HOME | DD

Description
Andy Lane

Of the things my mother had taught me before I left for college, her list of hangover remedies had proven to be the most useful. As I trudged from my room into the kitchen, the heel of one hand pressed into my forehead, I could justify the first two beers. I could even make an allowance for the third, because it was rude to join someone for drinks and not have one. It was the next two that had me questioning my judgment, internal accusations bordering on charges of masochism. The pounding of my head offset whatever gratitude I might have had for the rest of the night’s events, and any further assessment of my mental state would depend on the drummers in my brain setting down their sticks.

Grumbling under my breath, I pushed my robe closed with aggravation and padded around the kitchen island toward the cupboard. Pulling a coffee mug from the shelf, I offered prayers to both God and Keurig, prepping remedy one while grabbing a glass for remedy two. By the time I settled onto a stool, I had my friends water, caffeine, and ibuprofen accompanying me, with my laptop and glasses waiting for the first moment when I could channel coherent thought. I had the pain reliever in my stomach with half the glass of water before the screen flickered into life.

Only a few minutes later, the door to Scott’s bedroom opened. Melissa walked out, finishing whatever final measures would secure her hair atop her head again. She smiled pleasantly at me and nodded. “Andy,” she said, the glance spared in my direction fast enough that I hadn’t made it to the end of Mississippi before she directed her attention elsewhere. “You were out late last night.”

‘Well, Ma said now that I’m a grown up, I get to stay out until 11.’ My lips twitched while she reached up for one of the ceramic mugs. “Eh, I hadn’t checked in on Pete in a while,” I said, lifting the coffee cup to my mouth. “We’re always afraid he’ll get confused and dump tea into the Delaware if we leave him alone for too long.”

She chuckled softly, pulling out the depleted canister of coffee and inserting another one before pressing a button. The machine gurgled and steamed, producing liquid within seconds. “That might be an improvement from the norm. English Breakfast sludge.” She pivoted to line me back in her sights.

“Exactly what the Forefathers would’ve wanted in the cradle of Liberty. Definitely none of this Earl Grey nonsense.” Peering over my mug at her, I waggled my eyebrows before setting it back down. My glasses slid, requiring me to push them further up my nose again. “Speaking of rivers and patriotism, how’s life been on your side of the Potomac?”

“Busy, as usual.” The curl of her lips strained for half a moment, recovered quickly. She turned to face the coffee machine again. “Scott and I get to sit in on a case from opposite sides. That’s been surreal.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re in our neck of the woods.” Regardless of her ability to see me, I still tilted my head and arched an eyebrow at her. “What sort of a case?”

Melissa hummed. “Oh, big dog versus little dog for one of the major biomedical contracts in the area. Devlin acquired the rights to service the Jefferson Hospital System and Scott’s client didn’t like how the chips fell. They’re pursuing some sort of patent dispute with Devlin.”

I whistled. “The little dog went after the tail. Ballsy of it.”

“It’s silly with no end goal in sight. We offered them a very lucrative consolation and they took offense.”

“Well, it’s only their livelihood at stake here.”

“Now I know where he gets his idealism from.” Melissa sighed. I couldn’t tell if it was exaggerated or not. “Devlin is a good company on the cutting edge of the medical field. I’d like to think that would make their presence in a city a good thing.”

Both hands lifted in the air, my elbows bent, but arms still close to my torso. “Hey, don’t look at me to demonize them. There’s always good with the bad. I just also know how much weight that sort of argument carries with the companies they displace. Nobody wants to be yesterday’s pageant queen.”

“No. True.” As she plucked her now-filled coffee cup from the machine, she turned to face me again. “You would think we were Satan’s attorneys with some people, though.”

“Now, now, you are not Satan’s attorneys, Mel.” My smile broadened. “That would be redundant.”

“Go to hell and save me a seat, Andy.” She rolled her eyes and walked off with the cup in hand. I laughed, watching her leave and finally deciding to polish off my coffee. Once a piece of toast made its way into my stomach, my transgressions from the night before were all but a distant memory. I typed out the rest of my article’s first draft and considered something heavier to eat.

Melissa left before Scott finally emerged from his room. I had heard the last vestiges of their goodbyes through the door and frowned while ignoring them, grateful neither of the two had proven a penchant for morning sex. When my roommate and best friend emerged, he was clad in a fresh suit, with another on a hangar draped over his shoulder. The strap to his briefcase slackened to his elbow as he lowered the leather satchel to the ground.

“You were out late,” he said, draping his suit across the back of the couch.

“Jesus Christ, what are you guys synchronizing your dialogue now?” I asked. He walked into the kitchen and I waggled a finger at him. “If I see his or hers anything in your house when you two move in together, I’m staging an intervention.”

Scott laughed. “I didn’t realize saying anything about your night was a taboo subject.”

“Well it is, thank you.” Bringing my mug to my lips, I tried to pretend not to be surprised when I realized I had emptied it. Instead, I set it back down and cleared my throat. “Pete was playing matchmaker again.”

“Oh, God.” Scott repeated the actions Melissa and I had, working on procuring his own source of caffeine. “Who was it this time?”

“I’m trying to remember his name.” I lifted a hand, scratching at the back of my neck. “Think it was a J name? Jonathan or Jason or…” Stopping once it crashed through my addled brain, I snapped my fingers and pointed at Scott. “Justin. That’s right.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Do I know this Justin?”

“Not really. Apparently visiting from out of town, but…” I deliberately affected a lisp. “If I’m ever in Chelsea, I have his number.”

He snorted and fixed his gaze on the coffee maker for a few silent moments. While he was distracted, I took a deep breath. These conversations were only ever as awkward as I made them, yet I often found myself wondering what went through Scott’s mind during them. It had become one of those things where you think the rest of the world sees all your secrets painted on your face when they’re hidden deeper in than you realize. The look in his eyes bore the same old Scott – the same man I’d known since I was a pimple-faced eighteen-year-old – with the same amusement always present whenever we spoke.

I could have died in the way he smiled.

“You know, you can bring people home,” he said. “Hell, you can even date them a little. You have my blessing.”

“I don’t know,” I countered, brow furrowing. “I might need to have that in writing, counsel. ‘My best friend is welcome to safely sleep his way through the Gayborhood in his continued struggle toward something remotely resembling having a love life.’ Though, I have to say, your parents would be proud of your continued philanthropy.”

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “My parents can kiss my ass.”

“That’s always an option, too.” The tone of his voice caused my brow to smooth, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Did somebody get a phone call from his father yesterday or something?”

“No. Nothing like that.” The way he paused seemed to suggest that more explanation was forthcoming. Though, whatever actually came to mind never made it past his lips. He flashed a much quicker grin at me before allowing his expression to settle somewhere in the realm of convivial again. “Tired and grouchy. I should probably down this quick and get to the office.”

“Yeah, I heard about the lawsuit. Mellie looked pleased as punch at playing footsie with you under the table.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Devlin is tearing through another city, not caring what it leaves behind.”

“And you get to stare your fiancée in the eyes and see her representing the evil empire. That can’t be fun.” I considered my empty coffee cup for an additional moment before finally standing and going through the motions of brewing another one. My finger hovered over the start button as I mused on words I never liked speaking out loud. “How’s that all going to keep working out for you guys, especially after you’re married?” I hit the start button and turned to face my friend.

It took a moment for him to respond. We made eye contact and he raised an eyebrow at me, blowing the steam from the top of his mug before taking another sip. “What do you mean?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It just seems like that would be a strain, always being on opposite sides of a case. Great for the sexual tension, but not so stellar for the dinner conversations. Especially because Mellie gives no quarter when it comes to her career.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to do otherwise.”

“Neither would I, but you’re a braver soul than I am.”

“I guess.” He took a deep breath and rested his weight that much further against the counter. His gaze settled down, studying the contents of his cup, until he peered back up at me and smiled. “I’ve always appreciated the way you care, Andy. I hope you know that.”

The corner of my mouth curled upward. “I’m hearing a, ‘But mind your own damn business,’ in there somewhere,” I said.

“No,” he responded, shaking his head. Reaching behind him, he set the cup down and freed both hands to scrub at his face. His fingers found their way into the perfectly-coiffed sea of auburn atop his head before his arms lowered to his sides again. “I’ll be glad when this whole mess is over, that’s for damn sure. And I hope she moves onto politics sooner, as opposed to later.”

“For sure.” My smile turned polite. I lifted a hand and patted his back twice before withdrawing. “Alright. Enough of that, then. You go on ahead to the office and own the big guys. Show them who’s boss.”

Scott laughed and shook his head at me. “There’s a lot of things standing between us and that sort of outcome. I’ll be grateful for a small bit of ‘sticking it to the man’ before Devlin steamrolls all over this area.” Still, airing the confession and hearing my encouragement – no matter how half-hearted it might have been – seemed to give him all the prompting he needed to pick up the coffee and imbibe a few healthy swallows of its contents. He reached over and reciprocated my pat by issuing it on my shoulder. “I’ll be home for dinner. Maybe we can relax a little and play some video games.”

“An Xbox date. Be still my heart.” My grin broadened into something a little more genuine while we exchanged a quick look. Whatever he saw in my eyes assured him enough to chuckle back, before he turned and left the kitchen. I heard him pick up his dry cleaning and secure his briefcase onto his shoulder before the jangle of his keys echoed through the condo. When the door pulled shut behind him, I was well and truly alone.

“Blech,” I said to the empty house. Shaking my head, I plucked my coffee from the machine and walked it back over to the island, settling myself atop the stool again. The clock at the corner of my laptop screen informed me I had another five hours before I’d have to email my article to the Internet content editor – a relic of the olden days named John Fitzpatrick. ‘Fitzy’, as we liked to call him, would have preferred being handed things on paper, but had long since learned the adage ‘adapt or die’.

“Maybe I’ll pop into the office,” I said, not sure who I was informing by saying this, but settled in the decision just the same. The blinking cursor in the Word document taunted me, but rather than be intimidated by it, I finished the first draft, took a shower, and started into a revision. Lunch arrived by the time I was finished and had been consumed with one hour to spare before my deadline. Just long enough for me to walk to the subway and take it up to the Inquirer headquarters.

The walk might have been short, and the day much milder than the one which had preceded it, but it still provided enough time for reflection. The bustle of daytime pedestrian traffic up Walnut Street bore the standard fare of businessmen and socialites, but I had gotten used to it by now. The poor kid who relocated from West Virginia had made his way into a tenth floor condominium overlooking Rittenhouse Square.

No, it was Scott’s life, I reminded myself. Not mine.

I struggled the entire rest of the walk for how much gratitude to offer my best friend for this. It had given me him and made me a lot less lonely and desperate than I might have been otherwise. It had also forced me to watch the world he’d been born into tear him limb from limb, however. He had tailored his future both to buck against it and be one with it, and nothing exemplified that more than Melissa Thompson. They had known each other as children. I was told this after-the-fact, when the first date finished and became a second and third, and saw how they might have been fast friends before one or the other had been shipped off to this prep school or that. Enough years had been wedged into the spaces in-between, though, to make all the difference in the world.
I had been there when the two became reacquainted as adults.

***

Scott Reilly had been born and raised in Chestnut Hill, and when he first told me this, I hadn’t yet figured out what that meant. Research told me it was a neighborhood in Philadelphia, and my expert skills with Google uncovered all sorts of fun facts about it, but nothing prepared me for the experience of traveling there to meet Scott’s family. The area itself made me think of television shows with ritzy hipsters I’d normally expect in a place like Seattle, but the Reilly estate on the edge of town?

No, that was a culture shock all in its own.

We had met when I was a Freshman in college, barely out of the gates and trying to figure out what to do with myself now that I’d moved up to the big city. I’ll admit I had my delusions just like any other wide-eyed kid who’d grown up with three older siblings and a mother who held down two jobs to feed us all. When I packed up my car and made the trek from West Virginia to Philadelphia, I thought I’d left the worst of my problems behind me, in favor of entering the best part of my life. That sort of expectation alone is setting you up for disappointment, but what followed was beyond that on a karmic scale.

My paperwork had gotten botched by someone I assumed had started a bonfire in financial aid. I knew I’d be screwed in that department from the get-go, but the look on my face when they told me I was starting off my college life with a significant amount of debt just about made my stomach turn. What’s worse, when I finally swallowed down that batch of disappointment, they had a second course waiting for me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lane, we never received your dormitory request.”

I stared back at the lady - a woman who looked to be in her forties with no less than three cats in her house - and couldn’t process the words. The office in which I sat seemed to get smaller, constricting to swallow me whole. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, as though hearing it again would cause it to make any more sense. Like I’d have some sudden epiphany that made it all better.
She frowned and tilted her head at me. “I said we never received your dormitory request,” she said. “Now, we can put you on a list, but it might take another few weeks for one to open up.”

“But I’m here now.” Coming in at five on the top ten most obvious observations I’ve ever made.
“I know you are, Mr. Lane. Unfortunately, our dormitories are all full right now. Are there temporary arrangements you can make until a room opens up?”

“What, like pledging a frat?” Honestly, I had no idea what that even met, but movies had taught me that’s what some people did in college. Swallowing back the large amount of nerves that seemed to have collected in the back of my throat, I sighed. “Yeah, sure. There’s options. I’ll figure something out.”

“If you give us a phone number where we can reach you, we’ll let you know when a room becomes available.” She rose to her feet. So, like that, our business was done with each other. “The neighborhood has a large number of off-campus apartments and rooms for rent that become available this time of year. Check around, I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I do that,” I said. I stood on autopilot, following her lead and too stunned to do much else. She wore a pleasant smile like a coat, the sparkle in her eyes belonging to someone who had actually helped the student they spoke to, not kicked them out with nothing more than a vague suggestion of what they should do next. I trudged out into the hallway, past the host of other people I’d complained to before being seen by the lady escorting me out. They eyed me uncertainly, like they were expecting me to lose my temper and turn into the Incredible Hulk at any minute.

I could only imagine the relieved sighs that must have accompanied me disappearing from sight.

It isn’t that I had no basis to argue back to them. Words danced on the tip of my tongue, belonging to an older, wiser man with more of a backbone than I had at that moment. Things like the reminder that I’d come there from out-of-state, and didn’t know where people posted notices for these mythical rooms. Or finding someone who had the vaguest concept of what it meant to arrive somewhere with only a few bucks in your pocket, thinking such menial things such as room and board would be taken care of you when you arrived. Someone could claim it was my fault for not double-checking before I left home, but I didn’t know that I needed to. I was the first one in my family to go to college. I might have even told somebody that if words hadn’t been stopped up in my throat.

No, I was an adult now and that was the whole point of this, I told myself as I dug my hands into my pockets and trudged back to where I’d parked my car. I was supposed to be taking care of myself now, not thinking I could spit out a sob story good enough to have someone else clean up my mess. And no matter how much I kicked and screamed, a room wasn’t going to magically make itself available to me. Sighing, I squinted against the sun and adjusted my eyeglasses, pushing them further up my nose while trying to remember which road I’d turned down to find an available meter. As far as I was concerned, Temple University could already kiss my ass.

The first few days afterward weren’t the bleakest ones. A coffeeshop with free Wi-Fi gave me the chance to search the ads on Craigslist and I made enough phone calls to think I could still salvage something from the whole mess. What little I had saved over the summer came out of my bank account and formed the wing, hope, and prayer with which I set out to find somewhere I could tread water for a few weeks. I applied for jobs and slept in my car, managing to sneak into one of the dorms just long enough to take a shower in the middle of it all.

Most of the rooms in the nicer sections of town were out of my budget, however, and the median ones filled up like someone had announced a fire sale on the places. Each phone call brought with it another rejection and the one or two rooms for rent that bore tolerable price tags also came from neighborhoods which left me wondering how many nights the symphony of guns would lull me to sleep. I lived out of my suitcase and shaved in men’s bathrooms. My second attempt at showering almost resulted in me being caught and tossed out of the building. A week into the nightmare, I found myself sitting in a laundromat, eating a microwave burrito while watching my laundry tumble in the dryer in front of me. Seven days had passed, and the end didn’t seem anywhere in sight.

I could sell the new laptop my mother had saved up to buy me for school, I mused. Something about that seemed like such a slap in the face to the woman who’d been Mom and Dad to me all my life, though. I could sell my car, or call the places where I’d applied for work again, or camp outside the crazy cat lady’s office every day for the rest of the semester, but one was only a temporary solution, the other not helpful for the moment, and the last guaranteed to get me in worse trouble than I already was. Classes were starting in the morning, and I had been so busy wandering Philadelphia like a nomad that I had no idea how to navigate the campus yet. The burrito turned cold in my hand as I contemplated the state of my life, telling myself I didn’t have the time to cry. Even if I was sorely tempted.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t expect anything about my luck to change, and all signs pointed toward that being the case. My neck felt stiff from a week of sleeping in my car and my head hurt. My stomach gnawed at me and despite having fresh clothing, I still smelled like I’d been pulled from the bottom of someone’s dirty clothes pile. Holding a campus map open while glancing up and down from it, I tried to make sense of the buildings in front of me and engrossed myself in squinting at both it and my class schedule like I was reading the tea leaves of an uncertain future. It’s probably why I sideswiped him, and what made the collision so jarring for me.

Him. This guy who stood a few inches taller than me and looked like Patrick Bateman if Patrick Bateman had been a redhead. A tailored suit hung from his frame and the scent of an expensive combination of aftershave and cleansing products wafted after him as he spun to face me. His arm lifted, like he’d been trained in self-defense and had to form a split-second evaluation as to whether or not I posed a threat. I stepped backward and fumbled with the papers in my hands before being able to recognize what I’d done. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My face was buried in things and I wasn’t looking.”

The other guy blinked, processing my words. I wondered for a brief moment if English was his second language. He looked young enough to be a peer, but something about the way he held himself suggested a few years more, not just a different layer of social strata. “Oh,” he said. His posture relaxed; I was surprised at how much so. Oh, good, you’re a homo sapien just like me. “No, no, it’s okay.” He furrowed his brow. “Freshman?”

“Is it that obvious?” I offered a wan smile. “Probably is, between the map and the stupid look on my face.”

He cracked a smile. “We were all freshmen at some point.” Giving his suit jacket a subconscious adjustment, he stole a quick glance at his watch before looking back at me. “Where’re you headed? I might be able to help.”

“Hey, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

It might have been one of the more desperate things I could’ve said, but by that point, any dignity I might have had been scraped from the bottom of someone’s shoe on a patch of Philadelphia pavement. I couldn’t tell what about it resonated with Scott. Maybe the honesty, in a world where people usually bucked up and assured everyone else they were fine. Whatever it was about it, it got us to talking and me to eventually opening up about what had happened.

It turned out, Scott Reilly was in his last year of pre-law at the University of Pennsylvania. It also happened that he was scouting out law schools on the day we collided at Temple’s campus. And even though Scott eventually stuck with his alma mater and entered their law program, I had gained a benefactor and a best friend in the process. Nobody blamed me for being protective of him from that day forward, not that there were many to issue a complaint.

Not until Melissa Thompson became a part of our lives.

I had started my senior year of college, and Scott was finishing up his final year of law school on the night we were invited to his parents’ Christmas party. Over the years, I had hit a strange tenor with his parents, becoming something like the pet puppy Scott toted around and took care of like some act of charity. By that point, I had heard it all. From how good it was that Scott showed social awareness to other boasts of philanthropy his parents gave to their socialite friends whenever I was introduced. His father once suggested that “knowing someone in the media” might be helpful when Scott finally came to work for him at Delaware Valley Industries. That was the first time I had ever seen Scott storm off on his mother and father, apt to take his grievances somewhere out of their line of sight.

As such, when he suggested we should attend the Christmas party, I was already wary of our presence there. Each meeting with his parents involved had a fifty-fifty chance of garnering a reaction from Scott. This time, he was old enough to clutch a glass of eggnog throughout the course of the night and I could get away with having one of my own, even if my age had just finally ticked over to legally acceptable. I sipped my first cup while he worked down his second and as Beverly Reilly pulled me into a discussion about ethics in the media, I noticed him gravitate toward her from the corner of my eye.

Jealousy is an angry beast that doesn’t always have a good justification for existing. I fumbled one point in front of Philadelphia high society when I saw how much it wrinkled the corners of Scott’s eyes to hear the melodious laugh the blonde woman in front of him issued. The middle-aged, redheaded matriarch followed my gaze the second time it flicked over to them and brightened, joining a conspiracy to knock me onto my ass before I had a chance to recover. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping the two of them would find each other.”

“The two of them?” I asked the question before I could stop myself. A bout of nerves brought the glass to my lips and forced me to drink down the rest of my eggnog. I somehow stopped myself from immediately going to refill it. “Do they know each other?”

“Oh, Mellie’s parents used to have us over to lunch all the time before Walter was elected to the House of Representatives. Now, they live mostly in Georgetown. Scott and Mellie were fast friends before she had to move away, we just haven’t had much chance to invite the Thompsons over since.” Beverly touched my shoulder, the gesture just deliberate enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. Gesturing with her other hand, she pointed her at the other ladies I had been talking to before the interruption. “Did you know Patricia Thompson was invited to chair the horticultural society in Georgetown?”

“No, I didn’t!” responded one of them. I offered them a polite smile, but was grateful when the conversation took off, permitting me both a place to stand and the refuge of other people without forcing me away from observation. The part of me not emotionally compromised couldn’t put his finger on what exactly made me dislike what I watched, but it was there just the same. A dark cloud looming over a moment when I should have been happy for the man I cared about so much.

I expected it to go away at some point while the two of them dated. During one of her visits, Melissa accompanied Scott to our condo and I had the chance to speak more candidly with her, but even then, it still persisted. The two of them both became closer and further away over the course of two years and my sixth sense kept telling me I had more to be concerned about than just becoming an antiquated fixture in the background of Scott Reilly’s life. No, Melissa Thompson never made me think she’d have any room or tolerance for our friendship after they were married, but neither did she begrudge the function I served in his life as it stood.

***

It remained an impossible debate even to that day, as I stepped out onto Vine Street and started north on Broad.

Philadelphia Inquirer’s headquarters might have loomed smaller than many of its surrounding buildings, but I had found it intimidating from the first day I walked up to it, a resume in my backpack and hope stitched onto my sleeve. Producing my press badge from my pocket, I flashed it at the security guards blocking me from the elevators, not missing a beat on my way up to the floor occupied by those of us who provided the web content for its site. The doors parted, and I immediately spotted the short Irishman to whom I reported from where I stood.

He looked up as though feeling the weight of my stare and motioned me over to where he sat.
The maze of desks and smattering of people who decided to work from the office provided the only obstacle course between me and John Fitzpatrick. He immediately looked back down at his computer, chewing on the end of a pencil he set down once I approached where he sat. “I swear, the fucking vampires have been out for nearly a year and they still make up fifty percent of this newspaper,” he said, not bothering to make eye contact with me.

Tempted as I was to point out that’s the only reason why I worked there, I decided against it. “It’s like celebrity press,” I said, sitting opposite from him. “We’ve got our own monster mash to talk about and, surprise, they’re sentient beings like us.”

“Still bloodsuckers. Don’t care if they’re cultured ones.” He turned the pencil around in his fingers and sighed, finally lifting the other hand and extending it out toward me. “Give me the piece on the vampire and the Symphony Orchestra.”

I raised an eyebrow and opened up my satchel, pulling out the print out I had made before leaving the house. “Cultured bloodsuckers, fresh for the press,” I said, passing it over. Fitzy grunted his approval – or lack thereof – and set it next to him, in a gesture I was tempted to take as dismissive. As though I should ask if there was any intention to publish it at all. Slowly, I started lifting to a stand, but stopped when he looked up at me.

“So, I’m stuck here and just got a text from my contact in the police department,” he said. The way he reclined back in his chair enabled him to size me up, like a coach eyeing one of his rookies while debating whether they could run out onto the field. “You want the darker side of the vampire shtick, or do you prefer this Saturday Evening Post bullshit?”

I furrowed my brow. “Shouldn’t Garret or Holmes be taking something like that?”

“Well, Garret and Holmes didn’t get their asses into the office today. You did.” He looked back down at his computer. “You don’t want it, kid, then that’s fine. I’ll send Garret an email and get him to the scene.”

“The scene of what?”

Fitzy paused and the silence that followed made my stomach twist. For a minute, I wondered if I should apologize, and yet figured that wouldn’t change his mind. The breath he took broke a silence so pervasive, I nearly jumped when he issued it. “Murder,” he said. “Up near Boathouse Row. A body washed up from the Schuylkill. Could be nothing, could be foul play, but I guess you won’t know that until you get over there, will you?”

His gaze shifted back to me. The arch of his eyebrow posed a dare and a surge of self-confidence raced through me, more than apt to answer that challenge. “Alright,” I said. “Give me the address and I’ll get right there.”

“Good.” A faint smile curled the corner of Fitzy’s mouth. He reached for a scrap of paper and extended it out toward me. “Just make sure to bring your iron stomach. That shit smells when it’s been floating in the water for too long.”

Description
Andy Lane

Of the things my mother had taught me before I left for college, her list of hangover remedies had proven to be the most useful. As I trudged from my room into the kitchen, the heel of one hand pressed into my forehead, I could justify the first two beers. I could even make an allowance for the third, because it was rude to join someone for drinks and not have one. It was the next two that had me questioning my judgment, internal accusations bordering on charges of masochism. The pounding of my head offset whatever gratitude I might have had for the rest of the night’s events, and any further assessment of my mental state would depend on the drummers in my brain setting down their sticks.

Grumbling under my breath, I pushed my robe closed with aggravation and padded around the kitchen island toward the cupboard. Pulling a coffee mug from the shelf, I offered prayers to both God and Keurig, prepping remedy one while grabbing a glass for remedy two. By the time I settled onto a stool, I had my friends water, caffeine, and ibuprofen accompanying me, with my laptop and glasses waiting for the first moment when I could channel coherent thought. I had the pain reliever in my stomach with half the glass of water before the screen flickered into life.

Only a few minutes later, the door to Scott’s bedroom opened. Melissa walked out, finishing whatever final measures would secure her hair atop her head again. She smiled pleasantly at me and nodded. “Andy,” she said, the glance spared in my direction fast enough that I hadn’t made it to the end of Mississippi before she directed her attention elsewhere. “You were out late last night.”

‘Well, Ma said now that I’m a grown up, I get to stay out until 11.’ My lips twitched while she reached up for one of the ceramic mugs. “Eh, I hadn’t checked in on Pete in a while,” I said, lifting the coffee cup to my mouth. “We’re always afraid he’ll get confused and dump tea into the Delaware if we leave him alone for too long.”

She chuckled softly, pulling out the depleted canister of coffee and inserting another one before pressing a button. The machine gurgled and steamed, producing liquid within seconds. “That might be an improvement from the norm. English Breakfast sludge.” She pivoted to line me back in her sights.

“Exactly what the Forefathers would’ve wanted in the cradle of Liberty. Definitely none of this Earl Grey nonsense.” Peering over my mug at her, I waggled my eyebrows before setting it back down. My glasses slid, requiring me to push them further up my nose again. “Speaking of rivers and patriotism, how’s life been on your side of the Potomac?”

“Busy, as usual.” The curl of her lips strained for half a moment, recovered quickly. She turned to face the coffee machine again. “Scott and I get to sit in on a case from opposite sides. That’s been surreal.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re in our neck of the woods.” Regardless of her ability to see me, I still tilted my head and arched an eyebrow at her. “What sort of a case?”

Melissa hummed. “Oh, big dog versus little dog for one of the major biomedical contracts in the area. Devlin acquired the rights to service the Jefferson Hospital System and Scott’s client didn’t like how the chips fell. They’re pursuing some sort of patent dispute with Devlin.”

I whistled. “The little dog went after the tail. Ballsy of it.”

“It’s silly with no end goal in sight. We offered them a very lucrative consolation and they took offense.”

“Well, it’s only their livelihood at stake here.”

“Now I know where he gets his idealism from.” Melissa sighed. I couldn’t tell if it was exaggerated or not. “Devlin is a good company on the cutting edge of the medical field. I’d like to think that would make their presence in a city a good thing.”

Both hands lifted in the air, my elbows bent, but arms still close to my torso. “Hey, don’t look at me to demonize them. There’s always good with the bad. I just also know how much weight that sort of argument carries with the companies they displace. Nobody wants to be yesterday’s pageant queen.”

“No. True.” As she plucked her now-filled coffee cup from the machine, she turned to face me again. “You would think we were Satan’s attorneys with some people, though.”

“Now, now, you are not Satan’s attorneys, Mel.” My smile broadened. “That would be redundant.”

“Go to hell and save me a seat, Andy.” She rolled her eyes and walked off with the cup in hand. I laughed, watching her leave and finally deciding to polish off my coffee. Once a piece of toast made its way into my stomach, my transgressions from the night before were all but a distant memory. I typed out the rest of my article’s first draft and considered something heavier to eat.

Melissa left before Scott finally emerged from his room. I had heard the last vestiges of their goodbyes through the door and frowned while ignoring them, grateful neither of the two had proven a penchant for morning sex. When my roommate and best friend emerged, he was clad in a fresh suit, with another on a hangar draped over his shoulder. The strap to his briefcase slackened to his elbow as he lowered the leather satchel to the ground.

“You were out late,” he said, draping his suit across the back of the couch.

“Jesus Christ, what are you guys synchronizing your dialogue now?” I asked. He walked into the kitchen and I waggled a finger at him. “If I see his or hers anything in your house when you two move in together, I’m staging an intervention.”

Scott laughed. “I didn’t realize saying anything about your night was a taboo subject.”

“Well it is, thank you.” Bringing my mug to my lips, I tried to pretend not to be surprised when I realized I had emptied it. Instead, I set it back down and cleared my throat. “Pete was playing matchmaker again.”

“Oh, God.” Scott repeated the actions Melissa and I had, working on procuring his own source of caffeine. “Who was it this time?”

“I’m trying to remember his name.” I lifted a hand, scratching at the back of my neck. “Think it was a J name? Jonathan or Jason or…” Stopping once it crashed through my addled brain, I snapped my fingers and pointed at Scott. “Justin. That’s right.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Do I know this Justin?”

“Not really. Apparently visiting from out of town, but…” I deliberately affected a lisp. “If I’m ever in Chelsea, I have his number.”

He snorted and fixed his gaze on the coffee maker for a few silent moments. While he was distracted, I took a deep breath. These conversations were only ever as awkward as I made them, yet I often found myself wondering what went through Scott’s mind during them. It had become one of those things where you think the rest of the world sees all your secrets painted on your face when they’re hidden deeper in than you realize. The look in his eyes bore the same old Scott – the same man I’d known since I was a pimple-faced eighteen-year-old – with the same amusement always present whenever we spoke.

I could have died in the way he smiled.

“You know, you can bring people home,” he said. “Hell, you can even date them a little. You have my blessing.”

“I don’t know,” I countered, brow furrowing. “I might need to have that in writing, counsel. ‘My best friend is welcome to safely sleep his way through the Gayborhood in his continued struggle toward something remotely resembling having a love life.’ Though, I have to say, your parents would be proud of your continued philanthropy.”

He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “My parents can kiss my ass.”

“That’s always an option, too.” The tone of his voice caused my brow to smooth, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Did somebody get a phone call from his father yesterday or something?”

“No. Nothing like that.” The way he paused seemed to suggest that more explanation was forthcoming. Though, whatever actually came to mind never made it past his lips. He flashed a much quicker grin at me before allowing his expression to settle somewhere in the realm of convivial again. “Tired and grouchy. I should probably down this quick and get to the office.”

“Yeah, I heard about the lawsuit. Mellie looked pleased as punch at playing footsie with you under the table.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Devlin is tearing through another city, not caring what it leaves behind.”

“And you get to stare your fiancée in the eyes and see her representing the evil empire. That can’t be fun.” I considered my empty coffee cup for an additional moment before finally standing and going through the motions of brewing another one. My finger hovered over the start button as I mused on words I never liked speaking out loud. “How’s that all going to keep working out for you guys, especially after you’re married?” I hit the start button and turned to face my friend.

It took a moment for him to respond. We made eye contact and he raised an eyebrow at me, blowing the steam from the top of his mug before taking another sip. “What do you mean?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It just seems like that would be a strain, always being on opposite sides of a case. Great for the sexual tension, but not so stellar for the dinner conversations. Especially because Mellie gives no quarter when it comes to her career.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to do otherwise.”

“Neither would I, but you’re a braver soul than I am.”

“I guess.” He took a deep breath and rested his weight that much further against the counter. His gaze settled down, studying the contents of his cup, until he peered back up at me and smiled. “I’ve always appreciated the way you care, Andy. I hope you know that.”

The corner of my mouth curled upward. “I’m hearing a, ‘But mind your own damn business,’ in there somewhere,” I said.

“No,” he responded, shaking his head. Reaching behind him, he set the cup down and freed both hands to scrub at his face. His fingers found their way into the perfectly-coiffed sea of auburn atop his head before his arms lowered to his sides again. “I’ll be glad when this whole mess is over, that’s for damn sure. And I hope she moves onto politics sooner, as opposed to later.”

“For sure.” My smile turned polite. I lifted a hand and patted his back twice before withdrawing. “Alright. Enough of that, then. You go on ahead to the office and own the big guys. Show them who’s boss.”

Scott laughed and shook his head at me. “There’s a lot of things standing between us and that sort of outcome. I’ll be grateful for a small bit of ‘sticking it to the man’ before Devlin steamrolls all over this area.” Still, airing the confession and hearing my encouragement – no matter how half-hearted it might have been – seemed to give him all the prompting he needed to pick up the coffee and imbibe a few healthy swallows of its contents. He reached over and reciprocated my pat by issuing it on my shoulder. “I’ll be home for dinner. Maybe we can relax a little and play some video games.”

“An Xbox date. Be still my heart.” My grin broadened into something a little more genuine while we exchanged a quick look. Whatever he saw in my eyes assured him enough to chuckle back, before he turned and left the kitchen. I heard him pick up his dry cleaning and secure his briefcase onto his shoulder before the jangle of his keys echoed through the condo. When the door pulled shut behind him, I was well and truly alone.

“Blech,” I said to the empty house. Shaking my head, I plucked my coffee from the machine and walked it back over to the island, settling myself atop the stool again. The clock at the corner of my laptop screen informed me I had another five hours before I’d have to email my article to the Internet content editor – a relic of the olden days named John Fitzpatrick. ‘Fitzy’, as we liked to call him, would have preferred being handed things on paper, but had long since learned the adage ‘adapt or die’.

“Maybe I’ll pop into the office,” I said, not sure who I was informing by saying this, but settled in the decision just the same. The blinking cursor in the Word document taunted me, but rather than be intimidated by it, I finished the first draft, took a shower, and started into a revision. Lunch arrived by the time I was finished and had been consumed with one hour to spare before my deadline. Just long enough for me to walk to the subway and take it up to the Inquirer headquarters.

The walk might have been short, and the day much milder than the one which had preceded it, but it still provided enough time for reflection. The bustle of daytime pedestrian traffic up Walnut Street bore the standard fare of businessmen and socialites, but I had gotten used to it by now. The poor kid who relocated from West Virginia had made his way into a tenth floor condominium overlooking Rittenhouse Square.

No, it was Scott’s life, I reminded myself. Not mine.

I struggled the entire rest of the walk for how much gratitude to offer my best friend for this. It had given me him and made me a lot less lonely and desperate than I might have been otherwise. It had also forced me to watch the world he’d been born into tear him limb from limb, however. He had tailored his future both to buck against it and be one with it, and nothing exemplified that more than Melissa Thompson. They had known each other as children. I was told this after-the-fact, when the first date finished and became a second and third, and saw how they might have been fast friends before one or the other had been shipped off to this prep school or that. Enough years had been wedged into the spaces in-between, though, to make all the difference in the world.
I had been there when the two became reacquainted as adults.

***

Scott Reilly had been born and raised in Chestnut Hill, and when he first told me this, I hadn’t yet figured out what that meant. Research told me it was a neighborhood in Philadelphia, and my expert skills with Google uncovered all sorts of fun facts about it, but nothing prepared me for the experience of traveling there to meet Scott’s family. The area itself made me think of television shows with ritzy hipsters I’d normally expect in a place like Seattle, but the Reilly estate on the edge of town?

No, that was a culture shock all in its own.

We had met when I was a Freshman in college, barely out of the gates and trying to figure out what to do with myself now that I’d moved up to the big city. I’ll admit I had my delusions just like any other wide-eyed kid who’d grown up with three older siblings and a mother who held down two jobs to feed us all. When I packed up my car and made the trek from West Virginia to Philadelphia, I thought I’d left the worst of my problems behind me, in favor of entering the best part of my life. That sort of expectation alone is setting you up for disappointment, but what followed was beyond that on a karmic scale.

My paperwork had gotten botched by someone I assumed had started a bonfire in financial aid. I knew I’d be screwed in that department from the get-go, but the look on my face when they told me I was starting off my college life with a significant amount of debt just about made my stomach turn. What’s worse, when I finally swallowed down that batch of disappointment, they had a second course waiting for me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lane, we never received your dormitory request.”

I stared back at the lady - a woman who looked to be in her forties with no less than three cats in her house - and couldn’t process the words. The office in which I sat seemed to get smaller, constricting to swallow me whole. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, as though hearing it again would cause it to make any more sense. Like I’d have some sudden epiphany that made it all better.
She frowned and tilted her head at me. “I said we never received your dormitory request,” she said. “Now, we can put you on a list, but it might take another few weeks for one to open up.”

“But I’m here now.” Coming in at five on the top ten most obvious observations I’ve ever made.
“I know you are, Mr. Lane. Unfortunately, our dormitories are all full right now. Are there temporary arrangements you can make until a room opens up?”

“What, like pledging a frat?” Honestly, I had no idea what that even met, but movies had taught me that’s what some people did in college. Swallowing back the large amount of nerves that seemed to have collected in the back of my throat, I sighed. “Yeah, sure. There’s options. I’ll figure something out.”

“If you give us a phone number where we can reach you, we’ll let you know when a room becomes available.” She rose to her feet. So, like that, our business was done with each other. “The neighborhood has a large number of off-campus apartments and rooms for rent that become available this time of year. Check around, I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I do that,” I said. I stood on autopilot, following her lead and too stunned to do much else. She wore a pleasant smile like a coat, the sparkle in her eyes belonging to someone who had actually helped the student they spoke to, not kicked them out with nothing more than a vague suggestion of what they should do next. I trudged out into the hallway, past the host of other people I’d complained to before being seen by the lady escorting me out. They eyed me uncertainly, like they were expecting me to lose my temper and turn into the Incredible Hulk at any minute.

I could only imagine the relieved sighs that must have accompanied me disappearing from sight.

It isn’t that I had no basis to argue back to them. Words danced on the tip of my tongue, belonging to an older, wiser man with more of a backbone than I had at that moment. Things like the reminder that I’d come there from out-of-state, and didn’t know where people posted notices for these mythical rooms. Or finding someone who had the vaguest concept of what it meant to arrive somewhere with only a few bucks in your pocket, thinking such menial things such as room and board would be taken care of you when you arrived. Someone could claim it was my fault for not double-checking before I left home, but I didn’t know that I needed to. I was the first one in my family to go to college. I might have even told somebody that if words hadn’t been stopped up in my throat.

No, I was an adult now and that was the whole point of this, I told myself as I dug my hands into my pockets and trudged back to where I’d parked my car. I was supposed to be taking care of myself now, not thinking I could spit out a sob story good enough to have someone else clean up my mess. And no matter how much I kicked and screamed, a room wasn’t going to magically make itself available to me. Sighing, I squinted against the sun and adjusted my eyeglasses, pushing them further up my nose while trying to remember which road I’d turned down to find an available meter. As far as I was concerned, Temple University could already kiss my ass.

The first few days afterward weren’t the bleakest ones. A coffeeshop with free Wi-Fi gave me the chance to search the ads on Craigslist and I made enough phone calls to think I could still salvage something from the whole mess. What little I had saved over the summer came out of my bank account and formed the wing, hope, and prayer with which I set out to find somewhere I could tread water for a few weeks. I applied for jobs and slept in my car, managing to sneak into one of the dorms just long enough to take a shower in the middle of it all.

Most of the rooms in the nicer sections of town were out of my budget, however, and the median ones filled up like someone had announced a fire sale on the places. Each phone call brought with it another rejection and the one or two rooms for rent that bore tolerable price tags also came from neighborhoods which left me wondering how many nights the symphony of guns would lull me to sleep. I lived out of my suitcase and shaved in men’s bathrooms. My second attempt at showering almost resulted in me being caught and tossed out of the building. A week into the nightmare, I found myself sitting in a laundromat, eating a microwave burrito while watching my laundry tumble in the dryer in front of me. Seven days had passed, and the end didn’t seem anywhere in sight.

I could sell the new laptop my mother had saved up to buy me for school, I mused. Something about that seemed like such a slap in the face to the woman who’d been Mom and Dad to me all my life, though. I could sell my car, or call the places where I’d applied for work again, or camp outside the crazy cat lady’s office every day for the rest of the semester, but one was only a temporary solution, the other not helpful for the moment, and the last guaranteed to get me in worse trouble than I already was. Classes were starting in the morning, and I had been so busy wandering Philadelphia like a nomad that I had no idea how to navigate the campus yet. The burrito turned cold in my hand as I contemplated the state of my life, telling myself I didn’t have the time to cry. Even if I was sorely tempted.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t expect anything about my luck to change, and all signs pointed toward that being the case. My neck felt stiff from a week of sleeping in my car and my head hurt. My stomach gnawed at me and despite having fresh clothing, I still smelled like I’d been pulled from the bottom of someone’s dirty clothes pile. Holding a campus map open while glancing up and down from it, I tried to make sense of the buildings in front of me and engrossed myself in squinting at both it and my class schedule like I was reading the tea leaves of an uncertain future. It’s probably why I sideswiped him, and what made the collision so jarring for me.

Him. This guy who stood a few inches taller than me and looked like Patrick Bateman if Patrick Bateman had been a redhead. A tailored suit hung from his frame and the scent of an expensive combination of aftershave and cleansing products wafted after him as he spun to face me. His arm lifted, like he’d been trained in self-defense and had to form a split-second evaluation as to whether or not I posed a threat. I stepped backward and fumbled with the papers in my hands before being able to recognize what I’d done. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My face was buried in things and I wasn’t looking.”

The other guy blinked, processing my words. I wondered for a brief moment if English was his second language. He looked young enough to be a peer, but something about the way he held himself suggested a few years more, not just a different layer of social strata. “Oh,” he said. His posture relaxed; I was surprised at how much so. Oh, good, you’re a homo sapien just like me. “No, no, it’s okay.” He furrowed his brow. “Freshman?”

“Is it that obvious?” I offered a wan smile. “Probably is, between the map and the stupid look on my face.”

He cracked a smile. “We were all freshmen at some point.” Giving his suit jacket a subconscious adjustment, he stole a quick glance at his watch before looking back at me. “Where’re you headed? I might be able to help.”

“Hey, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

It might have been one of the more desperate things I could’ve said, but by that point, any dignity I might have had been scraped from the bottom of someone’s shoe on a patch of Philadelphia pavement. I couldn’t tell what about it resonated with Scott. Maybe the honesty, in a world where people usually bucked up and assured everyone else they were fine. Whatever it was about it, it got us to talking and me to eventually opening up about what had happened.

It turned out, Scott Reilly was in his last year of pre-law at the University of Pennsylvania. It also happened that he was scouting out law schools on the day we collided at Temple’s campus. And even though Scott eventually stuck with his alma mater and entered their law program, I had gained a benefactor and a best friend in the process. Nobody blamed me for being protective of him from that day forward, not that there were many to issue a complaint.

Not until Melissa Thompson became a part of our lives.

I had started my senior year of college, and Scott was finishing up his final year of law school on the night we were invited to his parents’ Christmas party. Over the years, I had hit a strange tenor with his parents, becoming something like the pet puppy Scott toted around and took care of like some act of charity. By that point, I had heard it all. From how good it was that Scott showed social awareness to other boasts of philanthropy his parents gave to their socialite friends whenever I was introduced. His father once suggested that “knowing someone in the media” might be helpful when Scott finally came to work for him at Delaware Valley Industries. That was the first time I had ever seen Scott storm off on his mother and father, apt to take his grievances somewhere out of their line of sight.

As such, when he suggested we should attend the Christmas party, I was already wary of our presence there. Each meeting with his parents involved had a fifty-fifty chance of garnering a reaction from Scott. This time, he was old enough to clutch a glass of eggnog throughout the course of the night and I could get away with having one of my own, even if my age had just finally ticked over to legally acceptable. I sipped my first cup while he worked down his second and as Beverly Reilly pulled me into a discussion about ethics in the media, I noticed him gravitate toward her from the corner of my eye.

Jealousy is an angry beast that doesn’t always have a good justification for existing. I fumbled one point in front of Philadelphia high society when I saw how much it wrinkled the corners of Scott’s eyes to hear the melodious laugh the blonde woman in front of him issued. The middle-aged, redheaded matriarch followed my gaze the second time it flicked over to them and brightened, joining a conspiracy to knock me onto my ass before I had a chance to recover. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping the two of them would find each other.”

“The two of them?” I asked the question before I could stop myself. A bout of nerves brought the glass to my lips and forced me to drink down the rest of my eggnog. I somehow stopped myself from immediately going to refill it. “Do they know each other?”

“Oh, Mellie’s parents used to have us over to lunch all the time before Walter was elected to the House of Representatives. Now, they live mostly in Georgetown. Scott and Mellie were fast friends before she had to move away, we just haven’t had much chance to invite the Thompsons over since.” Beverly touched my shoulder, the gesture just deliberate enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. Gesturing with her other hand, she pointed her at the other ladies I had been talking to before the interruption. “Did you know Patricia Thompson was invited to chair the horticultural society in Georgetown?”

“No, I didn’t!” responded one of them. I offered them a polite smile, but was grateful when the conversation took off, permitting me both a place to stand and the refuge of other people without forcing me away from observation. The part of me not emotionally compromised couldn’t put his finger on what exactly made me dislike what I watched, but it was there just the same. A dark cloud looming over a moment when I should have been happy for the man I cared about so much.

I expected it to go away at some point while the two of them dated. During one of her visits, Melissa accompanied Scott to our condo and I had the chance to speak more candidly with her, but even then, it still persisted. The two of them both became closer and further away over the course of two years and my sixth sense kept telling me I had more to be concerned about than just becoming an antiquated fixture in the background of Scott Reilly’s life. No, Melissa Thompson never made me think she’d have any room or tolerance for our friendship after they were married, but neither did she begrudge the function I served in his life as it stood.

***

It remained an impossible debate even to that day, as I stepped out onto Vine Street and started north on Broad.

Philadelphia Inquirer’s headquarters might have loomed smaller than many of its surrounding buildings, but I had found it intimidating from the first day I walked up to it, a resume in my backpack and hope stitched onto my sleeve. Producing my press badge from my pocket, I flashed it at the security guards blocking me from the elevators, not missing a beat on my way up to the floor occupied by those of us who provided the web content for its site. The doors parted, and I immediately spotted the short Irishman to whom I reported from where I stood.

He looked up as though feeling the weight of my stare and motioned me over to where he sat.
The maze of desks and smattering of people who decided to work from the office provided the only obstacle course between me and John Fitzpatrick. He immediately looked back down at his computer, chewing on the end of a pencil he set down once I approached where he sat. “I swear, the fucking vampires have been out for nearly a year and they still make up fifty percent of this newspaper,” he said, not bothering to make eye contact with me.

Tempted as I was to point out that’s the only reason why I worked there, I decided against it. “It’s like celebrity press,” I said, sitting opposite from him. “We’ve got our own monster mash to talk about and, surprise, they’re sentient beings like us.”

“Still bloodsuckers. Don’t care if they’re cultured ones.” He turned the pencil around in his fingers and sighed, finally lifting the other hand and extending it out toward me. “Give me the piece on the vampire and the Symphony Orchestra.”

I raised an eyebrow and opened up my satchel, pulling out the print out I had made before leaving the house. “Cultured bloodsuckers, fresh for the press,” I said, passing it over. Fitzy grunted his approval – or lack thereof – and set it next to him, in a gesture I was tempted to take as dismissive. As though I should ask if there was any intention to publish it at all. Slowly, I started lifting to a stand, but stopped when he looked up at me.

“So, I’m stuck here and just got a text from my contact in the police department,” he said. The way he reclined back in his chair enabled him to size me up, like a coach eyeing one of his rookies while debating whether they could run out onto the field. “You want the darker side of the vampire shtick, or do you prefer this Saturday Evening Post bullshit?”

I furrowed my brow. “Shouldn’t Garret or Holmes be taking something like that?”

“Well, Garret and Holmes didn’t get their asses into the office today. You did.” He looked back down at his computer. “You don’t want it, kid, then that’s fine. I’ll send Garret an email and get him to the scene.”

“The scene of what?”

Fitzy paused and the silence that followed made my stomach twist. For a minute, I wondered if I should apologize, and yet figured that wouldn’t change his mind. The breath he took broke a silence so pervasive, I nearly jumped when he issued it. “Murder,” he said. “Up near Boathouse Row. A body washed up from the Schuylkill. Could be nothing, could be foul play, but I guess you won’t know that until you get over there, will you?”

His gaze shifted back to me. The arch of his eyebrow posed a dare and a surge of self-confidence raced through me, more than apt to answer that challenge. “Alright,” I said. “Give me the address and I’ll get right there.”

“Good.” A faint smile curled the corner of Fitzy’s mouth. He reached for a scrap of paper and extended it out toward me. “Just make sure to bring your iron stomach. That shit smells when it’s been floating in the water for too long.”