The Next(51)

God, I loved him.

I'd no idea when he recovered, but he'd obviously seen enough of the attack to have the sound of dread in his voice.

Suddenly he turned.

Someone was knocking at the Layworth's door. I watched Marzoli walk out  of the bedroom into the dividing hall and open the front door.

The mattress movers had arrived.

Too late, boys. Too fucking late.





Chapter Twenty-Five

The feel of Marzoli's lips on mine was every successful completion of  every new song I'd ever put a double bar on, funneled into one moment.  Bloody leg, bruised throats, stained clothes … nothing could diminish it.

Marzoli had been ambulanced right from the Layworths' apartment to the  hospital, where he received a quick couple stitches to his leg in an  in-an-out procedure, a set of crutches, and a bottle of antibiotics.  He'd requested to return to my apartment rather than his. When he  finally stepped through that door, right in front of the police officers  in my apartment, even right in front of some of his peers … wham. His  lips locked on mine and stayed.

Our kiss was a rock in the whirlwind of confusion as the police  scrambled to understand how one courtyard could be dotted with four dead  bodies all at once: Mr. Layworth, Mrs. Layworth, Ruben, and the Little  Old Man. Let them ask their questions. Let them pry into the filthiest  corner of all of our lives in their investigation. I had Marzoli, and he  had me … completely.

The snow continued to fall even harder as the masses of police wrapped  up late that evening, having yellow-taped all they could possibly tape.  The stretchers were the last to arrive, and the bodies were the last to  be hauled away. That's when Marzoli and I witnessed a curious, almost  incidental moment.

The Little Old Man's body was removed, and the plump, short, uptight  landlord followed the last tired, supremely uninterested officer out the  door, anxiously, verbosely, and uselessly chattering about owed rent  and utilities. For a brief moment, the Little Old Man's apartment was  completely empty and still.

Then there was movement at the door.

The Beached Whale entered. Her expression was sad but curious. Her  emotions seemed raw, as were everyone's at that point. But as she walked  through the Little Old Man's apartment, her expression was particularly  pained. Having lived in the same apartment building all these years, I  realized they would have grown quite accustomed to each other's  presence. I'd no idea how many years she'd lived in that building.  Perhaps they had even at one point known each other more intimately.

She paused in front of the gilded painting, whose subject Marzoli and I  had still not caught a glimpse of. As she stared at it, her expression  went from sadness to … I would not call it happiness. Understanding.         

     



 

She lifted the painting from its propped position in front of the  television and exited, leaving the apartment empty once again. The  landlord had been too focused on money to notice the painting had been  there, let alone that it was no longer there.

And that was it.

All stretchers gone. All ambulance lights ceased their flashing. The  stir of the courtyard had stilled. The snow fell heavily. The night  dimmed. Our long day was finally coming to a close.

Marzoli whispered, "Aren't you tired?"

"Not a bit."

"You need to sleep more than you realize."

He pushed me toward the bed and collapsed on top of me.

It would be hours before we managed to catch Z's.





Chapter Twenty-Six

The sun through the new, uncurtained window woke us up twelve days later  on a Sunday. Marzoli had remained with me the entire time, save for a  couple trips back to his apartment to collect some 2(X)ists and  deodorant. His involvement in the Layworth case was not considered  exemplary by the pencil pushers, in spite of the fact that forensic  analysis of the Layworth apartment revealed blood droplets belonging to  Nathan. Marzoli's method of catching Layworth's double-homicide was  labeled a poorly documented, unsanctioned sting operation of an  unassigned case, resulting in two weeks unpaid suspension.

Marzoli didn't care.

His pals pawed him when they came over to congratulate him, slapping him  on the back, roughing up his hair, and boxing him on the shoulders.  Each of them assured Marzoli they all had his back. Each in their own  way told the pencil pushers who put Marzoli on suspension to go fuck  themselves. I was in no way surprised Marzoli was as well liked  personally as he was highly regarded professionally. He was obviously an  integral part of the clan. Over the course of those twelve days, we  quickly learned that maintaining the tight inclusion of the clan was far  more important to its members than maintaining its straightness.

The most moving moment took place during Lieutenant Torres' visit.  Instantly I could tell Torres and Marzoli had a closer working  relationship than the rest. Torres had Marzoli's alpha-male toughness,  but he was much less apt to smile or resort to charm. After Marzoli  introduced us, Torres shook my hand and looked me squarely in the eye.

"About time," he said as he brought his other hand up to cup the top of our grip.

About time Marzoli came out? Or about time he found someone?

It touched me to know this stalwart character held his colleague's  personal well-being, fulfillment, and happiness as important. I was  grateful for the approval, and so was Marzoli. Marzoli's hand inched his  way towards mine during Torres' visit, until, by the time the bottles  of beer were downed, his hand rested squarely on mine right in front of  Torres. Torres smiled in acceptance.

But I could tell Marzoli's true satisfaction came from having defiantly  face-planted the term "inconsequential" in a pile of shit. Solving  Nathan's murder had consequences. It led to the solving of Ruben's  murder. It led to justice. It proved compassion could run a successful  course in this hard metropolis. My esteem for Marzoli grew even greater  for him being so proud of this particular element of the success.

As the sun grew stronger, someone knocked on the door. I left Marzoli in the bed and opened the door.

Johanna entered.

She looked around the apartment and smiled. "You're coming around at last. That's good."

"Johanna … " I hesitated.

"I assume you've given some thought to … " she paused in midsentence as Marzoli entered, a sheet wrapped around his waist.

He was something to worship in the sunlight-segmented abdomen, the  overhanging boulders of his chest, his massive shoulders, his sexy  roughed-up dark hair crowning that gorgeous chiseled face with the dark  shadow of stubble. The sun bounced up from the floor and made large  portions of the sheet somewhat translucent.

Johanna caught her breath.

I couldn't help relishing the bittersweet richness of waiting for her response.

"You're all over the news. Both of you," she said, "but … I … I didn't realize the investigation was ongoing."

I honestly couldn't tell if she being facetious or just biding time as  she acclimated to this new information. She was expressionless, drained  of blood.

"It's not," I replied.

Marzoli mercifully kept quiet. His appearing that ridiculously sexy in a  mere sheet was causing enough trouble. Johanna opened her mouth, and  then shut it. Opened it again to speak, and then edited herself once  more.

"I … umm … I owe you both a drink," she finally began, bravely sublimating  her emotions. "I'm in the running for Sophie Layworth's position. I'll  get it. I know too many people in her company not to, and they're  looking for someone … "         

     



 

She paused. Did she suddenly become aware of how callous she was coming across?

" … someone younger. Honestly, a lot of people she worked with want to buy you a drink."

She managed to smile, but it strained with disappointment and anger and  sadness. She sharply flicked the strap of her purse higher on her  shoulder.

"Let's talk later?" she asked crisply, refusing to acknowledge that the  elephant in the room was, in fact, an elephant with one hell of a trunk.

She turned and hightailed it out of my apartment, shutting the door  behind her so gently that she might as well have slammed it shut. To me,  as well as to Marzoli, Johanna's rising up the ladder by stepping over  the body of a woman who'd been killed only twelve days ago spoke volumes  about her as well as the industry she elected to devote her life to.  Marzoli's peers came by one-by-one to embrace him even tighter into the  circle, while Mrs. Layworth's peers might as well have pulled the  trigger themselves. We were grateful not to be entrenched in any such  battlefield, and I was grateful to Marzoli for helping me steer clear of  Johanna's artillery.

Marzoli and I looked at each other, walked to the window, and absorbed  the warmth of the sunlight. We looked across the courtyard. Our  neighbors seemed so much closer to us in proximity than ever before.  Both Couch Potatoes sat on the sofa, spooning large bowls of Honey Nut  Cheerios into their mouths, eyes glued to Sunday television. I couldn't  help but smile in relief. They sat no closer together on the couch, nor  farther from each other. They behaved as if no massage table had ever  been thrown into the courtyard; as if their passions had never rocketed  to operatic melodrama. Did the comforts of their routine erase the  drama? Or merely neutralize it? I no longer viewed their relationship as  ideal, but neither did I view it disdainfully as domestically slothful  either. Their partnership survived. Did the band-aid they selected to  repair it really matter in the end?