“You look tired tonight.”

“Yeah, I am.  It’s been a long week.”  For a moment the freckles on Joanne’s face faded into the color of her blush.  His attention embarrassed her, but he didn’t take his eyes from her.  He could see the scar by her eye, still pale.  He always noticed it now.

“What is that?” Jason asked.

“What?”  Joanne stabbed at her salad and nearly sent a crouton across the table.  There was a glimmer behind her eyes that he didn’t understand yet.

Jason reached across the table and touched the scar.  Physical contact, in such a public place, made them both stiffen.  Jason glanced around at the other tables and found that no one was staring at them, or seemed to care about the intimate touch at all.  At Joanne’s request, they had returned to Antonio’s Pizzeria.  Jason couldn’t have been happier.

“Oh that.”  Joanne brushed at it as though she were chasing away a fly.  “That happened to me when I was a little kid.  I was bitten by a jaguar.”

“Bitten by a jaguar.”  Jason blinked several times.  “How does that happen?  Where did you grow up? Kenya?”

“They don’t have jaguars in Kenya.  Jaguars live in the jungles, mainly in Central and South America.”

Jason gestured with a spoonful of his minestrone soup.  “Sorry, forgive my ignorance of jungle cats.  So you grew up in Brazil?”

“No, Seattle.”

“They have jaguars in the jungles of Seattle?”

For a moment, Joanne’s eyes flashed.  Her irises sparked like sunlight caught on the waves of a deep green river.  Jason feared he had crossed some sort of boundary that he had been unaware of.
*****

The cat enclosure had a low, dark ceiling and a floor covered in black, ribbed rubber.  Joanne tentatively took a step on the rubber floor and made her patent leather shoe squeak against it.  She didn’t risk doing it again for fear of bringing her dad’s attention back to her.

The walls were lined with glass windows and an iron railing was set about three feet from the walls.  Joanne’s mother steered her along with the crowd by gently pulling her hand, and Joanne’s short legs kept up easily.  She didn’t need to pay attention to where they were going.  She peered intently through each window as they passed by.  Some of the windows led to the outside, and Joanne could see the dark gray sky above the rocky cliff that seemed to be part of another world.  The rocks through one were sandy brown and rounded aside from their flat tops.  Through another, gray rocks were nearly obscured by leafy plants.  Joanne didn’t see any lions and tigers hidden among the rocks, but her teacher, Mrs. Cook, had told the class that some animals had fur that hid them.  Joanne tugged on her mother’s hand.

“What kind of kitty-cat are we going to see?” Joanne asked.  “A lion or a tiger?”

“I think your daddy said it was a jaguar,” said her mother.

“A jaguar?” said Joanne.  The word was hard to get her tongue around.  “Jaguar,” she repeated.  “Do they have stripes?”  She liked tigers better than lions because of their stripes.  And because they were orange.  Orange was good, there weren’t too many things that had the same color as Joanne’s hair.

“I think they have spots,” said Mom.

Spots.  Once again the day held promise and not even a shush from her father could squelch that.

Other windows showed complete enclosures.  Joanne could see the cement block walls and ceiling beyond the well-placed rocks and heavy tree branches.  The floors were cement too.  Truthfully, she didn’t think that the big kitty-cats would be comfortable in such a place.  Still, Joanne found no cats in the rectangular, jungle-decorated rooms.

When her mother stopped, and Joanne did as well, they were standing in front of an area cordoned off by thick red velvet ropes.  Joanne was tempted to reach out and touch one, to see how soft it was, but she kept her hands at her sides.  If she behaved very well, Dad would have to let her take the picture for show and tell, wouldn’t he?  Beyond the rope there was a podium and a large cage that was covered by a beige sheet.  Something moved inside the cage.  The edge of the sheet moved as though a breath of wind was blowing against it from within.  Joanne felt her heart beat a little faster.  “Jaguar,” she whispered once again to confirm the word.

A man stood next to the cage.  He was taller than Joanne’s father, and lean.  His face was especially long.  His nose came to a hook and it seemed to twitch in time with the movement of the covering sheet.  His ears stood out from his face in a way that would have made Billy Walters from school make fun of him.  The tall man laid a protective hand on the top of the covered cage as the man with the red flower in his pocket walked up to the podium.

He made a speech, but Joanne ignored him.  His voice echoed around the halls and bounced off the windows and rubber floor.  Outside the sky gave way, and the rain poured against the complex’s roof with a boom of thunder.  The man at the podium made some sort of joke that the grow-ups laughed at.  The tall man standing by the cage didn’t crack a smile.  His eyes roamed the crowd and finally fell on Joanne.  Joanne smiled at him.  To her surprise the edges of his thin lips raised ever-so-slightly.  His eyes shifted to the podium and Joanne decided that she’d pay attention too.

“But we wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for all of you and your generosity.  I know most of you already know about our special surprise, but there has been a change in plans since so many people can’t keep secrets!”  The same few people in the crowd laughed and some just muttered.  Joanne’s father wasn’t part of either group.  He had a smirk on his face.  “This is the first complex of its kind where no bars will ever obscure the view of these gorgeous cats.  And therefore, each of you primary docents will get the chance to meet the first resident of the Harris-Ellison Cat Complex, face to face.”  The weather complemented the man’s words and lightning crashed outside.  Thunder never scared Joanne.  She knew it was just what happened when it rained sometimes.  It was nothing to worry about, her mother had told her, even when the lights went out during a storm.  The only thing that Joanne was scared of was the dark thing in the back of her closet and she even doubted that was real sometimes.

The tall man slowly drew off the beige sheet.  The cat was smaller than the tigers that Joanne had seen.  More like the size of a lion.  Maybe smaller.  The cat’s fur was beautiful.  The markings on the thick orange fur looked like dark flowers to Joanne.  One rosette surrounded another; each spot was distinct and dark.  It might have been that because Joanne was small that the jaguar stopped and met Joanne’s eyes.  The cat’s eyes were pale yellow and glowed in the low light of the complex hallway.  Joanne’s heart sped up, and she clutched her mother’s hand tighter, but she didn’t make any effort to hide.

“This is one of the oldest jaguars in captivity. She was captured in the jungles of the Yucatan nearly ten years ago, already an adult,” the man with the rose was saying.  After a moment, the jaguar began to move again, pacing around the cage, panting with her pink tongue hanging out.  The jaguar’s teeth were a pale yellow color and long.  “And this is Howard Devlin, her caretaker.  Howard?”  Joanne was vaguely aware that the tall man with the hooked nose, Howard, had taken a step closer, placing himself between the crowd and the jaguar.  Her eyes stayed fixed upon the cat.

“I need everyone to do as I say,” said Howard Delvin.  His voice was rich and accented.  He spoke softly, with more authority than Joanne’s father ever brought to bear.  “I’m going to open the cage up and lead her out.  Then you all may, one by one, have a picture taken.  No more than one person at a time.  I will be at her side at all times.”

Now Joanne’s mom’s hand tightened.  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she whispered to her father.

Howard slipped a rope strung through a pole between the bars of the cage.  Quickly and easily, he looped the rope around the jaguar’s neck.  The cat halted her pace, but otherwise didn’t seem to notice.  Howard held on to the pole and slowly opened the cage door.  The jaguar paused and then stepped out.  She laid her ears flat and surveyed the crowd one more time.

“Well, if you don’t like it you can always leave,” said Joanne’s father.  His smirk didn’t leave his face.  For a moment, Joanne feared that her mother would actually leave.

“I want to see the jaguar,” she said.  Her mom’s eyes were worried, and Joanne immediately regretted making the statement.

“See,” said Father.  “My little Jo isn’t afraid.”  He took Joanne’s other hand and her mother let go reluctantly.

“But he said only one at a time,” said her mother.

Her father didn’t hear.  He led Joanne to a gap in the velvet cordon.  Howard shook his head slightly before they stepped through.  “I said one at a time only.”

“She’s just a little girl,” said her father.  “There’s no harm in both of us, together…”  His voice lost power under Howard’s head shake.

“One at a time or not at all, sir.  She’ll be perfectly safe.”  Howard leaned down and let his hand rest against the jaguar’s back though he managed to keep the rope and pole taut.  The jaguar rested back on her haunches and regarded Mr. Ellison and his daughter.

Her father bent down, but not far enough to look Joanne in the eye.  “You want to be the first one to have your picture taken with the kitty, Jo?”

Joanne knew her father wanted her to say yes and her mother wanted her to say no.  One of them would be unhappy with her when they returned home.  In the end, it was the thick spotted fur of the jaguar that made Joanne’s decision easy.  She nodded.  “Yes.”

“That’s my brave girl,” said her father.  He patted her cheek and ruffled her hair.  From nearby, she heard someone cheer her, ‘That-a-girl!’

“Come here slowly,” said Howard.  Joanne still found his nose entrancing, but it was the jaguar that she concentrated on.  The cat panted again with her tongue out and, like Joanne, seemed oblivious of the thunderous storm that had hit outside.  Joanne walked carefully to a spot beside Howard Devlin on the far side from the jaguar.  She stopped when Howard held up his hand.  “Let her get used to you a little,” said Howard, “and be very quiet.”

Joanne nodded.  Her right foot ached to make the squeaking noise again, but she knew that wouldn’t be a good idea.  A short distance away, a man with a large fancy camera knelt down and angled his camera so the red velvet cordon wouldn’t be in the way.

“Alright, come forward.  Keep your arms at your sides,” said Howard.

Joanne walked forward.  Her eyes only strayed from the jaguar long enough to see the muscles in Howard’s arms tense as he held the rope and pole.  “You can come a little closer.”

The jaguar was sitting, but Joanne was hardly taller than the animal.  Joanne could see the details of the fur on the cat’s face and the wiry whiskers that surrounded her nose.  The patterns of light and dark were delicate and more intricate than the stripes Joanne had seen on a zebra.  She desperately wanted to touch the jaguar’s fur.  Joanne just knew that it would thick and soft, softer than any stuffed toy she owned.  She remembered Howard’s warning though and clutched at her skirt to keep her hands at her side.

The jaguar’s whiskers twitched as they took in Joanne’s scent.  There was a low rumble from deep within the cat.  “And now turn around for your picture,” said Howard.

Joanne slowly turned to face the crowd and her father, but kept the jaguar and Howard in the corner of her eye.  She smiled.  Thunder rolled over the building as the camera clicked its picture.

Then the lights went out.

Startled sounds came from the crowd, but Joanne stood absolutely still.  She could see the slivers of light from the outward facing windows reflected in the jaguar’s eyes.  She knew the cat was much closer than when the picture was snapped.  Joanne breathed in the heavy smell of jaguar.  She reached out her hand and touched fur that was every bit as Joanne thought it would be.  Joanne felt the jaguar bump into her and leave a ghost of warmth against her chest and legs.  The cat knocked her off-balance and Joanne landed solidly on her butt as though she had abruptly sat down.  She was surprised when she felt hot breath against her face and the top of her head.  She stayed very still.
*****

“It was a jaguar at a zoo.  My Dad was involved in financing the zoo and there was a photo op with a jaguar and it got away from its handler and bit me.”

“This was a full grown jaguar?”

Joanne nodded.  Any anger she had earlier was gone.  “Yeah, a big jaguar.”

“You could have been killed.”

“That’s what my mother kept saying.  I don’t think she ever forgave Daddy.”

“I don’t think I can forgive him.”  Jason suddenly lost his appetite for soup.  It was too soft, mushy.

“No,” said Joanne.  “It wasn’t his fault.  It just happened.  That’s all.”

“If he put you at risk, he was negligent.”

“Don’t worry about it.  It was just a nip.  I doubt the cat would have hurt me.”

Jason sat back and sipped the beer he had ordered.  “Wow.  If anything, it’s a story to tell.”

“Yeah.  There’s that.”  Joanne finished her salad.  “Surely, you have good stories.”

Jason frowned.  “No, not really.  Nothing that comes close to being bitten by a jaguar.”

“You’re a police detective.  There’s got to be stories.”

“None that I want to tell.”

“Really?”

“I love my job, really.  I’ve never wanted to do anything else.  But I’d rather leave work at work.”

The waitress came by and took Joanne’s plate.  “Another beer for either of you?” she asked.

“No thanks,” said Joanne.

“Maybe with dinner.”

She nodded and left without taking Jason’s bowl.

“Isn’t it slightly contrary that you’re dating someone you met in relation to a case?”

“This is a relatively new rule in my life.  Now that I have a life aside from work.”

“Then you aren’t going to answer me if I ask about Rodriguez?”

Jason winced.  The beer had left him relaxed.  “Not much is going on with that case.  He had gang ties and he was probably assaulted in relation to that.”

“So you’ll probably never catch anyone?”

Jason shook his head slowly.  “That’s how a lot of my job goes.”

“And you still love it?”  Joanne swept crumbs on the tabletop into a compact pile.  Her fingernails were a pearly pink, much more demure than anything Jason has seen on her nail before.

“Yeah, because sometimes we do catch the bad guy.”

Joanne nodded.

“You sure you have to go in to work tonight?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, just for a while.  I need to catch up on my hours.”

“Why is that?”  Jason didn’t bother worrying about whether Joanne would take offense at his question.  If she didn’t want to answer, she wouldn’t.

“I had an appointment to keep earlier in the week.  Nothing important. But I missed some work.”

“Is Tracy a good boss that way?”

“He’s okay.  I think I might have to find a day job though soon.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Nights are wearing on me.  And besides, I’m starting to have a life aside from work.”

Thank you for reading! The second half of Chapter Fifteen will be posted on September 5, 2010.

Nathan had been watching Martinez for nearly a week before the Captain made a mistake. He almost went back to Dien with nothing.

Martinez was straight laced. He had a short, round wife and a thirteen-year-old son who was, according to Mrs. Martinez’ van, an honor student at Gompers Middle School. He worked long hours, spent much more time with the detectives and patrolmen under him than with his wife. It shouldn’t have surprised Nathan when Martinez finally visited a thinner, pretty woman on the other side of town.

Nathan saw her as she answered the door. Through his open window, Nathan snapped pictures of the two as she greeted him. She might have been Martinez’ sister, or cousin, or niece. Until he caressed her cheek and kissed her in more than a familial way. He held the button of his camera down and let it shoot out the roll of film.

Nathan took down her address and left.

He was in a borrowed car today, a plain gray sedan that matched the landscape. His first stop was Ted’s Two Hour Photo. Ted’s was nestled in an old Taco Bell restaurant, the kind that had faux stucco and a peaked façade where the bell would go.

Christmas bells rang against the door when Nathan walked in. A housewife stood at the counter. She smiled nervously at Nathan and proceeded to pointedly avoid looking at him. Nathan tried to spend time flipping though a rack of postcards that Ted placed near the door. It didn’t calm the woman’s nerves. Only Ted’s reappearance from the back room allowed her to lower her shoulders from where they had crept up near her ears. She paid her twelve fifty for the prints and Nathan made sure he had moved away from the door as she left.

“How are you doing today?” Ted’s long black hair was kept back in a ponytail. He could have passed for any number of burnt out rock stars and the look included permanent deep circles under his eyes.

“I’m good. I’m endeavoring to keep you in business.”

Nathan made sure the film in his camera had been wound before opening the back and dumping out the cartridge.

“Anything juicy?” Ted asked as he popped the film into an envelope.

“Not very.” They had come to an agreement a long time ago. Ted would turn a general blind eye to anyone he might recognize in Nathan’s photos, and Nathan would refrain from letting the IRS know too much about Ted’s finances. It was an amiable relationship. Ted didn’t care about too much outside of the photography he loved. He had no desire to squeeze anything out of Nathan aside from continued patronage. That, as much as the quality of the work Ted did, was what Nathan found valuable.

Ted let out a heavy sigh. “I really wish you’d go back to working for rich unhappy wives. Their husbands always screw around with gorgeous babes. You want a rush on this?”

“Please. I’m already behind on this one. Some people might do bad things, they just don’t do them often enough.”

Ted wrote up a form, folded it and put it in the envelope with the film. “That reminds me of a conversation I had earlier today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Remember that murder a while back that the police blamed on Wolverine?”

Nathan nodded. An unfortunate slip of the tongue by a young cop.

“This guy I know is convinced that the Wolverine has struck again. Swears he found a body that was ripped up like that. Turned it into the cops and now it’s been all covered up.”

“Is this the same guy that saw glow in the dark aliens inside the brewery?”

“Nope, but this guy is probably as reliable when he is sober.”

Nathan nodded in sympathy, but stored the tidbit of information away. He never knew when things would come in handy.

“I’ve got a light load at the moment, so I should have them ready by five. That cool?”

“Wonderful.”

Nathan signed off on the form and left Ted’s.

He got into his borrowed sedan and headed home. Once there, he dialed the number Ian Dien had given him.

“Hello, Hildebrant’s Café. We close at four thirty. Is there anything else I can help you with?” It was the voice of a woman.

“Is Mr. Dien there?”

“Uh…” He heard muffled sounds as the girl glanced around the shop. “Yeah, he’s here. Would you like to speak with him?”

“Please.”

“Just a minute.”

After a moment of silence, Ian Dien came on the line. “Hello?”

“This is Mr. Smith. How are you today, Mr. Dien?”

“I’m fine. I take it you have some news for me?”

“I do, indeed. I’ll have some very interesting photos for you to see in a few hours.”

Ian paused. “Will you be interested in continuing to work for me?”

“I haven’t decided that yet, Mr. Dien. How about we meet later and you can tell me what else will be needed of me.”

“Fair enough. I’ll let you in.” The phone clicked and went dead.

Ian Dien had insisted that they have a drink at the café counter. This time, Nathan had accepted. The beverage was whiskey with an old and mellow flavor. Whiskey wasn’t Nathan’s thing, but he could appreciate Dien’s desire for quality. This was the way men made deals. Like this with expensive alcohol in ornate crystal tumblers, or in cold alleys with knives and guns.

“These are the photos.” Nathan placed an eight by five envelope on the counter. They had come out well. Nathan had a good camera and Ted cleaned up anything that Nathan’s skills lacked.

Dien picked up the envelope and looked at the pictures without taking them out. “Who is she?”

“Hooker. Has a record. If you want her name, I can give it to you. That’s not what you want though, I’m sure.”

“You’re right.” Dien placed his drink on top of the envelope. “I’ll tell you what I want, Mr. Smith. There’s an investigation going on involving the stabbing of a criminal in a back alley. Happened around two weeks ago. The victim’s name is Javier Rodriguez. It hardly made the news. The detective investigating is Jason Tobel. Martinez is his superior. I want Tobel off the case.”

“Did Joanne Ellison kill Rodriguez?”

Dien raised an eyebrow and didn’t answer.

“Look, I don’t know what connection you have to her. You certainly didn’t show up in my investigation of her. You intimidated me, you’ve paid me. I respect both of those things, so I’m not about to go spreading what I know around. That’s very bad for me. I can make demands on Martinez if you want me to, but I won’t if you’re not going to be straight with me.”

Dien picked up the bottle from between them and poured another finger into his glass. Nathan had hardly touched his. “I can find another man to do the work, Mr. Smith. I don’t need you or owe you.”

“That’s entirely true. But I don’t think you want too many people knowing about this. Otherwise you would have hired someone else.” Nathan picked up his glass and drained it. “Did Joanne Ellison kill Rodriguez?”

Ian Dien looked right through Nathan. “I don’t know.”

Nathan bobbed his head. He had two choices. Take Dien at his word, or leave. He finished the whiskey in his glass in one warm gulp.

It was Dien’s turn to produce an envelope. This one matched the one Nathan had already received. Before Nathan said anything else, Ian poured more whiskey into his glass. “Let’s talk about your further employment.”

Thank you for reading and comments are always welcome! Chapter Fifteen will be posted on August 29, 2010.

“I missed you last week, Joanne.  I’m glad to see you here today.  Tea?”  A fat, squat teapot sat on the table between Joanne and Mistress Ellen surrounded by mismatched tea cups and bowls of condiments.  There were no chicken feet to be seen. “It’s English Breakfast, nice and warm for such a cold day.”

“Yes, please.”  The weather had turned truly cold last night and Joanne hadn’t stopped shivering since.  She tucked the throw afghan around her legs and picked a cup from the jumble.

“I was a little worried, you being gone, after your last visit.”  She poured the tea and laid a spoon on the saucer for Joanne to use if she added any cream or sugar.

“Things have just gotten busy in the past week.”  Joanne tasted the brew and then added a small amount of cream to it.

“Really?”  Mistress Ellen’s hair was braided in fine layered braids that were held at the end with beads.  They rattled as she leaned forward and touched Joanne’s hands.  “I hope this is something you’re going to tell me.  You can share the good as well as the bad.”

“I’ve met someone,” said Joanne.

Mistress Ellen smiled.  “Someone good?”

“Yeah.”

“So you let go of yourself go a little and nothing bad happened?”

Joanne nodded and thought about it.  “I guess so.”

“And what have your dreams been about since you’ve met Mr. Good and New?”  Mistress Ellen stopped short.  “I’m assuming he is a he.  If not, you can be sure I don’t hold that sort of thing against anyone.”

“No, he’s a he.”  She stirred her tea slowly.  “My dreams have been about dancing.”

“Different from the ones you’ve had?”

“Some of them, yes.  Some have been the same, but others have been so peaceful.  I never tire.”

“Is there anyone with you in those good dreams?”

“No, I’m alone.  I’m dancing alone.”

Mistress Ellen refreshed her own cup and splashed two sugar lumps into it.  “Is your new man a dancer?”

“No.  He’s…He’s a police officer.  I don’t think he has any background in dance.”

“You haven’t talked about it at all?”

“No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“Hasn’t come up.  We’ve only been on a few dates.”

The beads rattled and Mistress Ellen sat back with her tea.  “Are you afraid to tell him about your old dreams?  That you’ll have to?”

“That could be it.”

“Then don’t.  Tell him about your new dreams.  And I have to wonder, Joanne, that maybe you should start dancing again.”

“I don’t know about that…”

“My dear, I love that you come to me and pay me to help you.  Really I do.  But there needs to come a day when you’re stronger.  And the only thing that I see that will make you strong and whole again is dancing.”

“I just…”  Joanne closed her eyes.  “That’s a frightening thought.”

“Oh no, I know.”  Mistress Ellen put down the cup with an audible click.  The bottom of it was already riddled with chips.  “But this is what you need to find peace.”

Joanne shook her head, but opened her eyes again.

“Do it.  Trust me.  Dance again.”

* * * * *

Joanne walked past the studio three times.  The day was cold and her ears and nose turned a deeper color with each turn around the block.  She had forgotten her scarf.  She breathed in icy air and let it wear her out.

The studio had no windows on the ground floor.  It was a big affair with room for ballet, jazz and tap as well as a yoga class every Tuesday and Thursday.  Joanne had read the ad in the phone book five times before she had left her apartment and at least twice the night before.  It wasn’t the closest to her apartment, but she had decided it would be easier if she went under the pretense of taking up yoga.  She could decide if it was the studio for her.  It had seemed a good rationalization last night when her ears were still filled with cotton from Andy’s beloved noise.

She passed the door the fourth time without even breaking stride.  This wasn’t going to work.  Mistress Ellen didn’t know what she was advising when she told Joanne to dance again.  Nothing good had ever come from that life.

A woman passed her on the sidewalk.  Her head was uncovered too and her cheeks were flushed with cold and hurry.  Her blonde hair was braided around the crown of her head.  She wore tights under her long beige coat and carried a worn duffel bag.  She was unaware that Joanne watched her pass and dashed through the door of the studio.  She was late for her daily exercises.  How long had it been since Joanne had daily practiced her positions?  At one point in her life, they had meant everything to her.

Young Joanne stood at a rail by the mirror along with a dozen other girls.  They all stood with their feet turned out and their heels touching, left hand on the bar.  Within the rhythm of the piano playing, the girls bent their knees and let their arms follow gracefully.  Miss Lumley walked up and down the row correcting here and there.  She rarely said a word to Joanne, encouraging or not.  She was in charge when Miss Stolstovich was gone.  And lately Miss Stolstovich was gone very often.

Joanne watched her own form in the bright mirror.  There was an older girl at the beginning of the line that set the pace and showed “near perfect form” in Miss Lumley’s words.  Joanne straightened her back and moved the toe of her left foot out an inch.  It made her knee feel tight, but only for one repetition of the plié.  She tried not to watch in the mirror for too long.  Her skin was so much darker than everyone else’s with all the freckles.  Even through her pale pink tights, Joanne could see the splotches.

Why had they appeared?  There were pictures of her when she was younger and her skin had been normal.  She had been poked and prodded by doctors until her mother had decided they were useless.

“Very good.  Now, let’s try something different.”  Miss Lumley clapped her hands and gained all the girls’ attention.  Beyond her, Joanne could see the short trollish man that owned the dance studio standing next to Joanne’s mother.

“Miss Ellison!”  The troll’s voice rang out over the quiet sound of the piano.  “Please, come here.”

She felt her skin glow as all eyes went from Miss Lumley to Joanne.

“Go ahead, Joanne,” said Miss Lumley.

Joanne bobbed her head and padded over to the troll and her mother.  Her mom was frowning now, eyes angry.  Joanne hoped it wasn’t her fault that her mother looked that way.  Usually the only time Joanne saw that expression is when she was on the phone with Joanne’s Dad.

“We’re not wanted here anymore, Joanne.”  Her mother’s voice was as straight and strong as the rail Joanne had used for her exercises.

“What do you mean?  I thought I was doing good.”  Joanne made sure she stood with her shoulders back in the proper stance.  She wanted to prove that she had learned lots.

“You are, Joanne.  You’ve done so well.”  She reached out a hand to Joanne, but Joanne stepped backward.

“Then why do I have to go?”

The troll answered.  “You don’t belong here.”  He had a wide face and nose.  He had the knotted leg muscles of a dancer that hadn’t followed the basic teachings Joanne had learned: work every day.

Joanne took another step away from her mother and the troll.  “Why not?  Miss Stolstovich said I was good.  I want to dance!”

“Joanne, please.  Don’t make a scene.  Let’s go.”  Pleading.  Her mother was scared and angry.  She stepped between Joanne and the troll.

“No!”  She knew all the students were watching and Miss Lumley too.

The troll folded his arms over his chest.  “We only teach those girls who have the potential to go on to greatness.  You are too ugly to ever be great.  Stolstovich should have known better.”

Joanne winced.  She had been called ugly by other girls and by cruel boys.  They didn’t know better, her mother had explained.  But never had an adult said anything about her looks.  A girl behind her gasped loudly like the room itself had let out a breath.  Joanne stood still, her shoulders well placed over her hips and legs and tried not to cry.  She knew it never helped.

“Let’s go, Joanne.”  Her mother took her hand, but Joanne pulled away.  Her nails cut into the palm of her mother’s hand, leaving a wound that began to bleed quickly and copiously.  Her mother didn’t cry out.

Joanne ran.  She darted past the troll and through the door of the suite where the studio was nestled.  She made it to the outside stoop before she broke down crying.  It was raining and she felt caught on the stairs.  Her slippers had become sodden with damp.

Behind her, the door opened and closed.  Her mother came up behind her and put her unwounded hand on her shoulder.  The other she kept balled up tight.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“No, don’t worry.  You didn’t hurt me.  You’re just upset because you have so much passion.  Don’t apologize for that.”
The Chicago wind made Joanne’s nose run and she swiped at it with a gloved hand.  Her passions were something that she kept close control of.  She worked and lived as she did to maintain that.  But it was something she could never run from.

She backtracked to the door of the studio.

Thanks for reading! Chapter Fourteen will be posted on August 22, 2010.

Nathaniel Smith arrived early and watched Hildebrant’s Cafe. It was a small place that sold antiques and books along with coffee and simple sandwiches. It had a quality that made it respectable instead of pretentious. Nathan couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the classic quality of the antiques in the window, behind the security bars. There wasn’t anything kitch about them. They were the sorts of things that Nathan’s mother would approve of: gilt edged plates, cups and saucers, sets of shining silver spoons. Nothing plastic.

A second envelope had appeared under Nathan’s door this morning. The note requested Nathan come to this address if he was interested in a job. Its tone was flattering and conciliatory. The handwriting was the same as the note he had found tacked to his door a few days before. It was enough for Nathan to be cautiously curious. Whoever it was that had ‘requested’ him to put an end to his investigation of Joanne Ellison had resources.

Hildebrant’s was owned by a Mr. Ian Dien. He had moved to Chicago from the Seattle area three years ago. No record, good or bad. Nathan did his homework. It was expected of him, he was certain. Joanne had appeared in Chicago only a year and a half ago, but Nathan wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she had been in Chicago nearly as long, if not longer. There was a connection between the two. And that had piqued Nathan’s interest as well.

No one had left the café since it closed at five thirty. A college student had closed after putting up the chairs that surrounded a few small tables and mopping the area. That had been several hours ago and Nathan had waited patiently, simply watching. He wasn’t surprised when the light over the counter came on. A tall man crossed to the door and unlocked it, then he disappeared into the shadows of the shop.

Nathan checked his watch. Five minutes early.

Nathan didn’t have his gun with him. Whoever else Ian had under his employ, they were more than competent and Nathan didn’t want to provide them with a weapon they didn’t already have. He zipped up his jacket and got out of his Ford Escort. There was no use in playing any sort of games.

He crossed the street and knocked on the glass door. The tall man, somewhat past middle aged with a long face, moved out of the shadows and pushed open the door for Nathan. He held a pewter picture frame in his other hand and gave Nathan a wide, congenial smile.

“Please, come in, Mr. Smith.” He placed the frame on a shelf near the door and adjusted its placement. The lamps above and behind the counter gave off a good amount of light. The shelves and window dressings kept most of it from the street.

“Thank you, Mr. Dien.” Nathan waited to see if there was any reaction to using Ian Dien’s name. There wasn’t. Dien was as much of a professional as Nathan.

“Can I get you anything? We don’t do much beyond the basics and espresso here, but we do a good job of it. Or something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

Dien went around the counter and started up the espresso machine. “If you don’t mind, I think I will have one. I just received a crate from my buyer and it’s going to be a long night.” He gestured to one of the cushioned wooden stools that were tucked under the counter. Nathan pulled it out and sat down. Dien’s accent wasn’t Seattle. It wasn’t quite British either, though Nathan would bet money that Ian Dien had not been born in the States.

“So, what kind of employment do you have for me, Mr. Dien?” When he didn’t answer, Nathan decided to take the conversation one step further. “For that matter, what is your employment?”

“You have a very good reputation as a private eye, Mr. Smith. And that is partially what I’d like you to do: investigate. And once you’re finished with that task, we can talk about other things.” He placed two small cobalt blue cups next to the espresso machine as it hissed and spit. In case, Nathan changed his mind. Ian wanted to be as accommodating as possible, but knew the worth of information.

“Who?”

“Roberto Martinez.”

“Do you know anything about him already?” Nathan knew of a Roberto Martinez, but there was sure to be more than one in Chicago.

Ian carefully poured a steaming liquid into a cup and offered it to Nathan. Nathan put up a hand and shook his head. “He’s a police captain. I don’t know much beyond the usual things you can easily find out.”

“Captain Roberto Martinez?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. What do you want on him?”

Ian took a sip from his cup. He wasn’t dainty in his movements and the cup was strange in his long-fingered wide hands. “Anything you can get on him.

Thank you for reading and, remember, comments are always welcome! Chapter Thirteen will be posted on August 15, 2010.

“If you’re selling something, I don’t want any, so don’t bother knocking.” The young black woman that lived next door to Joanne turn away from Jason and yelled down the hall. “Jamal! Get in here! I thought you were going to help me with the dishes!”

There was a reply, but Jason didn’t pay any attention to it. He balanced the cardboard box on his hip and knocked on 6c. Joanne answered the door quickly enough that she was probably standing near it, waiting.

“Hello.” Her eyes widened at the sight of the box.

“It’s all the fixings,” he explained.

“Fixings for what?”

“Omelets, the Tobel family recipe.”

The apartment had been cleaned up slightly. Several throw pillows and a blanket now decorated the couch. The newspapers had been cleared away and replaced by a neat stack of magazines. The carpet, worn and stained, bore the tread marks of a vacuum cleaner. The kitchen, likewise, was now spotless. There wasn’t a dish in the sink aside from a spoon. Joanne had a pot of coffee brewing.

“I hope you don’t need any special utensils because my cooking skills don’t extend past the microwave.”

“All that I’ll need is a frying pan.”

“Well, I do have one of those.”

Jason put the box on the counter and unpacked the items that needed to be refrigerated. As he expected, the refrigerator was nearly empty aside from a twelve pack of cola and ketchup, mustard, and salsa in the door. Joanne retrieved the pan from a similarly bare cupboard. It was a scratched up stainless steel affair that wasn’t ideal, but it was good enough. He placed the tomatoes, peppers and onions on a plastic cutting board he had brought with. “I lied,” he said. “I’ll need a knife too.”

“I don’t think I have a vegetable knife. Will this do?” She pulled a serrated steak knife from a drawer full of mismatched cutlery.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

She had moved around the small kitchen without even touching him. He could watch her all day he realized. He could delight in her movements and puzzle at the patchwork of markings that dappled her skin. What did the small of her back look like? Or the insides of her thighs? She was wearing jeans and scoop-necked sweater, and he could make out the lines of her bra under the fabric. He moved on to washing the vegetables in the undersized deep sink.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“If you’d like to cut these up?”

“Sure.” She took the tomatoes from him and began to gingerly dice them. “This okay?”

“Wonderful.” He brought a bowl out of the cardboard box and cracked several eggs into it. He added several small jars of spices to the kitchen countertop.

“So do all the Tobel men cook?”

Jason nodded. “Well, we cook omelets at least.”

“Really?” Joanne’s fingers quicken as she gained confidence.

“My father seemed to think that every man should know how to make an omelet. Has all the food groups and impresses women.”

“You have a couple sisters, right?” she asked.

“Yeah. You never mentioned if you have any brothers or sisters.”

“Only child.”

“That must have been nice. No one to beat you up.”

She smiled, but it was thin and strained.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t so nice.”

She turned abruptly then, her hands red with tomato juice. She took hold of his face and brought it near. She kissed him urgently. When he pulled away, bits of tomato stuck to his cheeks.

*****

Before the music began, Joanne concentrated on her breath with her eyes closed. She could hear the air rush through her throat and into her lungs. From her lungs, the blood raced throughout her limbs, energizing them. Ready.

She began facing away from the audience, her head to the side. And when the music finally began she sprung up on to her toes, her arms rose up with the grace of bird’s wings. Prokofiev spun the dancers that surrounded her and parted them as she spun around with an easy movement of her leg. She was Juliet, not so much the one that Shakespeare wrote of, but more an ideal that Serge Prokofiev composed for and Daniel Schlessenger produced for ballet. She was dressed conservatively in what was meant to be a peasant dress, flowing and plain. This would be the audience’s first sight of Juliet, dancing to a folk song with other young ladies of Verona. She moved in the same patterns that they did, but they conceded to her. She was royalty, and they were not. The dance ended and all rushed off stage as the Montague men took stage.

Backstage was silent chaos as costume changes were made. Two girls swarmed around Joanne. One undid the peasant dress, and the other powdered the skin of her arms, neck and shoulders in order to even out the color. As they readied the dress Juliet would wear at the party in the next movement, Joanne saw Helen Ermov in the dressing mirror.

Helen had stern eyes and a prim mouth. She wore her hair in a soft bun like any dancer would. Even at her age she moved deliberately, no movement was wasted. She walked up behind Joanne and put her cold hands on Joanne’s shoulders. She reminded Joanne of her first teacher, Miss Stolstovich, but with less kindly eyes.

“What have I told you?” she whispered in Joanne’s ear. Her voice was paper thin and rustled under the music from the orchestra pit. Her accent was heavy Eastern European, though Joanne didn’t know where from.

Joanne bit the inside of her lip. “You told me to let go.”

Helen nodded slowly. “And have you?”

Joanne shook her head.

“You’d better, Joanne. You have potential, but without that abandon, you are only slightly above mediocre. We must walk a line.”

Joanne bit back any reply. There was no use arguing. After so many years of struggle, she had to be more than average today. It was the only way out of her life. It didn’t matter what she had learned in the past. She had always been taught discipline, but today was different.

Helen squeezed her shoulders. “Do it, Joanne. I know you can.” And then she was gone.

They finished dressing Joanne. Other dancers gave her sharp glances. Helen Ermov didn’t whisper in just anyone’s ear.

The curtain fell and the scene changed. Joanne took her place and readied her breath, her muscles. Juliet’s life was a succession of parties, of suitors waiting to take her hand, until she saw her Romeo.

The chorus of dancers fell away, moved into the background until they were completely off stage. Now, it was only Juliet and Romeo.

They had practiced together for weeks, ever since Joanne had been invited to join the company. It had been luck, a whim that had brought Daniel Schlessenger to where Joanne had been practicing. He had snapped her up and put her under Ermov’s charge to become his new Juliet. He would make her a star.

Joanne learned the routine in no time. It was easy for her body to remember. Her partner was less thrilled with her casting. What had taken the most time was adjusting to the differences in timing between her and her predecessor. But they had worked through it.

And now they danced together. “Abandon,” Helen had said. There was a line between utter control and losing that control in favor of feeling and projection of emotion.

Joanne moved with the music, allowed the hands of her partner to lift her, hold her up. They spun and the music swelled. She could see nothing beyond the lights of the stage. This world existed for her alone. Her blood raced, coloring her. Her heart was about to burst from her. Joanne felt the floor beneath her feet again. In an instant, she crossed the invisible line that held her back.

The first thing she noticed was the blood on her fingertips. Their duet ended with her hands on his face after the kiss that Romeo and Juliet shared. The other dancers rejoined them on stage. The blood left a mark on his face and she saw his eyes go wide. Where had it come from?

She continued on. Her muscles performed from the back of her mind. She let the music take her. More blood appeared, and with it screams of panic from the chorus dancers. The orchestra stopped playing and the music fell away for those on stage and in the audience.

Joanne continued. More blood appeared as she moved past others that got in her way. The back stage crew rushed forward. Several men from the audience vaulted up ready to tackle and stop her dance.

Joanne jumped away from them with ease. She flitted backward on her toes, twisted and turned. And blood sprayed. That was all she remembered later when she stopped. Blood slicked her arms. It was splattered on the skirt of her dress.

And then she ran.

*****

“Are you okay?”

“Everyone asks me that.” She turned away and tore off a paper towel from a roll that hung near the sink. She wiped her hands off and then set upon Jason’s face.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“What were you thinking about just then?” He stopped her hand and searched her eyes. There was a faint scar dangerously close to her right eye. “I’d like to think that it was me, but…?” He shook his head.

She bowed her head, but leaned forward on to him. “Nothing, I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Just the past.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not yet.”

Jason left it at that. He kissed her on the forehead and they quietly went back to making omelets.

Chapter Twelve will be posted on August 8, 2010. If you enjoy Pas de Chat, you might want to take a look at my current work-in-progress Luck for Hire.

“I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, Mrs. Ellison.”

“Oh?”  Annalise Ellison stood by the kitchen sink.  She had been cutting apples into very fine slices.  She had pie crust defrosting on the counter.

The voice on the other end was that of the third private investigator that Annalise had hired as she followed her daughter across the country.  She was always more than one step behind.

“I talked to Joanne, Mrs. Ellison.  I talked to your daughter and I’m sorry to say that she doesn’t want to have any contact with you.”

“That’s not what I’ve paid you for, Mr. Smith,” she said quickly.  “I paid you to find my daughter and tell me where she is.”  She put the knife down in the bottom of the white porcelain sink and began pacing as far as the kitchen tiles would allow.  She already knew that the pie she had promised would not get made.

“I’m afraid I failed in that, ma’am.”

“Failed?  How could you fail?  You talked to her, at her apartment.  Where’s her apartment?”  She tried to keep her voice low.  She didn’t want to cry and she didn’t want to sound like a screeching ten-year-old.

“I listened to what she had to say, and I have to admit, she got to me.  And I waited a day.  I figured I’d talk to her again.  See if I could convince her…”

“And she’s gone now, isn’t she?  She left.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Damn you,” she whispered.

Nathaniel Smith took a shaky breath.  “I’ll be sending you back the last check I received.”

“Just keep it!”  She refrained from throwing the phone across the room.  She pounded the counter top with an open fist.  It didn’t make enough noise and it didn’t hurt enough.  The pie tin jumped.  “I don’t want the damned money!  I want my daughter!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ellison–”

She hung up.  She didn’t want to hear what was familiar to her.  Her knees gave out and she crumbled to the floor.  It wasn’t fair, and most days it wasn’t even real.

The last time Annalise had seen Joanne was a week after her last dance recital.

The recital had been a terrible day, one that Annalise thought would fade with time. It had lost its pain, but only because the time since had been so difficult.  Despite everything that had happened, she looked back on that day and knew she had been naïve.

Joanne had been an unruly child.  She was strong and willful, but very sensitive to the teasing about her skin.  More than one fight had broken out because of that.  Annalise had spent much of her energy protecting her daughter from the world.  She had tried to give her daughter everything, as any mother would.

Things had been looking up before the recital.  Joanne had graduated high school, finally.  She was bright, but her record had followed her from one school to the next.  That couldn’t be helped.  Annalise had tried.  It was unfair too.  The world of dance was no different.  Ballet had been the only thing that ever given her daughter peace, but no company would even see Joanne after they had checked with the schools. But then the handsome, ambitious Daniel Schlessenger had seen Joanne dancing and had decided that she needed to be in his new production.

Schlessenger made no bones about it.  He expected to have the fame of finding an unknown ingenue.  As long as Joanne was given a chance, Annalise didn’t care what the man’s motives were.  Her daughter worked hard and made herself part of the company.  They scheduled a recital, a working rehearsal of the ballet, Romeo and Juliet, for families and the press.  This was a turning point, Annalise could feel it deep in her bones.

It happened during the duet between Joanne and John Tenelli.  John was a handsome dancer; fit, and well muscled.  He was a swarthy Italian Romeo.  They looked good together, and danced well together.  Watching them, Annalise let hope tingle in her heart.  Could they be a couple one day, John and Joanne?  But then Joanne’s hand caught his face wrong during a lift.  It wasn’t a clumsy mistake, but it drew blood.  He faltered, but she continued, arms wide and beautiful.

The chorus of young girls and boys that set the scene arrived on stage without knowing anything was wrong.  Joanne didn’t seem to notice them.  A few were injured as well, though Annalise didn’t see how.  She was out of her seat, but held back by the tall man that had sat in front of her and then shifted over one seat to allow her a better view.  When he let go, Joanne was gone.

Joanne didn’t come home after what happened at the recital.  The police searched for her.  Annalise called anyone remotely associated with Joanne, but found that really her daughter had no friends.  None of the people she talked about from high school remembered her particularly.  And what had happened at the recital had estranged anyone she knew there.  How her daughter had disappeared, she didn’t know.

But on a soggy day, not a week after she disappeared, Annalise saw her.

Annalise had the umbrella tipped low in front of her.  Why had she had stayed in Seattle so many years?  Would it have been better if they would have left?  She didn’t know.  In the mouth of an alley, she saw a boy panhandling.  His clothing was sodden and as gray and brown as the cement and the trash.  Stringy black hair fell across his long, thin face.  She stared at him as she passed.  She was desperate enough to ask him, to bribe him for information.  But she was sure he knew nothing.

She brought her umbrella around to shield her from his gaze, and at the corner she saw Joanne.  She had cut her red-blonde hair very short.  She wore an awful pink jogging suit that Annalise knew was not her own.  It clashed with her hair and the colors of her skin.  But Annalise knew it was her daughter.  With her hair short, she could see the faint scar that traced along the edge of her right eye.  And deep green eyes.  She always thought Joanne’s eyes looked like a storm at sea, an impossible color for anything in nature except a plant.  Not even a bird’s plumage matched her daughter’s eyes.

“Joanne?”

Their eyes met.  Joanne took one step toward her mother, but then turned on her toe with the grace that so many years of ballet had taught her.  No, it wasn’t the teaching.  It was in her.  Neither Annalise nor Robert had that grace.  It took Annalise’s breath away every time.

And then she was gone.  Joanne was running down the street, the bottoms of her sneakers flashing in the gray day.
“No!  Come back!”  Annalise ran three steps before she realized there was no way she could catch her daughter.

Annalise pushed her graying hair out of her face.  She stood up and found a paper towel to blow her nose on.  She threw it in the trashcan under the sink and washed her hands.  She picked up the apple she had been cutting and threw it in the garbage too.  It was too brown to use now.

She would start again.  Two steps behind.  She had the number of other private investigators in the Chicago area, though none were as highly recommended as Nathaniel Smith.  She would start the process over from scratch.

She didn’t let it bother her that Smith had said Joanne didn’t want to see her.  She would come around.  Annalise had to believe she would.

* * * * *

Nathan hung up the phone.  He went to the file cabinet at the back of his office and pulled out the file he had on Joanne Ellison.  There was one check from Mrs. Ellison that he hadn’t cashed clipped to the inside cover.  He’d send it back to Mrs. Ellison tomorrow.  He took the rest of the file to the kitchen.  He lit the corner of the folder with a match from the junk drawer.  When the flames reached his fingertips, he dropped it into the stainless steel sink.

He had found a note tacked to his apartment door yesterday reminding him of the deal he had made with the bouncer from Galvanized.  Pushed under the door was a fat envelope full of fifty-dollar bills.  It was more than the check he was returning.

He was done with this case.  When the flames guttered out, he washed the ashes down the drain.

Thanks for reading! Chapter Eleven will be posted on August 1st.

Galvanized was quiet.  Jason wasn’t surprised.  It was only five in the afternoon, even if it was Friday.  The bouncer that he had encountered several times in the past was nowhere to be seen.  The staff that Jason did recognize, Joanne and her boss Tracy, were gathered at the bar along with a skinny, stringy-haired guy and an older man.

Joanne waved when she caught sight of him in one of the mirrors that lined the walls near the bar.  All eyes turned toward him.  Jason could only wave back.

“Oh, so is this the one?” the skinny one asked.

“Yes, this is Jason.”  Joanne’s lips quirked slightly as if it had been strange to pronounce his name aloud.  “Jason, this is Andy, our DJ.  I think I’ve told you enough that you know Tracy.  And this is Ian Dien, that friend I told you about.”

Dien offered his hand.  Jason put a good amount of pressure into the shake.

“Nice to meet you, Jason.  I haven’t heard much about you.”  His smile was as genuine as the father of any girl Jason had ever taken out in high school.

“We’ve only gone out once so far,” said Jason.  “So I imagine there hasn’t been much to tell.”

Joanne was watching them both closely.  Tracy and Andy had moved off a ways, but they were watching through the reflections in the mirrors and glass.

“Do you two youngsters have any more plans?”

Jason hesitated.  “I’m going to cook for Joanne tomorrow before she goes to work.”  He chose the words very carefully.

“Ah, I see.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here.”  Jason turned to Joanne.  “Are you allergic to anything.  I didn’t ask before.”

“Um, no.  Nothing I’ve encountered.”

“Good.”

“That’s not the sort thing someone usually worries about,” Ian Dien pointed out.

“My littlest sister is lactose intolerant and has a few other food allergies,” said Jason.  “I probably think about it more than most people.”

Ian seemed to approve of the excuse.

“That, and I just wanted say hello to Joanne.”

Dien wasn’t quite as pleased with that.  “Can I buy you a drink, Mister–?”

“Tobel.  Thank you, that would be great.”

“Another two Macallans, Joanne, if you will.”

“Of course.”  Joanne poured a new tumbler full of amber liquid and set it in front of Jason before giving Ian the same in his glass.

Jason took a tentative sip.  The aroma and taste were warm and pungent.  The heat stayed in Jason’s throat for several seconds after he had swallowed.

“This is very good.”

“It’s the eighteen year,” said Ian after savoring his own.

A group of young men and women swarmed in through the door and made a beeline for the bar.  They avoided Jason and Ian and crowded near the dance floor.  Joanne gestured to the two men to keep talking as she left to attend to them.  Tracy had disappeared to Andy’s loft to attend to some detail.

“So you’re a police officer?”

“Yes, I am.”  Jason took another sip of the whiskey and held it on his tongue.

“You’re not drinking while on duty, are you?”

“Of course not, sir.”  Jason could feel a wall sliding up between Ian Dien and himself, as tangible as the glass he held in his hand.

“Of course not.”  Ian Dien’s eyes were a pale watery blue, but they were bright and alert.  The man was not drunk at all.  “So did you respond to the call when Joanne called?”

Jason caught a glimpse in the mirror of Ian Dien, older, taller and infinitely more gray then Jason was.  “Joanne didn’t call the police after she was attacked.”

Dien wasn’t surprised.  He sipped his drink and waited for Jason, young, compact and blond to continue.  “Her wallet was found under a dead body, apparently that of her attacker.”

“Have you found the killer?”

“No, sir.  We’re still following leads.”  The whiskey was beginning to have an effect on Jason and he hoped the lie was convincing.

Ian leaned in close to him.  “I think your time would be better spent investigating those leads instead of pursuing Joanne.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ll never do for her in the long run.”

“What?”

“Do you think she’s always going to be here, a waitress in this place?  Just look at her.”

Jason moved his unbelieving stare to where Joanne was fixing drinks.  It was in the way she moved, even to scoop ice out of the freezer chest.  Her shoulders were back and her neck was strong and poised.  Jason had seen it from the first day, not even a week ago.

“Do you think she’ll settle for you?”

Ian Dien was close enough to Jason that he could smell alcohol on the man’s breath.  Or maybe it was just the vapors Jason had inhaled from his own drink.  Ian’s face had no malice in it.  Instead, he was watching Joanne.  His gaze was filled with a strange adoration.

“I think, Mr. Dien, that Joanne and I have had a date and a kiss and that what happens in the future isn’t quite set in stone yet.”

“That’s a more polite reply than I would have given.  Well done.”

Dien rose from his barstool.  Joanne noticed and came over after finishing her conversation with Tracy. He paid out his tab including Jason’s drink.  “Have a good evening, Joanne.”

“Thank you, Ian.  I will.”

Jason watched him leave, a finger’s worth of whiskey still in the bottom of his glass.

“Did you two boys have a nice talk?” Joanne asked.

“I guess you could say that.”

“You two planned out all security measures to keep me protected from the big bad world?”

“No.  You’ll be happy to know it didn’t come up, but it does seem that Mr. Dien has high hopes for you.”

Joanne frowned in confusion.  “What do you mean?”

From the loft, music began to play, hard edged and syncopated.  And very loud.  Jason shook his head.  “It’s nothing.  It’s the drink.”

“I’ll have to remember that.  Can’t hold his liquor.”  Joanne made a check mark in the air.

More club-goers were coming in.  Jason swallowed the rest of the whiskey and put the lowball glass on the bar.  “I’d better leave you to work.  See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Joanne.

“Good.”  He waved and headed out into Chicago’s twilight.

Never miss an update! Follow me on Twitter! Chapter Ten will be posted on July 25, 2010.

“So, what do you have for me on the Rodriguez case, Detective?”

Jason sat down in the low broken-down armchair in the corner of Captain Martinez’s office.  He balanced a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the arm as he passed the captain the case file.  Martinez didn’t open it.

“Report back from the coroner showed that the cause of death was massive blood loss, most likely from the wound to the throat.”  Jason sat back and blew into the top of his cup.

Martinez nodded.  “Any thoughts on the weapon?”

“Something with four blades.”

Martinez shifted his bulk in his chair.  “So, not your usual Ginsu knife.”

“Nope.  And I’ve already done some work with the usual knife shops.  If they’ve made something of the sort, they’re not forthcoming.”

“A marital arts weapon of some sort?”

“Checked with them too.  Officially, they don’t make that sort of thing.  They only thing they have that’s close are climbing claws.  The blades are short though.  There would have been some smudging pattern to the injuries.  The blades of the climbing claws are also uniform in length.  The wound depths are not.  In fact, there are places where there are only three slashes in a grouping instead of four.”

“Like fingers?”  Martinez wiggled his club of a hand in front of his face.

Jason took a long sip of his coffee.  It was his second of the day thus far.  “Yeah.  Like fingers.”

“Think it might be something jury-rigged?”

“Possibly.”

“Wolverine strikes again?”

Jason shook his head.  “Don’t even say that, sir.  The implications of that could be very…”

“Messy,” Captain Martinez concluded.  “So find anything of interest between this and the Bellman case?”

“Rodriguez had the same sorts of wounds as Bellman, I’m ninety percent sure of it.”

Captain Martinez nodded.  “It would appear that way, wouldn’t it?  Of course, you should always be careful, things aren’t always as they appear.”

Jason took a sip of his coffee.  It was quickly losing its heat.

“Has the media gotten a hold of this?”

“Thankfully, it’s just been reported as a stabbing.  Made the morning and evening news, was a blurb by the ten o’clock.  Nothing connecting to Bellman.”

“Good.  Well, keep your ears open, but put it on the back burner for now.”

“I’ve got to be missing something,” Jason mumbled.

“Obviously.  We have two possibly connected murders and not enough to go on to draw up a list of suspects.  Or two unrelated murders, one by a copycat that decided he liked the other’s MO.  I’m not sure there’s anything else to be done about it right now.”  Martinez frowned.  “Honestly, Jason, you look like shit today.  Have you been losing sleep over this?”

It wasn’t often that Captain Martinez used first names.  He could be hard and chiding, but generally, he took a healthy interest in the well being of the men under him.  Jason rose from the armchair and retrieved the file from Martinez’ desk.  “Not losing sleep over this.”

“Good.  There’s other things in life other than this case.”  Martinez rocked back in his chair.

“Point taken, sir.”

Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated. Part 2 of Chapter Nine will be posted on July 18th.

Jason wasn’t tired when he reached his apartment.  He should have been.  Usually he tried to get to bed before midnight.  But tonight his head was overly filled and loud.  He shook it off as being the result of the beer he had drunk.  Alcohol made him tired, but kept his mind engaged enough that he didn’t feel like sleeping.  He didn’t feel like pondering Joanne Anderson either.  He didn’t particularly care for feeling like a struck teenager.

He’d left the heat off and the apartment was cold.  He turned on the heater and the light in his kitchen.  The files for the Rodriguez and the Bellman cases sat on the counter that served to separate the kitchen from the rest of his apartment’s living space.  He poured a glass of orange juice and took a seat before the files.

Officially, Jason wasn’t supposed to take work home with him.  It was frowned on by his superiors, but it happened.  Lately he spent too much time at the station, so much that Martinez joked about having to pay rent for his desk.  He had grudgingly gone home at seven and taken the files with him. The details of both cases were gradually passing into rote.

Chris Bellman had been found dead in his apartment after the piano player had called the police.  Chris Bellman had been a dance instructor.  He had worked with children under a government arts grant.  Bellman had not come to teach his dance class for two days in a row and that had worried the piano player, an older lady.  He had no record other than a ten year old DUI.  His family and friends had attested to his general good health, both physical and mental. He had been a straight arrow as far as Jason could tell.  His apartment was a loft over a street level dance studio in a shabby area of town.

He had been found in his apartment with multiple slash wounds.  Most of the blood had been pooled in the bed, but there were bloody marks on the floor that showed that Bellman had remained alive long enough to pull himself part way to the door.  Nothing had been taken.

Several sets of prints had been found at the scene.  Bellman’s, Bellman’s sister, two guys that Bellman often had over to watch baseball.  They all checked out with alibis and no motive whatsoever.  The last set of prints were never identified.  Given the number of them that were bloody, they most likely belonged to the murderer.  The accompanist thought Bellman had been seeing someone, but she had never met the girl, had never heard Bellman mention a name.  Detective Johnson and his crew never found an address book in Chris Bellman’s apartment or in the studio downstairs.

That was a sticking point of the case, and Jason jotted it down.  Even he had a piece of paper in his wallet with a few phone numbers that he didn’t know well enough to pull from memory.  Joanne’s phone number had been written there, but Jason had begun to remember it very quickly.  Had anyone asked Bellman’s family if he had an eidetic memory?  There had been no evidence of anyone else coming on to the scene between the death of Chris Bellman and the first officer on the scene.

Jason laid out the photos. The wood floor of the loft was stained dark with blood.  The body was just inside the door.  Trails of blood led from the bed at the far side of the loft to where the body lay.  Hand prints here and there on the floor where the dying man had pulled himself to the door.  He was naked, face down.  He was well muscled and lean, not overly tall.  There were deep rips in the muscles of his back.  They could have been nail marks from a passionate encounter, but the tissue was shredded and the white of bones could be seen.  Most of the blood spatters were above the bed.  The fan-like patterns showed panic.  The violence had begun in the bed.

The sheets were dark blue.  It was the sort of color a man bought when he didn’t want to bother about changing sheets often.  The middle of the bed was much darker in color.  It had been saturated with blood according to the report.  The picture didn’t do it justice.  The bed had been sodden and Jason could imagine how the light must have glinted off of it.  In the pictures of the body, the skin lacked the pale blue hue that Jason knew it would have.  Chris Bellman had died of blood loss.

Jason fell asleep at his kitchen counter.  His dreams were awash in blood and filled with long clawed beasts.

Chapter Nine will be posted July 11, 2010. Comments are always appreciated!

“Your new boyfriend is here.”

Joanne frowned at Tracy before she realized what he meant.  Jason was wending his way toward the bar.  It was a quarter to one.  Dino had stopped collecting cover and Tracy was about to yell for last call.  This was the busiest time of night.  Everyone was frantic for one last drink before spilling out into the dull street.

“What are you doing here?”  She was strangely pleased to see him.  She hadn’t given herself time to honestly evaluate how she felt about Jason, and her co-workers’ jibes hadn’t made it any easier.  She found that her stomach jumped when she saw him, and her hands, usually sure on the bottles and glasses she wielded, were suddenly shaky.

“I came to take you home after work.”

Joanne shook her head and ignored him for a full minute.

“I don’t really get off for another hour or so.”  She hoped he’d accept that.  His cheeks were still dappled from the wind and he hadn’t taken his coat off.  Joanne felt sweat dribble down the back of her neck.

“I’ll wait.”

“I don’t want your help,” she said.  “I don’t need it.”

“Listen,” Jason started.

Joanne pointed to a husky man behind Jason that had been waiting patiently for a drink.  She took his order and filled it.

“Listen, I’m worried about you.  I want you to be safe.”

“You’re not my keeper.”  She had to shout over the music, but the words held more force than was needed to be simply heard.

“I know.”  Jason stood there for a minute without saying anything.

“Do you want something?” she asked with a motion to the other paying customers that surrounded the bar.

“A beer.  A Miller.”

She pulled from one of the taps and set the pale beer on the counter in front of him.  She was off to the next club-goer before he could pay.  He left five dollars and leaned against the wall as Tracy yelled last call, a message that was echoed by the DJs voice over a microphone without even interrupting his music. The club wound down slowly until Tracy finally refused to serve another drink.

Jason was warm in his jacket, but he didn’t move from his position near the bar.  The music finally stopped and the lights on the dance floor came up.  The place wasn’t made for the light and the brickwork showed its true shabby nature.  An ugly spider of scaffolding held the lights near a loft filled with sound equipment.  None of it had any grace in the light.

Joanne finally turned to Jason again.  “Look, I know you’re worried, but really, I’ve got to help clean up here.”

“I said I’ll wait.”  He placed his empty pint glass on the bar.

“I don’t want you to wait.  I had a really nice time last night, but I don’t need someone look after me.”

“That’s not what Mr. Dien thinks,” said Dino.  The large man held an impossible number of empty glasses in his meaty hands.  He had collected what he could from the near the door.  “He asked me to stick around and walk you home.”

Jason quirked an eyebrow and looked from Dino to Joanne without saying a word.  Joanne stood with her mouth open before shaking her head and taking the glasses from Dino.

“But if you’re going to take her home, I guess that’s fine,” Dino concluded.

“Who’s Mr. Dien?”

“A meddling friend,” Joanne muttered.

“You have quite a few of those,” said Tracy.  They had all clustered around her now, and Jason was keenly aware that he was the closest to her among the three.  “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off, Jo?  I can get Andy to help me clean up.”

Joanne tossed the wash rag that she was holding down onto the bar.  “Fine, but I won’t have a repeat of this tomorrow.  If it happens, I’m quitting, Tracy.  I just want you to know that.”  She grabbed a bag from under the bar and stomped off toward the back exit.

Jason nodded to Dino and Tracy and headed off after Joanne.  He caught up with her as she traded out her apron for a coat.  She tucked a wad of tips in her coat pocket.  She didn’t say anything until they were outside.

“I don’t appreciate this.”  She wrapped a scarf around her long neck.

“I’m sorry, I just figured I’d be nice and take you home.  My car is down a block.”

“I’d rather walk.”  Her breath puffed from her mouth and she buried one hand in the pocket of her coat.  The other bare hand toted the small paper bag.

“Fine,” he said.  He had put on his gloves and took the bag from her hand.  “I’ll carry this then.”

“You don’t have to, I’m fine.”  But she let him have the bag.  She just shook her head and continued to walk with her brisk pace.

The alley where the body of Javier Rodriguez was found was indeed on the way between Galvanized and Joanne Anderson’s apartment.  She bypassed it without a second look.  Jason saw the yellow crime scene tape.  It had been broken and one side fluttered in the wind like a lone parade banner.

“You don’t mind walking home, after what happened?”

“Nope.”  She took five more strides before she continued.  “It’s like the freckles.  If I worried about it, I’d never leave my apartment.”

“But there are ways to be safer.”

“I can take care of myself.”  The statement lacked force this time.  She was tired.

“It seems like there’s a lot of people who are concerned about you.  It’s not a sign of weakness to let them help you.”

“They’re co-workers.  That’s all.  There’ve been many in the past, and there will be more in the future.”

“So what’s in this?”  He lifted the bag up.

She sighed.  “It’s from a friend.”

“Not a co-worker?”

“No.”

“Mr. Dien?”  He pulled the name up quickly and easily.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“And why won’t you let him help?”

“Listen, if I want this sort of treatment, I’ll call my mother, okay?”

“Alright, alright. You’re a big girl.  You can walk home in the middle of the night and only occasionally be attacked by the odd druggie.  Do I need to remind you that whoever ripped Javier Rodriguez’s throat out is still on the streets?”

Her back went stiff and her shoulders raised several inches.  “You don’t have any leads, do you?” she said quietly.

“No,” said Jason.  “And it doesn’t seem like this was a vendetta or that he was killed by someone connected to him.”

Joanne’s head grew heavier with the knowledge.  “Then maybe someone should walk me home.”

“There’s always me,” said Jason.

“Isn’t it a bit past your bedtime?  You do have to work during the day, right?”
“Yeah.”  He shrugged.  “I’ll be tired tomorrow.  With enough coffee, I should be able to make it to the donut shop.”

“I thought that was only the patrolmen in uniforms that ate donuts.”  She was willing to let the conversation become lighter.

“I go for a good danish occasionally.”

“Yes, I can tell from your spare-tire paunch.”

They both laughed and her shoulders lowered.  They had reached her apartment building.  The windows were half-lit, half-dark.  Once they had left the immediate area around the club, Jason hadn’t seen anyone in the streets.  It was a cold, quiet night.

“Well, you really can’t be escorting me home every night.”  Joanne turned toward him.

“No, I suppose not.  What about that big guy?”

“Dino’s nice enough.”  She shrugged.

“I was going to call and then I got it into my head that I should take you home.”

“You should have called,” said Joanne, but she smiled that small smile that Jason had seen in his dream.

“Can I see you again?  When are you off?”

“Wednesday’s my only day off.  I go in late on Tuesday’s though.”

Jason’s lips were growing numb and the wind was stinging his ears.  Tuesday was a long way away.

“How about if I bring you breakfast on Saturday?”

She smiled and considered.  “That would be nice.”

“Would four o’ clock be good?”

She nodded.  “Yeah.  That’s fine.”  She stepped forward to take the bag from him.  She stayed there long enough for him to kiss her gently on the lips.

Part 2 of Chapter Eight will be posted on July 4, 2010. Thanks for reading!