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Chapter Three
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Malloy drove in late the next morning, hoping one of the guys would be around. She had with her the new menus for the special wine collection, stacked in a plastic carrying case to protect them from the rain. And in her back seat, three complementary cases of beer from the new local brewery—three cases she didn't want to carry in on her own.
She figured she was in luck. For what seemed like the first time all week, Grady's motorcycle was out back when she pulled up. He'd left it uncovered. His helmet sitting derelict on the seat, water collecting under the visor. She shook her head. Then, rolling her eyes at herself, picked it up and carried it in with the menus through the door to her office, setting both on top of the shelves Miguel had made.
"Grady?" she called while taking off her jacket and tying on her apron.
There was no answer and she figured maybe Grady was gone after all, having taken a taxi or the bus like he sometimes did if he had too much for his bike to carry.
She plucked up the menus and walked into the bar, leaving them on the counter. The stools were already down, but that might have been Adam, coming by early the way he'd been doing most of the week.
Then she heard the music. Volume low, but resonant. Grady's Zen music, as she liked to call it.
She walked the length of the bar to see his bedroom door was open, and there he was, standing by the dresser, rolling clothes into a laundry bag with slow, careful movements. He was angled away from her. The slope of his jaw a pale line. His stance like a shadow. Unobtrusive and distant.
"Grady?" she said, tapping softly on the doorjamb, and was surprised when he flinched, knocking the picture frame by his mirror onto the floor.
He flattened a hand to the dresser's surface, breathing in sharply as he turned his head to look at her. "Malloy. Hey," he said, after a silence that sat too long, voice incongruently flat. He looked away, palming the opening of his laundry bag closed as he did so, sliding it stiffly onto the dresser's shelf.
Malloy breathed with minimal motion, watching his profile.
She knew that look. She'd known it since she was fifteen. It was the look Adam got every time he'd come up empty looking for Grady and then tried to pretend it didn't matter. It was the look Adam had worn for weeks when she was sixteen and her father had finally sat her down and made a delicate attempt to explain war, and loss, and concepts like PTSD.
For as many times as she'd imagined what Grady was like before she'd met him, she'd never thought that look would be so recognizable from the other side.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't," Grady denied quickly. But turning back around, he looked down, gaze falling on the broken picture frame, expression tight and face pale. He glanced up again and smiled commendably. "Or, I guess you did—obviously." He gestured at the photo and forced a laugh. "I just didn't hear you come in. Zoning out I guess." His tone had shifted. Too much inflection. The modulation he used when he was trying to be funny, but the motions from his body were all wrong. Dropping his eyes suddenly, smile vanishing, he squatted carefully onto his heels and started picking up the glass.
She thought she should help, but couldn't get herself to move.
Finally, air entered her lungs and she went forward, taking the small wastebasket by the door and bringing it over. He glanced at her gratefully, and dumped the fragments inside. He rescued the photo from the remainder of the frame, then dropped in the rest.
"Are you okay?" she asked as they both stood.
"Me?" He looked at her, eyes raw but warming to an easier smile as he propped the photo to a lean near the mirror. Beaudreaux in army gear. Grady, age eight, standing next to him in a dirty t-shirt.
What it would have been like to know them then.
She peeled her eyes away. "Yeah, you." She pushed her inflection to mimic his, like she sometimes did with Adam, trying to get things out of him without making him feel cornered. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look so good."
He laughed. "What are you talking about? I'm fine."
"Grady," she started, more serious this time. She reached out, trying to feel his forehead, but he pulled away.
"Malloy, I'm fine. I promise. I just didn't sleep well last night. You know?"
She let her hands fall. "Yeah. Yeah, a lot of that seems to be going around."
"What are you talking about?"
"Adam," she said. "He's been worried about you."
Grady hooked a hand behind his neck, half turning away from her. "Yeah," he said, sounding annoyed. "So you said the other day."
"Come on," she pressed. "What's going on?"
He met her eyes and sighed. "Okay, look—maybe, just maybe, I'm feeling a little under the weather like you said, but it's no big deal."
She gave him a look, Adam's concern ringing in her ear.
"Malloy, please… please, do not say anything to Beaudreaux about this. He has been stressed out of his mind all week. He will be all over me for nothing, and I do not have time for that right now."
"So he's a little protective. After all your time apart—after Nigel—can you blame him? He just wants to be there for you."
"I—I know." Grady held his hands up, placating, like she was the one being defensive. "And he is. Always. But when it matters, okay?" He returned her look. "Come on. I am an adult. I think I can take care of myself well enough to know when to go to Beaudreaux and when to not. This is not an emergency situation and in a few days I'll be over it without any of us having to go through the mother-hen and father-rooster routine. Now—did you need something, or were you just startling me for the fun of it?"
"Oh, so you admit I startled you," she said, letting him switch tracks.
"Maybe," he answered playfully. "But I'll deny it if you tell anyone."
Her eyes flickered up with his. She caught the apology in them but also heard the double meaning in his words and closed her mouth.
"Oye, Pancho!" Miguel's voice rang out. "Anyone here?"
Grady gripped Malloy's shoulder, solid but brief, then walked past. "Hey, Cisco," he called back. "We're here."
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"What about your mother's car?"
Miguel shot Grady a look over the top of Malloy's vehicle, one hand resting on the cases of beer still stuck in the back, but Malloy couldn't tell what he was thinking. "It's my mother's car," he answered, mist from the damp air catching in his eyebrows. "Occasionally that means she needs to drive it." He pulled on the crate, then gave up. "Are you pushing?"
Grady bowed lower on his side, but his effort seemed half-hearted and cautious, hand palming the shoulder of the front seat in a way that made it seem more like a grip for balance than an effort to snap it forward. And one arm, in a repetitive gesture, kept crossing his chest, absently, like he didn't know he was doing it.
Maybe someone got in a lucky shot at the dojo, Malloy considered. Maybe his undefined illness was a chest cold. Maybe she should make a big deal out of it and send him back inside.
Or maybe Adam had a right to his paranoia, and this was something else entirely.
Two days ago, she'd been ready to suggest that Adam go talk to Willis or his veteran's group—get perspective on this misplaced stress for Grady. Now she was thinking it should have been the other way around. Like all of them, Grady had demons to spare. His were just a little more violent than the rest.
She folded her arms and bit her tongue.
Miguel ducked back into the car, trying to leverage the case forward. "Besides," he continued at Grady, "you're going to the dojo anyway. Willis's is on the way." He stood straight in frustration, letting go of the box and spreading his forearms on the roof. "And since when has it ever bothered you to give me a ride? If you don't want to, just say so."
Grady straightened as well. "It doesn't," he said sharply, then pulled up his tone when Miguel frowned. "Look, I'm sorry, alright. I just… I might have to take some gear down with me and with the rain, I wasn't going to take the bike." He tilted his chin, peering at the cases, then turned to Malloy. "How did you even get these in here?"
Malloy rolled her eyes, but didn't answer. Instead, she took out her keys, tossing them into Grady's grip. Her car was banged up enough these days, she figured whatever it encountered in Little Saigon couldn't make it much worse.
Grady gave her a sidelong glance, holding the keys hesitantly.
"Take my car," she spelled out. "Give Miguel a ride. Don't park it on the street. Be back by four."
"What about the beer?"
"If you can't get it out, I doubt anyone else can. Go, before I change my mind."
"Okay, alright," said Grady. He lifted his eyebrows at Miguel. "I'll go grab my stuff." He shoved the keys into his jacket and went inside through the office.
In his absence, the patter of light rain tapped a slow beat on the metal cans below the drip-off of the roof, steady and rhythmic.
"He okay?" asked Miguel.
Malloy looked at the open office doorway, folding her arms so her hands hooked below opposite elbows. "I don't know," she lied.
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"Lieutenant Pine."
"Charlie, it's Malloy. Is Adam around?" She pressed the phone close to her head, holding the tip of her finger over the ear opposite. The bar wasn't crowded yet, but the four men lounging at the nearby table were laughing loudly enough to make it seem so. And behind Charlie's voice she could hear the clamor of the police bullpen vying for his attention.
"He's out running interviews with Kelsey," he answered. "You need me to get him a message?"
She loosened her fingers and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, not certain if she felt more like she was betraying Adam or betraying Grady. She looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes past four. Not that late. Not so much that she should really be worried about it. "No. That's alright," she said. "Just tell him to call me when he gets back, will you?"
"Of course."
She hung the phone up carefully, then took a breath and picked up the bottle of wine for the customer in the back booth—an Asian man who'd come in a few minutes ago and politely said hello to her in Vietnamese. She knew the type. The lone drinker who wanted an evening to just nurse a glass and consider life. She didn't mind, as long as he wasn't the type to drown himself quickly and then cause a scene.
His eyes were shrewd and calm as she set the bottle and glass in front of him. She didn't think she had to worry. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked, uncorking the bottle.
"No, thank you," he answered simply, pouring the glass himself.
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tbc