1Before There Was Darkness

Part Nine

"Jimmy, are you still with us?" Walter's voice harkened him back to reality.

"No, Walter," Dottie teased, "He may be sitting at the same table , but I think his thoughts are occupied two tables over. " She leaned over and whispered, "She's really quite lovely, Jim."

"Ah, now I see what all the fuss is about. No doubt about it, Jimmy. She's a looker. Just like this one was thirty-four years ago." Walter raised his wife's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"Now, Walter, you know that's not true," Dottie replied, a fresh blush to her cheeks. "I was never that pretty."

"Well, I always thought you were, dear. I still do." She swatted him playfully. Jim couldn't help but smile at the two of them. So, this is what marriage was supposed to be, partner for life; obviously Walter had found that, thirty-four years and still in love.

"So," Walter winked, "what are you going to do about it?".

Jim shifted positions in his chair. "If I told you absolutely nothing, would you say I was crazy? That one is way out of my league."

She had excused herself from the table, just once, and his eyes had followed her until she disappeared around the corner at the back of the restaurant. She was long-legged, lean and graceful, all class and beauty and dignity. Judging by the way she was dressed and the way she carried herself, he was more convinced than ever that they were from two different worlds; and a woman like that would never belong anywhere in his.

It was not quite 10:00 when Walter and Dottie dropped him off in front of his building. He made his way very cautiously across the snowy sidewalk and up the steps to the front door. His arm throbbed, his head ached and his whole body was tired. He realized that he had probably pushed the envelope a bit too far and a bit too soon. Maybe there was something to this prescribed down time after all. The Doctor had tried to warn him that with any head injury, concussions included, there would be periods like this for the next week or two. Damn if he wasn't right, Jim thought.

He had made it very clear to Jim that he shouldn't fight the urge to rest, let his brain tell his body what it needed. Right now it was screaming for sleep. He changed into his sweat pants and t-shirt and eased himself down onto the bed. As tired as he was, though, sleep was an elusive friend. When he closed his eyes and willed the exhaustion to pull him under and allow him to drift off into the dark, his mind was fully awake, torturing him with thoughts of her. He couldn't think of anything else; hadn't thought about anything else since that initial smile.

As much as he had tried to concentrate his efforts on enjoying the rest of his evening with Walter and Dottie, he found he had a hard time focusing his attention at his own table. He tried not to be too obvious about it but he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. Every attempt on his part to be discreet had failed; each time he had glanced her way, casually or otherwise, she had caught him looking. But, he had caught her too, once or twice, watching him over the rim of her wine glass.

Okay, Dunbar, enough already. How is it that she's got you all twisted in knots? You know absolutely nothing about her, other than the fact that she is so incredibly, frigging beautiful. God, all she had to do was smile and that was it, she had you, hook, line and sinker.

What he was sure of was that the internal battle he was currently waging with himself was all but over anyway. There was nothing to be done about it now; it had been too late the minute he sat back and watched her walk out of the restaurant and disappear into the snowy night. He had done absolutely nothing to stop her.

He sat in the dining room, a pen clutched clumsily in his left hand, a writing tablet flipped open on the table in front of him. When he woke, early, with thoughts of her still consuming him, he recognized that perhaps he had made a monumental mistake. Why hadn't he said something, approached her somehow or at least handed her his business card?

But no, Dunbar, you idiot, you made a decision based on your own goddamn insecurities and you let her walk away. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

After making a pot of coffee, he set his mind to creating a list of all the things he knew for certain; he was, after all, a Detective. In a city of millions, it clearly wasn't impossible to find her; although it would require some effort on his part but he had five days of down time left to kill and nothing better to do with them.

Her party had been at the Bistro when they arrived for their 8:00 dinner reservation;was there a reservation for 7 with a question mark. The restaurant was on Madison Avenue; was it possible that she worked somewhere on Madison with a question mark. She had been with a fairly large group, maybe ten to twelve people, mostly women, a couple of men; work gathering with a question mark. He had already tried to call the restaurant, much too early. The answering machine said open at noon.

He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It didn't seem to be ticking the time away fast enough. If I get my ass in gear, get showered, dressed and hop the train, I can be at the front door when they open. Beats the hell out of sitting around here, waiting to make a phone call. Let's do it.

It was difficult to shave with his left hand; he'd struggled with it the night before. Although there was definitely a little shadow of stubble, he decided to pass, just in case. Hard to impress someone with a piece of toilet paper glued to your cheek.

He dressed carefully, with the hope that he was going to have to make a good second impression; God knows whether her first impression of him, if she had a first impression, had been memorable. Dark grey tailored slacks, lighter grey shirt and a v-neck sweater in a cross stitch pattern of muted blue and grey. When she had given it to him, his mom had suggested that it accented his beautiful baby blues. Black belt and black leather loafers, black leather jacket and out the door; he was a man on a mission.

It was just after twelve when he pulled open the front door of Madison Bistro. "Good afternoon, Sir." The young hostess looked up from her lunch manifest, and smiled at Jim. "Can I get you a table?"

"No, thank you, I'm not here for lunch. Actually, I'm looking for some information." He flashed his badge. "There was a party in here last night, at that table," he gestured awkwardly to the long table in front of the window. "I need to know if there is any record of who might have had that reservation."

"I don't have that information, but if you'd like to wait a minute, I'll check with the manager."

"Thanks." Jim leaned against the bar. The bar stools looked a little high and given the uncooperative nature of his bruised muscles, he didn't think he was up to tackling that challenge just yet. He tapped his fingers nervously on the burled walnut.

"Detective? I understand you're looking for some information."

"Yes, please. I'm hoping you still have your records from last night. The occupants of the long table in front of the window. A group of ten or twelve, I believe."

"I have the manifest right here. Let's see, yes, here it is. We had a 7:00 reservation for Style Magazine in the name of Christine Sullivan."

"Style Magazine." He couldn't help but smile. "That's great. Just what I needed."

Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. I can take it from here."

Directory provided him with the telephone number, a reverse match provided him with the address and within thirty minutes, he was on the elevator, heading for the 24th floor of 383 Madison Avenue and the headquarters of Style Magazine.

Pushing open the solid beveled glass doors, he approached the crescent shaped reception desk. Pretty swanky place, he thought to himself. Lots of smoked glass, pale blond wood panels, etched mirrors and ornate brocade furniture.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for a Christine Sullivan."

"If you'd like to take a seat, sir, I'll check and see if she's available. Is she expecting you?"

"No, I don't believe she is. But this is quite important."

"Your name?"

"Dunbar, Detective Jim Dunbar with the NYPD."

He stood watching while she placed the call; he didn't think he could sit, even if he wanted to; he was nervous, ridiculously nervous for someone his age.

"Yes, Ms. Sullivan, there's a Detective Dunbar to see you...No, he didn't say what it was in reference to...but he did say it was important...Yes, I'll tell him." She hung up the phone. "She's just finishing up with a client but she'll be right with you "

"Thank you." He walked over to the waiting area and studied the framed prints on the paneled wall. Magazine covers from each of the past twelve months. Style magazine was exactly what it sounded like, women's fashion, and the obvious reason for the manner in which his mystery woman had been dressed last night.

A very soft, very feminine voice interrupted his thoughts, "Detective Dunbar? I'm Christine Sullivan."

Not sure what to expect he turned around slowly, and there she stood.