That would be about right for us.”

“Sounds like a dance move white boys do at prom.”

“Good God,” Sam said and huffed a laugh. Then he turned Rufus’s face up and kissed him.

“I’m sorry. You’ve got enough to think about. I didn’t mean to let all the batshit crazy out.”

“We carry each other’s batshit crazy.” Sam tugged on the hem of Rufus’s shirt. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Rufus smiled. It felt a little out-of-body, but he hadn’t had a panic attack. A few months ago, hell, a few weeks ago, he probably would have. He molded himself to Sam’s body, breathed when he breathed. “I thought that was some weird kink we shared.”