Cold Water: A Modern Crime Noir (Chapter 1)
The hotel bar was softly lit. It was just after ten and I was seeking absolution from my second Scotch.
I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and although I was hungry, I wasn’t hungry enough to eat the complimentary piss-soaked nuts. There was one other person present, a woman seated in the lobby. She was in near darkness, her face illuminated only by her cellphone. After a short time, she left her seat and walked into the light of the bar. Her clothes were elegant and her hair, immaculate. She looked up and smiled a stranger's smile. “It’s so quiet in here.” Her voice was Kathleen Turner low. “I’d kill for a beer.” She glanced at me, “Do you mind if I join you?” I didn’t mind. I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered her drink and another Scotch.
“I’m Simone.”
“I’m Frank.”
“Thanks for the drink, Frank.”
“You’re welcome.”
She raised her glass to me and took a large swig. “What brings you here?”
“Work mostly.” It was a cagey response but I had no desire to dump all the details on her. I quickly followed with, “What about you?”
“I’m visiting family.” Interesting. I’d never seen her before but decided not to press her. “What is work for you, Frank?” She seemed genuinely interested.
“I’m a cop.”
She smiled knowingly, “I should’ve guessed.” I must have had ‘law enforcement officer’ written across my forehead. She switched the topic. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.”
I couldn’t help but say, “That wasn’t all that long ago.” She laughed and sank the rest of her beer. I asked if she wanted another.
“Thank you but I really should go to bed.”
“Yeah, I should go to bed too.”
The elevator ride was silent. I stole a look at her. She was about thirty-five and short. My mind wandered to sex in the elevator. We stopped on her floor and I opened my mouth, “Nightcap?” She surprised me by saying yes. I pressed for my floor. The doors closed and we made our way to the level above.
She drank Johnnie Walker from the minibar and I had coffee. “Let me guess, you’re a recovering alcoholic?” I didn’t answer, just half smiled. “I’m right aren’t I?” She looked almost smug.
“I’m not recovering. I don’t drink much when I’m working.”
“Are you working now?”
“Absolutely not. But I need a clear head for tomorrow—when I will be working.” She sat next to me on the small, leather-look couch.
“How old are you Frank?”
“I’m fifty-five.” She didn’t react. Now it was my turn, “How old are you, Simone?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“I’m pretty bad with ages.”
“You’re no fun.” She was right, fun wasn’t really me. “I’m thirty-eight.” Perhaps I wasn’t so bad with ages. She asked if I was married, I was, once. “And now?”
“Now I’m not.”
“What happened?”
“She ran off with a real estate guy from New Jersey.”
“Shit, that’s rough.” She drank the rest of her Scotch. “You don’t talk much.”
“Sorry, I’m tired.”
“Would you like me to leave?” Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot.
“No, I’m just too tired to talk.”
She rested her palm on my crotch. “Let’s stop talking then.”
It was seven when I poured my first coffee. In the dim early light, I watched Simone dress. “Are you going down for breakfast?” I told her I was and that I’d be about a half hour. She said ok, put on her shoes and left.
I chose a small table in the far corner of the dining room. I looked toward the entrance: no sign of Simone. I managed to shower and dress in twenty. I hoped she wouldn’t be much longer as I had a predisposition for expecting things to go to shit. As I was served my second coffee, she entered. I was relieved. She looked different in jeans and a sweater, she looked younger. We both ordered French toast and bacon. “I’m so hungry.” She made the words sound sexual.
“Are you checking out today?”
“I am,” she responded, not really looking at me, “I’m seeing family then heading back home.”
I nodded, trying not to sound too interested. “I’m sorry I didn’t make much effort to talk last night.”
“No problem, anyway, you made a huge effort in other areas, Frank.” I grinned. There wasn’t much else I could do with that reply.
“I should’ve maybe taken the time to find out more about you.”
“We’re passing through, it’s fine. I don’t know much about you either, only that you’re a divorced fifty-five-year-old cop called Frank.”
“Kelly. Frank Kelly.”
“Irish?”
“Probably.”
“I’m Simone Tilliard. I’m a shark—sorry, lawyer.” As she finished speaking the waitress arrived with breakfast. Simone began eating with carefree abandon. She would occasionally come up for air and sips of tea—and to say: “Do you feel uncomfortable with just fucking?” I struggled to chew my food without incident.
“Not at all.” I was trying hard not to choke.
“Are you catholic, Frank?”
“Not with you, Simone.”
Simone was at reception paying her bill. She had changed into a long black coat with black leather boots. She thanked the desk clerk and walked toward the exit. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw my bill. I begrudgingly paid and walked out the door. Simone was outside, “How you doin’ officer?”
“Good thanks.”
“Yeah, you’re pretty good.” She was an incorrigible flirt. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I really hope so Simone.”
The funeral of a close friend is something you expect to be tough but it’s tougher still when the circumstances of their death aren’t entirely clear. The local news published the story. He was shot outside a gas station—a possible case of mistaken identity, although that was debated—no less by me.
“Gerry Greenaway was the high school jock and my best buddy. He could play any sport and he beat me at them all. Most of our coming-of-age moments happened when we were together: smoking our first joint and drinking our first beer. Gerry gave up sports after a knee injury but soon cultivated a head for business. As most of us know, he went on to build a successful construction company. We were close, and on one occasion, even dated the same girl—at different times—we weren’t that close! That girl was Janet but we all know her as Jan. She was the prom queen and Gerry’s high school sweetheart, and of course, became Gerry’s devoted wife. He was a great guy and it was a privilege to know him.”
I folded my notes and put them back in my pocket. Thankfully I didn’t stammer but I did make Jan cry. Seeing her today was hard. I couldn’t help her. I had no answers.
The wake was at the Greenaways’ home. I recognised some faces from school and family gatherings. Jan was busy in the kitchen, making sure everyone was being taken care of. It was her way of coping but I worried about her.
“Jan, rest up a while.”
“Kelly,” she always called me by my last name, “thank you for today, it would have meant a lot to Gerry.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“You’re very welcome. Why don’t you go upstairs, everyone will understand?”
“I will, let me just clean these cups and I’ll head up.”
“Ok, let me know if you need anything.” There were two other people in the kitchen. I didn’t know them. I introduced myself and found out they both worked for Gerry. Liza was his personal assistant and Tom was a construction worker. After Jan left the kitchen, they soon followed. I was alone. I stood looking out the window across their perfect lawn. The day was brightening up. A familiar woman in a long black coat stood by the summer house. She was smoking and her hair was immaculate.
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