First to Die

Chapter 11

THAT NIGHT when I got home, I did sort of take Jacobi's advice. First, I walked my dog, Sweet Martha. Two of my neighbors take care of Martha during the day, but she's always ready for our nightly romp. After the walk, I kicked off my Aerosole pumps, tossed my gun and clothes on the bed, and took a long, hot shower, bringing in a Killian's with me. The image of David and Melanie Brandt washed away for the night; they could sleep. But there was still Orenthaler, and Negli's. And the call to the specialist I had dreaded the whole day and never made. No matter how many times I lifted my face into the hot spray, I could not rinse the long day away. My life had changed. I was no longer just fighting murderers on the street. I was fighting for my life. When I got out, I ran a brush through my hair and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. A thought came into my mind that rarely occurred to me: I was pretty. Not a beauty, but cute. Tall, almost five-ten; decent shape for somebody who occasionally binges on beer and butterscotch pr aline ice cream. I had these animated, bright brown eyes. I didn't back down. How could it be that I was going to die? Tonight, my eyes were different, though. Scared. Everything seemed different. Surf the waves, I heard a voice inside me say. Stand tall. You always stand tall. As much as I tried to press it back, the question formed: Why me? I threw on a pair of sweats, tied up my hair in a short ponytail, and went into the kitchen to boil water for pasta and heat up a sauce I had put in the fridge a couple of nights before. While it simmered, I put on a CD, Sarah McLachlan, and sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of day-old Bianco red. I petted Sweet Martha as the music played. Ever since my divorce had become final two years ago, I had lived alone. I hate living alone. I love people, friends. I used to love my husband, Tom, more than life itself- until he left me, saying, "Lindsay, I can't explain it. I love you, but I have to leave. I need to find somebody else. There's nothing else to say." I guess he was being truthful, but it was the dumbest, saddest thing I'd ever heard. Broke my heart into a million pieces. It's still broken. So even though I hate living alone- except for Sweet Martha, of course- I'm afraid to be with somebody again. What if he suddenly stopped loving me? I couldn't take it. So I turn down, or shoot down, just about every man who comes anywhere near me. But God, I hate being alone. Especially this night. My mother had died from breast cancer when I was just out of college. I had transferred to the city school from Berkeley to assist her and help take care of my younger sister, Cat. Like most things in her life, even Dad's walking out, Mom dealt with her illness only when it was too late to do anything about it. I had seen my father only twice since I was thirteen. He wore a uniform for twenty years in Central. Was known as a pretty good cop. He used to go down to this bar, the Alibi, and stay for the Giants game after his shift. Sometimes he took me, "his little mascot," for the boys to admire. When the sauce was ready I poured it over fusilli and dragged the plate and a salad out to my terrace. Martha tagged along. She'd been my shadow since I adopted her from the Border Collie Rescue Society. I lived on Potrero Hill, in a renovated blue Michaelian town house with a view of the bay Not the fancy view like the one from the Mandarin Suite. I sat down, propped my feet up on a neighboring chair, and balanced the plate on my lap. Across the bay, the lights of Oakland glimmered like a thousand unsympathetic eyes. 1 looked out at the galaxy of flashing lights, felt my eyes well up, and for the second time that day I realized that I was crying. Martha nuzzled me gently, then she finished the fusilli for me.