Hidden Vices (4 page)

Seven

The next day started
earlier than Megan had planned on. She attributed it to the odd occurrence in the middle of the night. Feeling restless and quite frankly bloated from the amount of Chinese food she'd gorged on, she decided to take a hike on a trail in the back of the lake house. Cold, fresh air and a quiet atmosphere would be her solace for the morning. The Macks mentioned it was a nice twenty-minute walk and pointed out where they kept their walking sticks. Megan assumed the sticks were due to their age—right up until ten minutes of the hike felt like fifty.

I should have brought one of those fucking walking sticks. God I hate when I'm wrong.

She had to smile at her city arrogance yet again. Megan was accustomed to walking on pavement or up and down subway stairs, not frozen ground up a quite steep hill. Once she reached the top, she found an ass-chilling boulder to sit on. Staring out at the leafless trees standing like skeletons in the wake of the increasingly declining temperatures somehow made her feel at home. The vast space pulsed with a natural power she didn't want to disturb, like a sleeping bear or her father when he was watching a baseball game. She knew they'd have life again come spring, and it made her wonder if she'd ever feel a level of vitality in her own soul once more. At that moment she could hear her father's voice. When she was down—when the boy didn't call back when he said he would, or she lost a softball game, or when she was working her way up the ranks of becoming detective—Pat McGinn would utter, “Meganator, time to put your big girlie pants on. Buck up, kiddo.”

It was an odd sentiment that held so much truth, even she couldn't deny it. She held on to it until the ice-cold rock she was seated on became untenable to her numb buttocks. Megan began the trail back down the hill she'd climbed and noticed a pit she hadn't seen on her ascent. It looked as though bonfires were held there, based on the number of cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and a broken bong.

“So, this is where the high school kids hang out,” she laughed, continuing on her trail, basically holding on from one branch to another until a slippery spot provided the right conditions for a fall on her ass. “And this is why my parents didn't name me Grace.” She hoisted herself up and noticed the hawk one tree away. “You're a little too close for comfort, my friend.”

He peered down at Megan, completely unflinching.

“Didn't I see you yesterday? Are you following me?”

Great, Meg, now you're talking to birds. What the hell?

Megan continued down the hill, feeling the hawk watching her every move. It matched the feeling she'd had on her last case before arriving in New Jersey, though not as menacing. Not by a long shot.

The reflection off the snow-covered lake was so overwhelming, Megan donned a pair of sunglasses to sit on the couch while drinking her second cup of coffee and reading through the three-ring binder the Macks had left for her. A leisurely second cup of coffee—not something that happened much in her Upper East Side apartment. The last few days of smoky skies and the somber feeling that the sun and the color blue had entered hibernation hadn't been a help to her mood. But it was the beginning of winter in New Jersey, she reminded herself.

She recalled Elizabeth Mack mentioning the scenic drive circling the lake and decided there'd likely be few sunny days like this one. Megan climbed into Arnold and turned off Sheila, the slutty-voiced navigation system. It was a day to enjoy a quiet drive and the light filtering down through the sunroof. She didn't even turn on the radio for fear of hearing about whatever horrific event had happened in the world since last night.

Megan drove the winding path circling Lake Hopatcong, curious as to what the rest of the lake had to offer. She was lulled into random speculation. When her phone rang, she answered without checking the caller identification. As soon as she said hello, she regretted it.

“Detective McGinn, where in hell are you?” Lieutenant Pearl Walker bellowed into the phone. Walker, unlike Nappa, didn't have a phone voice that matched her looks. She was a stylish, milky-brown fifty-something who looked more like a thirty-something. She was tough, compassionate when she needed to be, and, most of all, still considered herself Megan's boss. Candid comments replaced the more humorous aspect Nappa displayed. “Nappa told me you're in New Jersey. Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” No breath was taken before she added, “I thought you needed time off to get away, as in away, away. As in, um, I don't know, maybe Mexico or Ibiza, having your way with a few cabana boys—not in New Jersey in the wintertime at a lake house. That's not a vacation, that's a damn asylum.”

Megan interrupted with sarcasm. “I'm fine. How are you?” She heard Walker sigh loudly into the phone, her version of an apology for striking out so strongly in the first conversation the two had shared since her mother's funeral.

In a more passive, motherly tone, she went on, “I'm missing my best detective but other than that, taking things day by day. How are you holding up?”

“I'm fine. Good. Okay.”

“Nice buffet of an answer. When do you think you can come back?”

Megan shook her head. “Lieutenant, I just got out here. It hasn't even been a week.”

“I know, but I also know work is the best thing for you right now,” Walker answered, knowing Megan would contradict her.

Pearl Walker and Megan were birds of a feather where work was concerned. They both were driven, hard-working, not the type to sit home watching bad television and wondering who would get voted off whatever island or weight loss show. But for now, Megan needed a vapid experience, which she assumed the days ahead would provide.

“You're right, most of the time—but in this case I need some space.”

“So you are planning on coming back?”

Megan raised her eyebrows, exasperated by her boss's Jack Russell terrier sense of interrogation.

“Give me until after the holidays and we'll reassess the situation.”

“
Reassess the situation
. Now you're talking like
my
bosses,” Walker responded in a huff. “If you need anything, you know to call, right?”

“Especially if it's going to be as pleasant as this conversation has been.” Megan smiled.

“I'll check back again soon, detective.”

“It's Megan.”

“All right, Detective Megan.” Walker hung up without a goodbye, again adding to the idea that perhaps some sensitivity phone training may be needed in the future.

Refocusing on her drive, Megan found herself entering a small town called Sparta in New Jersey. It was quaint with wreaths donning every streetlamp. It was a little early for that, in her estimation, but she tended to want to ignore this year's holiday season. A sign read
Lake Mohawk
. It consisted of a small street one would expect carolers to be strolling down when Christmas actually came. The hamlet-sized town was intriguing, if even sweet, mainly because she saw more people in the few shops and restaurants than she had in the entire last two days. Apparently not everyone was at home overindulging on Chinese food and self-pity.

One restaurant, Krogh's, caught her eye for a late lunch. They had valet parking, which was helpful given she couldn't see a spot big enough for the Range Rover.

The gentleman who took her keys was kind and a little shocked when Megan lunged out of the truck. Megan said, “Hope you have room for this baby.”

“I hope I can drive it, but don't worry, hon, I'll take care of it.”

Again with the
hon
thing?

Megan thanked him and asked if she needed a ticket, to which he laughed and said, “No, we just hold on to the keys till you want to leave or we close.”

Krogh's interior was more like a log cabin than a restaurant brewpub. Dark ceilings with beams and faux Tiffany lamps covered each booth. The large brass microbrewery had floor-to-ceiling glass doors. Megan found an empty seat at the horseshoe-shaped bar. The stool was too high, so she dangled her legs as if she were ten again. It made her smile, thinking back to the days when her Grampie, her dad's father, would babysit. That was back in the days when children could sit at bars. He'd buy himself a beer, and Megan was allowed as many Shirley Temples as she wanted, or until she got a stomachache. Which was usually the case after a pile of fries or onion rings and a hot dog.

She decided to forget the fact her legs couldn't touch the floor and ordered the house brew of the day. When she reached for a menu, she noticed the local newspaper on the bar:
Local Judge Still Missing, Presumed Kidnapped.
She'd just started reading the article when a familiar voice spoke behind her.

“Oh my God, is that
Trouble
I see on the barstool?”

Eight

At first Megan cringed,
thinking someone recognized her from the newspapers. Then she recognized the voice along with the nickname Trouble. The voice had changed a bit, as all voices do after years of cigarettes and booze. Few men could make her blush—it had happened once with Nappa, on a lonely night working her last case—but this man made her blush years ago. More than a blush, actually; it was the first time she'd felt yearning.

Megan turned and saw Christopher Callie.

Callie, as he was referred to during college years at Marist, stood only feet away from Megan. The old saying that your past can come back to bite you in the ass is true, but in this case it was less a bite than a deflowering. His eyes had a few more crow's feet than he'd had her freshman year, his laugh lines deeper than they once were, but she recognized him immediately.

“You've got to be kidding me. Jesus! Callie!”

Callie charged over, and his six-foot-three frame lifted Megan off the stool with as much ease as if he'd picked a feather off the ground. “Let me take a look at you.”

“Not too close, it's been a long time.” Megan felt her face flush a bit thinking of how long it had been since the two had seen one another.

“You look great, Trouble.” He slapped the seat of one of the barstools. “Come on, let's move to a booth. What are you drinking?” He was so excited that he didn't give Megan a chance to answer. He motioned to the bartender. “Two seasonals, Scott.”

“Right, boss.”

Megan smiled. “Boss? You own this place?”

Callie grinned. “For years I was fighting The Man. Now I am The Man.”

The beers arrived just moments later, and they clanked pint to pint. “Trouble McGinn.” He shook his head after a drink. “I can't believe you're here. The last time I saw you was graduation night. I was playing the piano, and you and a few other girls were singing out of tune to some song … I can't remember.”

“I'm never out of tune.” Megan sipped her beer.

“Well, not in other places, but you sure were behind a mic.” Callie stared at her longer than she preferred. He always had a shit-
eating grin on his face. It was disarming to her eighteen-year-old self, so now she both loved and hated it at the same time.

“Yeah … ”

There's always a moment of an awkward silence when lovers meet up again and both know their lives have taken different paths. The expected benign conversation ensued, but not before Megan had the memory of Callie back in the day.

He was the guy who showed up at campus parties wearing a Mets baseball hat backwards, always in a good mood. He'd lean against a wall, usually within arm's reach of the keg. He wasn't the macho guy trying to score girls or start a fight; he was liked by everyone and could be seen by everyone on campus, given his tall frame. Callie could usually be caught rushing to a class he was already ten minutes late for. The single dimple on his left cheek showed itself with even the slightest grin, and it got him out of a few tight spots. He hunched over a little when he spoke to you, partially due to bad posture and partially because Callie had a way of focusing on you when you spoke. It was one of the many things Megan fondly remembered about him from college. What every woman finds sexy: direct, eye-to-eye contact. The kind that made the world around you feel obsolete.

“Mmm. I can't believe you own this place.”

“What did you think, I'm working here on a parolee release program?” There were a few instances when Callie and the other guys in Marion Hall ran into problems getting caught gambling, placing bets on the college basketball team. There was a poker game going on somewhere in the dorm every Saturday night.

“There was a time when that looked to be your path,” Megan said with a laugh.

“I wish I could argue with that, but”—he raised his hands—“we did like our poker nights back then.”

“Wait a minute, I completely forgot,” Megan interrupted. “You're from New Jersey.”

“Born and raised right down the street, yeah. I was married in the church down the hill.”

Megan raised her eyebrows when he mentioned marriage. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and there wasn't a tan line from where there was one.

“My wife relieved me of my marital duties a few years ago. She decided—” He rubbed his temple. “How did she put it? Oh yeah. ‘I love you, I just don't like or respect you anymore.' ”

Megan grimaced at the comment.

“Her work ran her life.”

“What does she do?”

“She's a sensitivity trainer.”

They laughed.

“No, seriously, she's a doctor, a pediatrician. She fell in love with her partner, actually, and that was that.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“Thanks. But, enough about me, what have you been up to the last fifteen or so years?”

“A little of this, a little of that.”

Callie glanced down at the floor, probably wondering if he should address the purple elephant in the middle of the conversation.

“Life has been pretty boring lately.” A bizarre feeling came over Megan when she said that. Suddenly she couldn't stop giggling at the absolute absurdity of her comment. “Actually, I'm renting a place on Lake Hopatcong. I needed some time away from the city.” She waved her hand in the air. “A break from it all.”

“I was really sorry to hear, or rather read, about what happened. Really sorry.”

“Me too.” She finished her pint.

“Another drink, Trouble?”

“You asked that a lot during freshman year.”

“From what I recall, you never said no.”

“What am I supposed to say when a man of your stature twists my little arm?”

He yelled over the bar, “Scott, bring us a sampler.” Callie gave Megan a knowing look again, most likely remembering the night they'd spent together when most everyone in the dorm went home for a long weekend break. “So, how long will you be in the area?”

“Not sure. I'm taking it day by day. At least through the holidays, that's a definite.”

“Where on the lake are you?”

“Mount Arlington.”

“Are you near the water?”

“I'm right on the water. Well, right on the ice.”

He laughed and then pointed out the window to the Range Rover. “Is he yours? Tell me, do you still name things? You named your car freshman year. Buck, right?” His tone told her he knew he was right but wanted to impress her.

Megan covered her face with her palms. “How did you remember that?”

“Oh, and I remember you named your leather jacket! Ian, I believe.”

She could only nod and smile, thinking she'd forgotten that one.

“So what did you name that beast?” He nodded in amusement toward the window. “Well?”

Megan answered in an Austrian accent. “Arnold.”

“Fitting.”

The young woman had just arrived to Krogh's for work. She entered through the kitchen and donned her apron. Before starting her shift, she peered through the window to see how heavy the lunch crowd was. Much to her surprise, she caught sight of her boss seated with the new woman in town: the New York City detective, the one who'd returned her cell phone.

She watched for a few minutes, paying attention to their gestures, their facial expressions. If she had been closer, she'd have read their lips. His smile was warm, even flirtatious. Her thoughts returned to the detective, wondering why she was really there. The chef asked her to trim some of the entrees being served for the specials on the menu. As she stood over the counter trimming the fat off the pork, she couldn't help but remember the last time she held a knife.

She'd known he was dead, but it still felt powerful, and fair—both an anomaly in her life. She searched her heart to find an ounce of guilt, thinking back to the moment in the great room, but she'd be lying to herself and to God not to admit it felt damn good. The times she daydreamed about his suffering, about getting back at him for her and her mother's pained existence, only brought her to the conclusion that her mother, who she believed was in heaven­, had awoken her that early morning hour. So she could enjoy even that slight revenge, even on a dead man.

She finished the prep work and washed her hands before looking back again through the swinging kitchen door. She stared at Callie and the detective. They looked familiar with one another, yet seemed shy in a sweet way. As if it was the first half hour of a blind date, when the chemistry is there but you don't want to get your hopes up. The first time she saw the detective she remembered thinking what a pretty woman she was, except for her eyes. They seemed burdened with sadness. Like her pupils were dark clouds ready to burst rain down her cheeks because the load was just too damn much. Today she seemed lighter.

Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the waitresses motioned for her to go into the dining area and bus some of the tables. She smiled pleasantly.

“Callie, are you trying to get me drunk?” Megan laughed.

He shook his head. “Off of three beers? That's an hors d'oeuvre for you, Trouble.”

The door to the kitchen swung back, hitting a chair and making Megan turn around to see who'd entered. “Hey, wait, I've seen her. She jogged by the house the other day and dropped her phone. A girl living down the street from where I am told me where I could bring it back to her.” Megan turned back to Callie.

“You two have met? Her name is Vivian. She's been working for me for a while now. You know she's deaf, right?”

“I didn't know at first, but I found out later,” Megan answered.

“I'll introduce you.” Callie waved at a waiter to motion Vivian to come over.

“She can be shy, so don't take it the wrong way.” Callie began a slow finger spelling to Vivian, introducing Megan to her.

Megan, knowing no sign language, held out her hand and mouthed
hello
slowly.

Vivian wiped her hands on her apron and reciprocated the introduction.

Callie explained to Vivian that Megan was the one who returned her cell phone. Vivian smiled and in her strongest possible voice, answered, “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled, as though she were under water. She then signed to Callie and went back to cleaning tables.

“She seems sweet,” Megan said.

“She is. She also hasn't had an easy life. I don't mean just being born deaf, but a very bizarre family situation.” Callie grabbed the newspaper Megan had been reading earlier. “See this guy? He's her father.”

Megan squinted. “The missing man?”

He nodded. “Missing or murdered …”

“She didn't seem worried,” Megan commented.

“I wouldn't be if I were her. He's a son of a bitch.” Callie's tone turned callous as he continued. “There's a story, I don't know if it's true or not,” he shrugged. “When Vivian was born and her parents found out she was deaf, her father drove and dropped her off at a convent to be raised. He didn't tell her mother. After a few days Vivian's mother threatened legal action. The judge”—Callie pointed to the picture—“that's him, caved in and let her come back home as long as they both lived in a separate wing of the house. He wouldn't have anything to do with her.” Callie stared down at the table.

Megan shook her head. “My God, that's awful. Why did the mother stay?”

He lifted his glass, before taking a sip. “People thought for his money. She was a local girl, not highly educated, but very pretty in her day. Some other people thought she had information on him and the judge didn't want those
things
to come out.”

Megan stared back at Vivian, in awe of the story Callie just told her. Though it wasn't as if she were unaccustomed to tragedies. “So where is the mother?”

“She died a little while back. The day of the funeral, the judge had all of Vivian's things removed from the wing and placed in the gatehouse.”

Megan stared, confused of the circumstances. “Why not just kick her out?”

“He's the kind of guy that wouldn't want a stain on his reputation. Told people it was her choice to move out there.”

Megan read briefly through the newspaper about the missing judge. “Where do they think he is?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don't think they have any idea.”

“Well, it's nice of you to help her out.” Megan smiled now, returning the knowing look Callie had been shooting her throughout the conversation.

“It's only part-time. She works as a massage therapist the other half. Ya know, she's pretty good. You should have her give you one. She comes to you, brings the massage table and everything.”

Megan was thinking she'd rather be getting a massage from the man seated opposite her. And with that fleeting thought she knew it was time to stop the libations and get back to her monastic lifestyle. “I should get going.”

Callie looked a little deflated. “Well, I should get back to work. A big dinner crowd is the norm this time of year.”

He walked Megan out to the Range Rover. “Don't be a stranger, Trouble.”

Megan rubbed her eyebrow, hoping Callie hadn't picked up on the same college-girl nervousness she once displayed and frankly thought was lost forever. “Maybe I won't. Maybe I won't.”

Megan returned to the lake house feeling a bit nostalgic after running into Chris Callie. She started a fire and sat on the couch, watching the flames jump and listening to the calming noises of the wood crackling. She poured herself a glass of wine and ate half a frozen pizza, remembering that the college years of her life were probably the most serene she'd known: no depressed mothers to tiptoe around, no murders to be solved, no romantic relationships doomed, no unexpected deaths in the family. A part of her didn't want to be reminded of the easier days. It made the current ones nearly impossible to live with. She curled up with a comforter and within minutes was inside a power nap, more from the beer and wine than the relaxing fire.