CHAPTER THREE - Uncomfortable

October 15, 2005. Brooklyn Bridge, NYC. 11:43 am.

If only he had not taken that last tequila yesterday.

Morris Greek's head was pounding painfully. His mouth was dry and felt as if it was stuffed with wool. He reached for the bottle of water on the passenger's seat beside him, opened it one-handed and set it to his lips. He drank in long, thirsty gulps, and if he hadn't been driving, he would have closed his eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.

On the other hand, why not close his eyes? The traffic was stalling, as usual, before the toll station at Brooklyn Bridge. He would spend at least another fifteen minutes here before he could get on the bridge.

He looked in the rearview mirror, checking whether his handsome face bore any visible traces of his excessive drinking yesterday. But apart from the shadows under his eyes, nothing betrayed last night's activities.

Giorgia wouldn't ask, anyway. She never did.

For the umpteenth time, Morris wondered why they stayed together at all. They shared an apartment, true, but they hardly ever saw each other. Due to their respective jobs - she was a model, he a journalist - they could never plan when to be home and when not. Giorgia, who currently had a contract with DKNY, had to attend photo shootings at the strangest times of day or night, and Morris could never predict when he had to get in his car and go chase the story that would earn him the Pulitzer.

When they did indeed see each other, all they did was have sex. That was all their relationship depended upon lately. They hardly ever talked, or watched a movie, or even had breakfast together - well, or coffee, for that matter; neither of them ate much in the morning.

Sometimes Morris really wondered why they did not break up. Habit, he supposed. And besides, feelings had never mattered much to Morris Greek. Who cared if he did not love Giorgia? She had a luxurious body, which she shared with him whenever he wanted. She did not ask more from him than she was prepared to give in turn. Morris doubted that Giorgia loved him. He doubted that Giorgia could love anyone else but herself.

Not that he was any better. The most important person in Morris Greek's life was, and would always be, Morris Greek.

The main reason why they had not broken up yet was probably the fact that they looked so good together. Strange as this sounded, it was true. Giorgia Carentini' beauty was legendary on the catwalk, and Morris was frequently mistaken for a CK model himself. They were the epitome of the beautiful people, and when they turned up together at a show or party, everyone turned and stared. So each of them could show off with the respective other, and since they were both so much in love with themselves, both of them profited from that fact. In a way, it was lucky that they were so similar in that respect. No one was hurt because they knew exactly where they were at.

Morris shook his head, secretly wondering why he was thinking such thoughts. Philosophical analyses before noon were not something he was used to. Why think about feelings, anyway? Feelings were the enemy, contrary to everything that was important to Morris.

Yawning, he reached again for the bottle of water. After a few more gulps, he idly played around on the radio, changing the frequencies as the traffic moved slowly on.

You wanna hear about my new obsession... I'm riding high upon a deep depression... He liked Garbage, but not now. I think I did it again... I made you believe we're more than just friends... Morris grimaced. Britney? Eeew! Smoke on the water... a fire in the sky... K-Rock, probably. Better, but not perfect. He kept changing radio stations. "Germany still struggling with the new government coalition..." Foreign news. Despite his profession, Morris was generally uninterested in any news that extended beyond the U.S. What did he care about the German government? Germany didn't go to war. He reached again for the button when he looked up and saw that the traffic had stalled again. Swearing, he slammed the brakes down lest he hit the car in front of him. His car stopped abruptly, and his finger slid off the button. Accidentally he hit another button, and now the only sound coming from the radio was static noise.

Crap! He tried to readjust the button, turning it in both directions. Fragments of conversation zoomed in and out, and Morris frowned. He took a closer look at the button he'd accidentally hit, and slowly, a wide grin spread over his face.

How could he forget?

A few months ago, he had been assigned to a story about corruption and bribery within the police. In order to collect information, he had asked one of his informants, a brilliant technician who provided services for both sides of legality, to get him a device with which he could listen to the police radio network. Once that device had been built in, Morris had been able to hear conversation that was never meant to be made public. His story had been a big success.

Now he'd activated that device again. Carefully he tried to adjust the frequency, led by the fragments of conversation he caught every now and then.

"Ten-four. I'm on my way."

"Roger, 7135. Ten-forty."

More white noise.

"Jerry, your mom called a few minutes ago. Sounded like she wanted to remind you of something..."

"Oh, Jesus Christ on a piece of toast! I promised her to..."

Morris never learned what exactly this Jerry guy had promised his mom, for it was his turn to pay the bridge toll. He turned down the volume so that no one would notice what he was doing. Only when he was on the bridge did he turn his attention back to the radio. The frequency had stabilized; no more white noise interrupted the mixture of private and professional conversation that was sent out into the blue.

Morris kept listening, always looking for a scrap if information that might be useful. But New York seemed to have a good day. Most of the conversation was completely trivial. His thoughts began to drift until something caught his attention.

"...CSI unit found the car with which Mr. Garrett Chase was killed in '99," the operator informed the squad cars. "A red Corvette, license plate ROY101. Stolen on April 7, 1999, turned up again two days later. Investigation suggests that Mr. Chase was killed by the thief. We don't know yet whether this was intentional or an accident. We have order to reinvestigate the theft. Any officer must cooperate with the CSI detectives, if asked. Copy that."

"Roger, operator."

"Ten-four, operator."

"Copy..."

Morris turned the radio off. His hands were shaking. God, he needed a cigarette! He rummaged through his pockets and found a battered package with two Marlboro Light left in it. He fumbled for one, pressed the cigarette lighter and impatiently waited for it to heat up. When his cigarette was lighted, he smoked in hasty, deep puffs.

Suddenly everything fell into place. Of course he'd heard about the body that had been discovered two days ago, but the name Garrett Chase had meant nothing to him. And no one had said exactly where the man had been found. But now...

Suddenly Morris Greek was seventeen again. He remembered the kick of high speed when he slammed down the accelerator of the car he'd "borrowed." Convertibles, all cars had to be convertibles. Otherwise, the joyride would only be half the fun. And when it rained, well, then the owner might have to remove the leather seats and have them cleared, repaired or replaced.

There had been three of them: himself, John and Brad. It had been a sort of competition: who managed to steal most cars without being caught? There were only three rules: no one was to tell on the others, the cars had to be returned, and the competition had to stop when the first of them turned eighteen. Until then, they were minors and thus subject to different laws, should they be caught. And since they always returned the cars, the punishment might not be too hard.

Sometimes it had been a close call. But somehow they had always avoided being caught, and all three of them had adhered to the rules. Brad, the oldest of them, had turned eighteen in June, and neither he nor John - at least to his knowledge - had stolen any car after that.

But the problem was that there was something he had never told the others. He'd stolen this Corvette and kept it for two days, as usual. And as usual, he'd cruised around just outside of the city area on the second evening. The day had been foggy and rainy although it was summer, and the streets were slippery.

Morris closed his eyes, shivering at the memory that suddenly poured over him. The street, the woods, the street shimmering slick with rain... His foot on the accelerator, the wind blowing through him... And then the shape of a man walking by the side of the road. He pressed his foot further down on the accelerator and shifted in a lower gear so he could speed up better. The engine roared in protest; the man looked around; Morris reached again for the gear shift and honked the horn with the other hand... and then everything was just a blur of screaming tires, crashing glass and chaos...

Morris shook off the memory. Had that been on April 8? Was the nameless man he'd run over and buried Mr. Garrett Chase? It was an accident! his mind screamed. What could I possibly have done? I was almost done with high school; I'd have ruined my future if I'd told anyone!

What did it matter now? This was six years in the past. Time surely had taken care of all evidence he might have left. Until now, no one seemed to have suspected that there ever had been an accident at all. He'd battered the windshield with a baseball bat in order to conceal the traces of the man's body hitting it. Circumstancial evidence concealed by an act of vandalism. It seemed to have worked.

But now they'd found the body, and suddenly the past caught up with him. Morris felt very uncomfortable. Of course, he was safe - nothing connected him to that theft; no one had ever seen him. No one but Brad and John even knew about this special aspect of his youth.

No one knew. Something seemed wrong about that. Morris racked his brains.

Suddenly another memory surfaced before his eyes: a girl with dark, almost black hair and dark blue eyes in which warmth, humor and melancholy were reflected. She was quite pretty, with clear features and soft skin, but her shoulders were slightly slumped and made her look shy, uncertain and introverted. This effect was amplified by the fact that she had a few pounds too much. She was not obese, not even exactly fat, but well above the current ideal weight for a girl of her height.

Morris frowned. Patricia Quinlan, he remembered. She'd been in his high school year, and he'd always suspected that she was in love with him. Like most girls in the year. They'd gotten along, but he hadn't thought of Tricia Quinlan in ages. Why now?

His brain gave him the answer a moment later, and Morris gasped. God, Tricia had seen him steal one of the cars! She knew!

And if that wasn't bad enough, Morris now remembered that Tricia had caught him in April, stealing the red Corvette.

And the police were looking for the thief of this very car.