Love You To Death

CHAPTER TWELVE

It takes time to clear a murder scene, but the cops are merciful. They lead Nova and me down the hall to the CVOX offices-well away from the stench and the sadness of Janet Davidson’s death. They interview us separately. As I answer, I stare up at the photographs of the CVOX hosts that line the office walls. We are talk radio’s heavy hitters. My photograph is a murky profile shot that shows only my good side. I decide that the next day, I’ll get Nova to take a picture of me as I am. We’ll get it blown up and hang it up for the world to see.

The police don’t keep us long. They have most of what they need on the tapes of tonight’s broadcast. The police officers are grave as they go about their business. I overhear two of them talking. Both officers had worked with Janet Davidson. They liked and respected her. Dr. Steven Apple, a gnome of a man with a carefully trimmed beard and hard-shined shoes, arrives and announces that he is there to counsel the officers through their grief. One of the cops who knew Janet Davidson tells Steve to take a long hike off a short pier. I give him two thumbs up.

When Nova and I walk outside, the air is sweet with the lilac scent of a soft spring evening. The breeze is gentle. Mick Jagger’s tongue in the red-lipped mouth that forms the O in CVOX is blazing neon. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a junkyard dog bays at the moon. We are back in the known world.

Nova puts her hand in mine. Like children in a fairy tale, still haunted by the memory of a forest where every step led us deeper into darkness, we move quickly down the street. Past the shop that sells bargain wedding gowns. Past the pawnshops with the barred windows. Past the businesses that promise Instant Ca$H for your Paycheck. We reach the corner where Nova can catch the bus that will take her home.

At the bus stop, Nova tightens her grip on my hand. The sky is starting to grow light. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the station. But we aren’t ready to say goodbye. “I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I could use a cup of coffee. Fat Boy’s is open.”

Nova laughs and moves closer. “Fat Boy’s is always open,” she says. “Which is lucky because I have a hankering for a cherry coke and an order of onion rings.”

“Breakfast of champions,” I say. Then, still holding hands, Nova and I cross the street. We’re walking east, into the sunrise, and toward the diner that prides itself on being the only place in town where, 24/7, the fun never stops.