Smile – Chapter 27
The overhead light in the kitchen was the only illumination in the house; the sun had yet to come up. He turned the page of the newspaper in his hands, snapping it into place, and was blindly reaching for his coffee cup when a sharp metallic crack against the wooden table made him start, looking up quickly. In her dressing gown and pajamas, her hair sleep tousled and dark circles around her soft brown eyes, Irene was standing over him, a slight smile brightening her haunted features.
"I hear you're having automobile troubles," she said lightly, trying not to chuckle.
Steve's eyes slid from hers to her fingers wrapped around a set of keys on the table and back up. He put the paper down and nodded, his own smile slowly building.
With a soft laugh, she pulled out the nearest chair and sat. "Mike told me. He said you were a little, ah… hesitant…? " she ventured.
"Terror stricken," he correctly quickly with a mirth-filled snort.
Nodding with a short laugh of her own, she continued carefully, "… about letting Jeannie drive your car?" He nodded vigorously, his eyebrows raised. "I understand completely," she dropped her voice conspiratorially, laying a gentle hand on his forearm. "My car should still be on the street in front of my house – you remember where that is?" He nodded again. "It's a '72 Caprice, burgundy. You shouldn't have any trouble finding it. Leave Mike's car here for Jeannie."
"Thank you," he said quietly. "Irene, you really don't have to –"
She squeezed his forearm. "Honey, it's the least I can do. I'm not using it, and you and Bob, you need it, don't you?" She stared into his eyes and any remaining vestige of humour disappeared; she lightly bit her lower lip.
Pursing his lips, his brows knit, he nodded slowly. He put his free hand over the one on his arm. "How are you doing?" He smiled warmly and encouragingly.
Her eyes dropped to the table then rose unhurriedly to meet his, mirroring his smile. "I'm doing okay," she whispered, her stare sliding away again.
"It's good for Mike that you're here, but you know that, right?"
She nodded once more, her stare unfocussed. "I need him too," she breathed, and he barely heard her. She pulled her hand out from under his and stood up. He got to his feet as well and she looked at him gratefully. "Thank you," she said earnestly, staring into his eyes again.
"What for?" he asked softly with a slight, confused grin.
A wonderful light came back into her eyes and she smiled. "For loving Mike as much as you do. He adores you, you know… and he'd be lost without you." Her smile got wider as she stepped away, moving back towards the living room. Near the stairs, she stopped and turned back briefly. "Tell Bob I miss him, will you, Steve?"
Still speechless, almost unable to move, Steve followed her with his eyes. Numbly, he nodded, and she flashed a heartbreakingly appreciative smile as she nodded back and started up the stairs.
# # # # #
"We can swing by Irene's when we're done today, and you can take her car back to Mike's." Wilson was slumped in the front seat, dark glasses and a baseball cap masking his features as he stared at the front entrance of the restaurant a half block down on the far side. Traffic was heavy in the neighbourhood, and the inconspicuousness of Mike's dark blue sedan went a long way in helping them disappear in plain sight.
Even luckier, there was a mom-and-pop diner directly across the street; they had decided to have lunch there, in the window, which would give them an even better view of the Russian restaurant's comings and goings. Samovar didn't seem to be a popular place, but then again, it was only 11:24 in the morning. They hoped things would pick up the closer it got to noon.
They had decided against using the standard police tactic of flashing the photo of their suspect around the neighbourhood in the hopes that someone knew him or had seen him. Unfamiliar with the intricacies of Soviet society and its mores, they couldn't be sure just who they could talk to; and all it would take was one loose lip to drive the guilty further underground and out of their grasp forever.
Wilson looked across the front seat and chuckled. "Okay, I'll bite – just how many newspapers do you read in one day?"
His own eyes indiscernible behind his dark shades, Steve lowered the New York Times and smirked. "You sound like Mike. Just so happens I like to keep abreast of the news from all over – I just don't get the chance." He chuckled. "Sometimes I love stake-outs."
Wilson had looked back through the windshield. He straightened up suddenly, and Steve followed his gaze. "What?" the younger man said.
"End of the block, the two guys walking this way." He paused, letting Steve's eyes refocus. "What do you think?"
The Homicide inspector's gaze slid up to the photo on the visor, then back to the street. The two men in question, both muscular with shaven heads, continued towards them, approaching the restaurant. The detectives hearts started to pound; could they be so lucky so soon? It seemed too good to be true.
The pair reached the door of Samovar, and continued down the street without even a glance at the Russian restaurant. Steve and Wilson deflated slightly in the front seat of the blue sedan, averting their eyes as the 'suspects' walked past on the other side of the street. Steve returned to his newspaper but Wilson kept his eye on the two in the side mirror as they continued down the sidewalk.
When he chuckled to himself, Steve glanced up. "What?"
Still laughing quietly, Wilson slouched in the seat again. "It definitely couldn't have been those guys."
"Why?"
"One of them just put his hand in the other guy's back pocket," he chuckled, bobbing his eyebrows as he looked at the younger man.
Grinning, Steve lifted the Times and found his place on the op-ed page. It was going to be a long day.
# # # # #
His breath visible in the cool night air, Steve fumbled for his key as he reached the top step. Finding it, he was just about to insert it in the lock when Jeannie opened the door. Without a word, but with a definite snort that smacked of pique, she turned away and crossed back into the living room to drop heavily onto the couch.
Cautiously, not really sure what was going on, Steve stepped over the threshold and into the house, closing the door quietly behind him. Mike was sitting in the armchair, Irene on the other end of the couch, both staring at him: Irene with sympathy, Mike with barely suppressed amusement.
Clearing his throat, and trying to look serious, Mike spoke first. "So, ah, you finished a little earlier tonight. Have you eaten? There's some spaghetti sauce still on the stove if you…" The offer died on his tongue when Jeannie turned her scowl in his direction.
Glancing nervously from father to daughter, Steve tentatively shook his head. "No, ah, it's okay, ah, Bob and I grabbed a bite an hour or so ago. I'm good."
"There's fresh coffee on," Irene informed him and, for some reason the younger man couldn't fathom at the moment, was not the recipient of a Jean Stone glare.
His confusion deepening, Steve nodded. "Sounds good," he said guardedly as he turned towards the kitchen.
"I need to freshen my cup," Mike said suddenly, with more enthusiasm than the simple observation warranted, and he got up as quickly as he dared. Steadying himself against the armchair, he managed to move past Steve on the way to the kitchen. He raised a hand to cover his mouth as he walked by. "Dog house," he whispered sotto voce.
"What?" Steve asked, looking from Mike to the couch and then back to Mike as they entered the kitchen.
The older man crossed to the counter, opened a cupboard and took a mug out. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he glanced up as he poured the coffee into both cups. "Ah, Jeannie found out about, ah, about the Porsche…"
"What about the Porsche…?" Steve began, hands on his hips, then froze, his eyes narrowing. He took a deep, almost accusatory breath; Mike refused to meet his stare. "Gee, how did she find out about that, I wonder?"
Mike cleared his throat again, this time a little louder. "Well, ah, she could have overheard me talking to Irene about using her car –"
"She could have, could she?"
Mike turned his puppy dog eyes on his partner. "Honest, Steve, I never thought she'd put two and two together that fast… I mean, it would've made your head spin." He sounded almost proud.
"And, what, so you told her I didn't want her driving my car, is that it?"
"Actually," Mike took a deep breath, "I didn't have time to even get that out – she was all over it. I tried to explain to her that she didn't know how to drive a stickshift… but she wasn't paying much attention by then…." His voice trailed off and he shrugged.
Steve stared at him. Several silent seconds later, they both began to smile, then grin, then laugh. "Shhhh," Mike waved at him, leaning against the counter, his finger to his lips but unable to stop his own outbursts. Getting themselves under control, mugs in hand, ready to face the wrath of a wronged woman, they nodded in mutual agreement and turned to leave the kitchen.
Scowling, her hands on her hips, Jeannie Stone stood in doorway.
# # # # #
Smiling, Mike lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, Irene sleeping peacefully at his side. All in all, it had been a good day, topped off by the highly amusing episode of Steve having to explain to a very indignant Jeannie the rationale behind her use, or lack thereof, of his beloved Porsche. In the end, his level-headed daughter had to agree that learning to drive such a high-performance car on the hills of their revered city was a disaster waiting to happen.
It had been mutually agreed that when all this was over and life was, hopefully, back to normal, Steve would take her someplace less… challenging… and instruct her in the fine art of manual shift driving. Everyone went to bed happy, especially Steve.
Mike sighed, turning his head carefully to look at the woman beside him. Irene was on her side, her back to him, and he watched her chest rise and fall in deep, restful sleep. She seemed to do better today; she was more outgoing, almost her old self.
Turning carefully onto his side towards her, he reached out and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. She jumped under his touch, stiffening, and cried out. Instantly she began to thrash about, her arms flailing as she rolled onto her back and lashed out at him; terrified half-screams issued from her throat as she fought him off.
Caught off-guard, at first unable and then almost unwilling to restrain her, he strove to grab her arms. "Irene, Irene, Irene," he called her name over and over, at first in alarm and then, as difficult as it was, with increasing calm.
Her thrashing elbow caught him on the right side of the head, and a blinding light shot through his brain, stunning him. He lost his grip on her as he struggled not to lose consciousness. He reached out frantically, desperately trying to grab her wrists and get her under control.
Finally he got hold of her forearms and, with all the strength he had left, pulled her towards his chest and cradled her, wrapping her in a tight embrace, murmuring her name over and over in a soothing litany. After what seemed like an eternity, he could feel the tension slowly recede, her taut muscles begin to relax. She leaned against him, sobbing, clutching at his pajama top; he held her tightly, stroking her hair, repeating her name over and over.
Somewhere almost beyond the edges of his consciousness he heard the bedroom door open; he knew that Steve and Jeannie would be standing there, but he didn't care. He had everything under control.
Eventually he heard the door close; they were alone once again, in their pain and their sorrow. He continued to stroke her hair, to croon her name. It would be hours before they both fell asleep.
