They were torturing me with a horrible beeping sound, playing it over and over until it drove me to the brink of madness, and I couldn’t get away and I couldn’t make it stop, and finally something registered in my head and I opened my eyes and glanced groggily at my alarm clock.
Irritating little sound. But I suppose the pleasant melody of whales singing or frogs croaking wouldn’t wake someone up.
I turned it off, and sat up, dizzily, in bed. My head hurt. I yawned, my jaw clicking from overnight calcium deposits, and then spent a minute trying to get my bearings.
Sleeping pill hangover. I forced my feet out of bed, thought about doing some sit-ups, touched the scars on my belly and decided I wasn’t ready yet, and took a cool shower.
The soap, which promised to open my eyes, didn’t. Neither did the cold water. When I got out, I was just as sleepy, and shivering as well.
“No more,” I said to my face in the mirror. Along with making waking up one of the labors of Hercules, the pills also did wondrous things for my complexion. I hadn’t had a pimple since junior prom, but now, staring at me like a third eye on my forehead, was a blemish.
I played fast and loose with my concealer, slapped on the rest of my face, and went to the kitchen to dump yesterday’s coffee and make a fresh pot.
My mom, whom I knew to be an early bird, hadn’t gotten up yet. I went to check on her.
She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Absolutely still.
I moved closer, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest, but I couldn’t see under the blanket. Closer still, holding my breath so I could hear her breathing.
I didn’t hear a thing.
I considered panicking, realized I was being silly, and bent down over her, reaching for her neck.
Her skin was warm, and her carotid flittered with her heartbeat.
“Are you taking my pulse?”
I jumped back, almost screaming in fright.
“Mom! Jeez, you scared me.”
My mother pinned me with her mother-eyes.
“You thought I was dead, and were taking my pulse.”
I made a show of looking at my watch.
“I gotta run, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“When did you get home last night?”
“Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-six years old. I don’t have a curfew.”
“No, but you have people who care about you, and it’s selfish to make them worry.”
Rather than argue, I went back into the kitchen for coffee. A quick caller ID check saw I had four calls from Latham, and four from the Raphael hotel – Alan. I didn’t bother playing the messages.
I’d purposely added less water, so the coffee had a bigger kick. I added an ice cube to my mug so I could gulp it down quicker.
“Are you okay, Jacqueline?”
Mom had the blanket around her shoulders. She looked like Yoda.
“No, Mom, I’m not. And you really didn’t help matters yesterday.”
“I’m sorry for that. You know I love Alan like a son. Call me a foolish old woman, but I thought, you know, if I made him bring me here-”
“That we’d realize we still loved each other? He left me, Mom. Don’t you remember how much he hurt me?”
“You hurt him too, honey.”
“He’s the one that left.”
“You didn’t give him much of a choice, working eighty-hour weeks, never taking a vacation.”
I poured more coffee.
“You were a cop, Mom. You know how it is.”
“And I regret it. All of those long hours. Working Christmas. I should have been spending more time with you. You practically raised yourself.”
My veneer cracked.
“Mom, you were my hero. I never resented your job. You were out there doing good.”
“I should have been at home doing good. Instead, I screwed you up, made you think nothing should stand in the way of your career.”
“I’m not screwed up. I’m one of the highest ranking female cops in Chicago.”
“And I’m the only woman in my bingo group that doesn’t have grandchildren.”
Mom saw my reaction, and immediately backpedaled.
“Jacqueline, I didn’t mean that. It just came out.”
“I’ll be home late.” I walked past her.
“Honey, I’m sorry.”
I ignored her, grabbed my coat, and closed the door a bit louder than necessary.
If the anger didn’t wake me up, the weather did. Cold, with stinging, freezing drizzle that attacked like biting flies.
I left the window cracked on the drive to Cook County Jail, letting the wind numb my face. The cell phone rang, but I ignored it.
Fuller’s polygraph test was set for twenty minutes from now, and I needed to mentally prepare for seeing him again.