Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [88]
“Did he really cry?” I asked.
Laney sighed. “He hasn’t been getting enough sleep.”
“Some people don’t burst into tears when they’re tired,” I said. “They just get grouchy.”
“You would know,” she said.
I had finished off the ice cream a while ago and wished I hadn’t. After all, I was still holding the spoon and it seemed like a terrible waste of energy.
“Even after I realized the kid had come bearing gifts, I still thought he might be trouble,” I admitted. “But now I think he’s just a nice guy. Worried about little Aalia. It’s kind of cute in a creepy, stalkerish sort of way.”
“I’m afraid they’ve got a lot against them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Aalia and Stephen. Religion can be as divisive as it can be enlightening. Could be Mr. Al-Sadr would be more comfortable with an abusive Muslim husband than a doting American boyfriend. The fact that Aalia is wearing blue jeans and spending her Saturdays at Starbucks is probably driving him crazy.”
I shrugged, willing to let them work that out for themselves as I glanced at Yoda once again. “What’d he do? Block the door with his meager body when you tried to leave?” I asked.
“He ordered me to remain inside.”
I felt my eyebrows make a dash for my hairline. “He ordered you?”
“It was kind of sweet.”
I glanced toward him. Turns out little Yoda had more balls than I’d given him credit for. Laney had been practicing yoga and kickboxing for more than a decade. She could have tied him in knots without turning a hair.
“What’d you do?”
“I think I may have sworn at him.”
“Seriously?”
“I kind of like you, Mac. Even when you’re grouchy.”
“You swore at him?”
“Maybe.”
“Is that when he started to cry?”
“Right about then.”
“Said he’d die if anything happened to you?”
“Something like that.”
I nodded, ruminating and licking the dry spoon. “You know what bothers me the most?”
“That you kind of want a stalker of your very own.”
“Yeah,” I said, and sighed.
31
I truly believe it is emotionally damaging to be amicable for long periods of time.
—Christina McMullen, Ph.D.
I slept like a chilled reptile for the rest of the night. But by morning my mind still felt nubby. Sometimes running acts like a brain defuzzer, so I trundled up Chestnut Hill with Harley at my side in an attempt to wake up my cerebellum, but when I reached home I felt sweaty and nubby.
I reached the office at 7:50. At 8:10 Shirley buzzed to tell me Rivera was on the line. I took a fortifying breath and picked up the receiver.
“I swear to God I’m not trying to get myself killed,” I said. “I just … I was really tired, and I saw someone in the Al-Sadrs’ yard and I thought—”
“They picked up Ahmad Orsorio last night.”
My mouth was still open, trying to yammer out a defense. “What?”
“He’d checked himself into Glendale Memorial. Guess the bullet in his leg was giving him some trouble.”
“They got him?”
“The bastard’s femur was broken.”
“So what happens now?”
“Now he has an armed guard at his bedside till he goes to trial or gets shipped back to Yemen in disgrace.”
I sighed. “I love happy endings.”
Rivera chuckled. “So your bad-ass friend that shot him … what’s his name? I’d like to thank him.”
“I’ll make sure to relay your gratitude.”
“I’d rather do it in person.”
“I bet you would,” I said, and hung up a few seconds later.
One would think with all these ugly loose ends being tied up, I would have been as cheery as a picnic basket that weekend, but something was gnawing at me and I wasn’t sure what it was.
By Friday I had eye bags the size of feed sacks, which made Laney’s chipper countenance that much more irritating.
“Good morning.”
“Really?” I said, and gave her a malevolent stare through one sandbagged eye. I was just pouring myself a bowlful of Cap’n Crunch. Diabetes in a bowl.
“I’ve made a decision about the wedding,” Laney said.
“You’re calling it off?” I asked, and added milk to the Crunch.
“I’m leaving all