Two Guys Detective Agency (2 page)
Nan Boyd was squeezed into a green workout suit in anticipation of the mid-morning neighborhood
walk. Her face was fully made up, down to metallic eye shadow.
“Good morning,” the chunky woman said, craning to see inside the house. “Oh, my, Linda, you’re a
saint
to put up with these renovations for so long. If it were me, I’d have to put my foot down.”
Linda gritted her teeth in the early spring chill. “Yes, well, Sullivan is really busy right now, but we’ll
get back to them soon.”
“I hope so…for your sake, of course.”
She turned her head. “Jarrod! Maggie!”
At the curb, next to where a clump of kids waited to be escorted to the bus stop, a brown delivery truck
pulled up. The driver Eddie jumped down from his seat.
“Got another one for you, Mrs. Smith!”
“What is it, Eddie?”
He grinned. “A case of Kleenex.”
Jarrod appeared at the door. “How did you win a bunch of Kleenex?”
She tweaked his ear and handed him his lunch bag. “By writing a greeting card verse to make people
cry.”
He shook his head and bounded down the steps, past the age of public kisses.
“Bye! I love you!” she said anyway.
“Goodbye, Mommy,” Maggie said, lifting her cherubic face for a kiss.
Linda gave her a noisy sendoff, her heart squeezing. “Goodbye, sweetie. I love you.”
Maggie took her lunch and skipped down the steps. Mrs. Boyd frowned after her, but was thwarted
from making a comment about the bizarre outfit when she had to move to allow the driver to pass with the
enormous box.
Linda waved and smiled. “Thank you, Nan.”
Nan contorted to get in one last comment. “You should come walking with the other mothers sometime,
Linda.”
An invitation, or a threat? “I will,” she promised, then turned away to hold the door for Eddie. Inside,
she pushed and stacked items to clear a space for the prize.
“You always have interesting deliveries,” Eddie said after he set down the box.
She laughed. “Surely you have something more interesting on your truck than a pallet of Kleenex.”
“You’d think so, but no. What are you going to do with all that tissue?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll make paper carnations.”
He grinned and extended a wireless device for her to sign.
With a stylus she wrote ‘Linda Guy Smith.’ She’d kept her maiden name as her middle name, a sore
spot with Sullivan at the time — he was so traditional. She rarely used it, but was oddly compelled to write
out her full name today.
The delivery was, after all, something she’d earned all on her own.
She walked Eddie to the door, glanced down the sidewalk for one last look at her kids as they moved
en masse toward the bus stop, then stepped back inside and closed the door.
To heave a long pent up sigh.
She surveyed the clutter and debris and blinked back sudden tears, then foraged a dull kitchen knife to
open the cardboard box.
One hundred forty-four cubes of pop-up Kleenex.
She removed one of the cubes and opened it, pulling out a fluffy white tissue to dab her eyes. How
pathetic was it to be so proud of winning a gross of tissue? Truth be told, it wasn’t even that useful. A pallet
of toilet paper — now
that
, her household could’ve used.
The state of disrepair of her life seemed to be magnified this morning. She scarcely knew what to do
first, doubtful if anything would make a dent in her to-do list, and knowing that larger issues were pressing
down. Bypassing the dirty dishes, she moved into the tiny living room to reluctantly open Abby Guy’s
rosewood desk. How fitting that the one relic she had from her runaway mother would now be stuffed with
other bits of her life that were so unsettling.
Blue on black.
An avalanche of unpaid bills sprang from every opening, spilling onto the floor.
Four hundred to the homeowner’s association for monthly fees.
Six hundred to the hospital for the arm Jarrod had broken over six months ago.
Two thousand in late mortgage payments and fees.
And countless more thick envelopes that held equally ominous past due amounts — insurance, taxes,
credit cards.
It had become the scary elephant in the house, this desk. Sullivan skirted it when he moved from room
to room, his way of refusing to acknowledge its contents and what they meant to the security of this family.
She hugged herself as a slow burn rose in her stomach. Sullivan was a proud man, hadn’t wanted her to
work outside the home, but enough was enough. The kids were in school now and more independent. She
hadn’t finished her college degree, but she was teachable. She could do
something
to bring in some much-
needed income, at least until his agency business picked up. Her family’s survival was at stake, Sullivan’s
pride be damned.
With nervous excitement tingling in her belly, she scrounged a felt-tip marker from the desk and carried
the jobs section of the
Lexington Herald-Leader
to the kitchen table. Max lay on her feet while she studied
the classifieds one by one, waiting for something to inspire her.
Nothing did.
She quickly realized she was going to have to lower her expectations from the kind of job she’d like to
have, to one that would have
her
.
On the second pass, she read more closely the more mundane service and retail positions that paid
minimum wage. But even those jobs required experience, plus demanded hours that would interfere with
her obligations at home.
A third pass was even more discouraging. At the end, she’d narrowed her options down to dog-
walking, baby-sitting, and restocking vending machines. Resigned, she called the contact numbers for more
information to apply, only to be told in every case that the job had already been filled. The vending
machine company offered to put her on a waiting list. She shakily gave them her name and number, then
disconnected the call.
A bubble of panic welled in her chest, vying with anger toward her husband. He’d assured her leaving
the police force to start his own investigative agency was a good move, that it would give them more
autonomy and he’d be able to spend more time with the family. Because he’d had a couple of close calls as
a cop, she’d readily agreed, happy just to know he’d be safer. But only a few weeks after hanging his
shingle, the economy had tanked, and the business he’d anticipated hadn’t materialized. Now they were in
debt over their heads.
She wiped at her eyes again, then blew her nose. When Sullivan got home this evening, she would
make him sit down and admit they were in trouble, and together they would come up with a plan to dig
themselves out. It would be good for them, good for their marriage. She was certain their looming debt was
partly to blame for how distant he’d become over the past several months. Hadn’t she come to their bed
lately with her own unspoken resentments?
She steepled her hands and sighed. God help her, but more than once, she’d even fantasized about what
it might be like
not
to be married to Sullivan. About starting over…
The cordless phone rang, jangling her raw nerves. She had the brief hope the vending machine
company was calling her back, but that thought was dashed when she saw Lexington Division of Police on
the caller ID. It wasn’t uncommon for Sullivan’s former colleagues to call.
“Hello?” she said.
“Linda? It’s Oakley.”
She smiled. Detective Oakley Hall was her husband’s former partner on the force. He had been like
family, and his absence was one of the reasons she missed Sullivan’s old job. “Oakley, what a nice surprise.
What are you doing with yourself these days?”
His silence sent dread arrowing to her stomach.
“Oakley?”
“Linda,” he said, his voice anguished. “It’s Sullivan. He collapsed at his office. I heard the call over my
radio.”
Her heart dropped to her knees, and her voice faltered. “Is…is he okay? Oakley, tell me he’s okay!”
“He’s on the way to St. Joe Hospital. I’m coming to pick you up. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” she murmured, and dropped the phone.
Ready
. An odd choice of words considering she wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready for more upheaval
in their lives. Linda stumbled around blindly to look for her purse, choking back sobs. Her mind reeled —
what would she need to take with her? Her cell phone, wallet, insurance card —
A screaming siren announced Oakley’s arrival. On the way to the front door, Linda grabbed the open
box of Kleenex.
WHEN A PERSON is under extreme stress, Linda realized, the most mundane details are magnified.
When Detective Oakley Hall, a bull of a man who wasn’t yet thirty-five, emerged from his car to run
around and open the passenger side door, she noticed he was starting to get a little silver in his sideburns
and temples. And he must’ve dressed in a hurry this morning because his green and yellow paisley tie
clashed horrifically with his blue and white striped dress shirt.
He and Maggie would make quite a colorful pair. She fought a hysterical laugh.
Oakley leveled his dark-eyed gaze on her and took her arm to help her into the seat. “Sully’s going to be
fine.”
“Of course he is.” The alternative was simply incomprehensible.
Oakley ran around the car and slid into the driver’s seat, snapping his seatbelt into place and slamming
his door in one motion. “Has he been ill?”
“Just a cold,” she said cheerfully, gripping the box of Kleenex. “He’s been working too hard, he’s worn
down.” Her throat convulsed. “Was it his heart?”
“The EMT’s were treating it as a heart attack, yes. But Sully is young and St. Joe’s is a good hospital.”
He drove cautiously through the neighborhood. “I guess the kids are already at school?”
She nodded. “I’ll have to go pick them up if…if Sullivan has to spend the night in the hospital and
wants to see them.”
“They’re getting big, I’m sure.”
“Yes.”
“You look good.”
“No, I don’t…but thank you.” When she’d first met Sullivan and his friend Oakley, they had both vied
for her attention. But she’d been afraid of Oakley’s bad boy reputation, had chosen Sullivan’s happy-go-
lucky charm instead. She turned her head and hated the worry she saw in his eyes. “Just get me there,
Oakley.”
He nodded, then turned his attention back to the road. At the mouth of the neighborhood, he turned on
the siren and pushed the speed limit.
Linda forced complete emptiness into her head. She had a sense of landmarks passing as they left the
Tates Creek area and traveled toward downtown, but little else registered until the hospital loomed in front
of them. It was only then that her vital signs went haywire. Her own heart began to beat uncontrollably and
she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Oakley pulled the car into a spot for emergency vehicles and was at her
door before she could release her seatbelt. His haste both reassured and frightened her, but she took his arm
gratefully as he hustled her into the crowded emergency room waiting area and to the check-in counter.
“Sullivan Smith,” he said, flashing his badge at the two women at the counter. “He was just brought in,
presented with a heart attack.”
One of the women moved to a computer screen. Suddenly Linda felt a touch to her arm. She turned to
see Klo Calvert, an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, who was Sullivan’s secretary at the agency. She’d
been crying. Linda’s breath rushed out as the woman clasped her hands.
“Oh, Linda — ”
“What happened, Klo? Were you with him?”
Klo shook her head and teared up. “We didn’t have any appointments. Sullivan told me to take the day
off. Stone called me — he was with Sullivan.”
Linda hadn’t noticed the man standing nearby. He stepped up and nodded in greeting. She’d met Stone
Calvert in passing. He was Klo’s nephew who worked at the gym in the strip mall where the agency was
located. Stone was a beefy guy, fortyish, with a shaved head. He’d spent some time in jail or prison,
something like that — which explained the wary glance he gave Oakley. She recalled that Stone sometimes
worked for Sullivan. Observing the man’s bulk, it occurred to her he had probably provided muscle for
Sullivan.
Had Sullivan
needed
a muscle man?
“What happened?” she asked Stone.
“I wasn’t there when he collapsed,” he said, his voice as gravelly as a state road. “He asked me to meet
him this morning, and when I got there, I found him lying on the floor in his office. He couldn’t speak, but
he was conscious. I called 911.”
“Thank you,” she murmured and inadvertently reached out to touch his massive arm.
He seemed at a loss for words, so he simply nodded.
“Mr. Smith was just admitted,” a woman behind the counter said, pulling Linda’s attention back to the
moment. “He’s in ICU on the second floor.”
Her breath rushed out in relief — he was alive. Still… “Intensive care? How is he?”