The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Jonathan Kellerman The Things We Do for Love from Murder for Love

Mashed spaghetti. Some things you could never prepare for.

It wasn’t as if she and Doug were mega-yuppies but they both liked their pasta al dente and they both liked to sleep late.

Then along came Zoe, God bless her.

The sculptress.

Karen smiled as Zoe plunged her tiny hands into the sticky, cheesy mound. Three peas sat on top like tiny bits of topiary. The peas promptly rolled off the high chair and landed on the restaurant floor. Zoe looked down and cracked up. Then she pointed and began to fuss.

“Eh-eh! Eh-eh!”

“Okay, sweetie.” Karen bent, retrieved the green balls, and put them in front of her own plate.

“Eh-eh!”

“No, they’re dirty, honey.”

“Eh-eh!”

From behind the bar, the fat dark waiter looked over at them. When they’d come in, he hadn’t exactly greeted them with open arms. But the place had been empty, so who was he to be choosy? Even now, fifteen minutes later, the only other lunchers were three men in the booth at the far end. First they’d slurped soup loud enough for Karen to hear. Now they were hunched over platters of spaghetti, each one guarding his food as if afraid someone would steal it. Theirs was probably al dente. And from the briny aroma drifting over, with clam sauce.

“Eh!”

“No, Zoe. Mommy can’t have you eating dirty peas, okay?”

“Eh!”

“C’mon, Zoe-puss, yucko-grosso — no, no, honey, don’t cry — here, try some carrots, aren’t they pretty, nice pretty orange carrots — orange is such a pretty color, much prettier than those yucky peas — here, look, the carrot is dancing. I’m a dancing carrot, my name is Charlie...”

Karen saw the waiter shake his head and go back through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Let him think she was an idiot, the carrot ploy was working: Zoe’s gigantic blue eyes had enlarged and a chubby hand reached out.

Touching the carrot. Fingers the size of thimbles closed over it.

Victory! Let’s hear it for distraction.

“Eat it, honey, it’s soft.”

Zoe turned the carrot and studied it. Then she grinned.

Raised it over her head.

Windup and the pitch: fastball straight to the floor.

“Eh-eh!”

“Oh, Zoe.”

“Eh!”

“Okay, okay.”

Time for Mommy to do her four thousandth bend of the morning. Thank God her back was strong but she hoped Zoe got over the hurl-and-whine stage soon. Some of the other mothers at Group complained of serious pain. So far, Karen felt surprisingly fine, despite the lack of sleep. Probably all the years of taking care of herself, aerobics, running with Doug. Now he ran by himself...

“Eh!”

“Try some more spaghetti, honey.”

“Eh!”

The waiter came out like a man with a mission, bearing plates heaped with meat. He brought them to the three men at the back, bowed, and served. Karen saw one of the three — the thin lizardy one in the center — nod and slip him a bill. The waiter poured wine and bowed again. As he straightened he glanced across the room at Karen and Zoe. Karen smiled but got a glare in return.

Bad attitude, especially for a dinky little place this dead at the height of the lunch hour. Not to mention the musty smell and what passed for decor: worn lace curtains drawn back carelessly from flyspecked windows, dark, dingy wood varnished so many times it looked like plastic. The booths that lined the mustard-colored walls were cracked black leather, the tables covered with your basic cliché checkered oilcloth. Ditto Chianti bottles in straw hanging from the ceiling and those little hexagonal floor tiles that would never be white again. Call Architectural Digest.

When she and Zoe had stepped in, the waiter hadn’t even come forward, just kept wiping the bartop like some religious rite. When he’d finally looked up, he’d stared at the highchair Karen had dragged along as if he’d never seen one before. Stared at Zoe, too, but not with any kindness. Which told you where he was at, because everyone adored Zoe, every single person who laid eyes on her said she was the most adorable little thing they’d ever encountered.

The milky skin — Karen’s contribution. The dimples and black curls from Doug.

And not just family. Strangers. People were always stopping Karen on the street just to tell her what a peach Zoe was.

But that was back home. This city was a lot less friendly. She’d be happy to get back.

Let’s hear it for business trips. God bless Doug, he did try to be liberated. Agreeing to have all three of them travel together. He’d made a commitment and stuck to it; how many men could you say that about?

The things you do for love.

They’d been together four years. Met on the job, both of them free-lancing, and right away she’d thought he was gorgeous. Maybe too gorgeous, because that type was often unbearably vain. Then to find out he was nice. And bright. And a good listener. Pinch me. I’m dreaming.

Within a week they were living together, married a month later. When they’d finally decided to build a family, Doug showed his true colors: true blue. Agreeing to an equal partnership, splitting parenthood right down the middle so they could both take on projects.

It hadn’t worked out that way but that was her doing, not his. Karen was a firm believer in the value of careful research and during her pregnancy she read everything she could find about child development. But despite all the books and magazine articles, there was no way she could have known how demanding motherhood would turn out to be. And how it would change her.

Even with that. Doug had done more than his share: convincing her to express milk so he could get up for middle-of-the-night feedings, changing diapers. Lots of diapers; Zoe had a healthy digestive system, God bless her, but Doug wasn’t one to worry about getting his hands dirty.

He’d even offered to cut back on projects and stay home so Karen could get out more but she found herself wanting to spend less time on the job, more with Zoe.

What a homebody I’ve become. Go know.

She touched Zoe’s hair, thought of the feel of Zoe’s soft little body, stretched out wiggling and kicking and pink on the changing table. Then Doug’s body, long and muscled...

The restaurant had grown quiet.

She realized Zoe was quiet. Elbow-deep in the spaghetti now, kneading. Little Ms. Rodin. Maybe it was a sign of talent. Karen considered herself artistic, though sculpture wasn’t her medium.

Watching Zoe’s little hands work the mess of what had once been linguine with just a little butter and cheese, she laughed to herself. Pasta. It meant paste and now it really was.

Zoe scooped up a gob, looked at it, threw it onto the floor, laughing.

“Eh-eh.”

Bend and stretch, bend and stretch... she did miss running with Doug. The two of them shared so much, had such a special rapport. Working in the same field helped, of course, but Karen liked to think the bond went deeper. That their union had produced something greater than the sum of its parts.

And baby makes three... Motherhood was much tougher than anything she’d ever done, but also more rewarding in ways she’d never expected. Nubby fingers caressing her cheek as she rocked Zoe to sleep. The first cries of “Mama!” from the remote-control speaker each morning. Such incredible need. Thinking about it almost made her cry. How could she go back to working full-time with this little peach needing her so intensely?

Thank God money was no problem. Doug was doing great and how many people could say that during these hard times. Karen had learned long ago not to believe in the concept of deservedness, but if anyone deserved success it was Doug. He was terrific at what he did, a rock. Once you got a reputation for reliability, clients came to you.

“Eh-eh!”

“Now what, hon?”

Karen’s voice rose and one of the three men in the corner glanced over. The thin one, the one who seemed to be the leader. Definitely saurian. Mr. Salamander. He wore a light gray suit and a black shirt open at the neck, the long-point collars spread over wide jacket lapels. His dirty blond hair was slicked back and he wasn’t bad looking, if you went for reptiles. Now he was smiling.

But not at Zoe. Zoe’s back was to him.

At Karen and not a what-a-cute-baby smile.

Karen turned away, catching the waiter’s eye and looking down at her plate. The thin man waved and the waiter went over and disappeared into the kitchen again. The thin man was still looking at her.

Amused. Confident.

Mr. Stud. And her with a baby! Classy place. Time to finish up and get out of here.

But Zoe was busy with something new, little face turning beet-red, hands clenched, eyes bulging.

“Great,” said Karen, ignoring the thin man but certain he was still giving her the once-over. Then she softened her tone, not wanting to give Zoe any complexes. “That’s fine, honey. Poop to your heart’s content, make a nice big one for Mommy.”

Moments later the deed was done and Zoe was scooping up pasta again and hurling it.

“That’s it, young lady, time to clean you up and go meet Daddy.”

“Eh-eh.”

“No more eh-eh, change-change.” Standing, Karen undid the straps of the high chair and lifted Zoe out, sniffing.

“Definitely time to change you.”

But Zoe had other ideas and she began to kick and fuss. Holding the baby under one arm like an oversized football. Karen lifted the gigantic denim bag that now took the place of the calf-leather purse Doug had given her and walked over to the bar where the waiter stood polishing glasses and sucking his teeth.

He continued to ignore them even when Karen and Zoe were two feet away.

“Excuse me, sir.”

One heavy black eyebrow cocked.

“Where’s your ladies’ room?”

Wet brown eyes ran over Karen’s body like dirty oil, then Zoe’s. Definitely a creep.

He licked his lips. A crooked thumb indicated the back of the restaurant.

Right past the booth with Lizard and his pals.

Taking a deep breath and staring straight ahead, Karen marched, swinging the big bag. God, it was heavy. All the stuff you had to carry.

The three men stopped talking as she walked by. Someone chuckled.

Lizard cleared his throat and said. “Cute kid,” in a nasal voice full of locker-room glee.

More laughter.

Karen pushed through the door.

She emerged a few minutes later, having wrestled Zoe to a three-round decision. In one of Zoe’s hands was the cow rattle Karen employed to take Zoe’s mind off diaper-changing.

Let’s hear it for distraction.

Forced to pass the three men, Karen stared straight ahead but managed to see what they were eating. Double-cut veal chops, bone and gristle and meat spread out over huge plates. Some poor calf had been confined and force-fed and butchered so these three creeps could stuff their faces.

Lizard said, “Very cute.” The other two laughed and Karen knew he hadn’t meant Zoe.

Feeling herself flush, she kept going.

The men started talking.

Zoe shook the rattle.

Karen said, “Eh-eh, huh, Zoe?” and the baby grinned and drew back her hand.

Windup and the pitch.

The rattle sailed toward the back of the restaurant.

Rolling on the tile floor toward the back booth.

Karen ran back, startling the three men. The rattle had landed next to a shiny black loafer.

As she picked it up, the tail end of a sentence faded into silence. A word. A name.

A name from the evening news.

A man, not a nice one, who’d talked about his friends and had been murdered in jail, yesterday, despite police protection.

The man who’d uttered the name was staring at her.

Fear — ice-cube terror — spread across Karen’s face, paralyzing it.

Lizard put his knife down. His eyes narrowed to hyphens.

He was still smiling, but differently, very differently.

One of the other men cursed. Lizard shut him up with a blink.

The rattle was in Karen’s hand now. Shaking, making ridiculous rattle sounds. Her hand couldn’t stop shaking.

She began backing away.

“Hey,” said Lizard. “Cutie.”

Karen kept going.

Lizard looked at Zoe and his smile died.

Karen clutched her baby tight and ran. Past the waiter, forgetting about the high chair, then remembering, but who cared, it was a cheap one, she needed to get out of this place.

She heard chairs scrape the tile floor. “Hey, Cutie, hold on.”

She kept going.

The waiter started to move around from behind the bar. Lizard was coming at her too. Moving fast. Taller than he looked silting down, the gray suit billowing around his lanky frame.

“Hold on!” he shouted.

Karen gripped the door, swung it open, and dashed out, hearing his curses.

Quiet neighborhood, a few people on the sidewalk who looked just like the creeps in the restaurant.

Karen turned right at the corner and ran. Rattling, the heavy denim bag knocking against her thigh.

Zoe was crying.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Mommy will keep you safe.”

She heard a shout and looked back to see Lizard coming after her, people moving away from him, giving him room. Fear in their faces. He pointed at Karen, went after her.

She picked up her pace. Let’s hear it for jogging. But this wasn’t like running in shorts and a T-shirt; between Zoe and the heavy bag she felt like a plow horse.

Okay, keep a rhythm, the creep was skinny but he probably wasn’t in good shape. Nice and easy with the breathing, pretend this is a 10K and you’ve carbo-loaded the night before, slept a peaceful eight hours, gotten up when you wanted to...

She made it to another corner. Red light. A taxi sped by and she had to wait. Lizard was gaining on her — running loosely on long legs, his face sharp and pale — not a lizard, a snake. A venomous snake.

Ugly words came out of the snake’s mouth. He was pointing at her.

She stepped off the curb. A truck was approaching halfway down the block. She waited until it got closer, bolted, made it stop short. Blocking the snake.

Another block, this one shorter, lined with shabby storefronts. But no corner at the end of this one. Green dead end. A hedge behind high, graffitied stone walls.

A park. The entrance a hundred yards left.

Karen went for it, running even faster, hearing Zoe’s cries and the raspy sound of her own breathing.

Plow horse...

Steep, cracked steps took her down into the park. A bronze statue besmirched by pigeon dirt, poorly maintained grass, big trees.

She placed a hand behind Zoe’s head, making sure not to jolt the supple neck — she’d read that babies could get whiplash without anyone knowing and then years later they’d show signs of brain damage...

Clap clap behind her as Snake’s footsteps slapped the steps. Mr. Viper... stop thinking stupid thoughts, he was just a man, a creep. Just keep going, she’d find a place to be safe.

The park was empty, the stone path shaded almost black by huge spreading elms.

“Hey!” shouted the snake. “Stop, awready... what... the... fuck!”

Panting between words. The creep probably never did anything aerobic.

“What... fuck... problem... wanna talk!”

Karen pumped her legs. The path took on an upward slope.

Good, make the creep work harder, she could handle it, though Zoe’s cries in her ear were starting to get to her — poor thing, what kind of mother was she, getting her baby into something like this—

“Jesus!” From behind. Huff, huff. “Stupid... bitch!”

More trees, bigger, the pathway even darker. Along the side, occasional benches, graffitied, too, no one on them.

No one to help.

Karen ran even faster. Her chest began to hurt and Zoe hadn’t stopped wailing.

“Easy, honey,” she managed to gasp. “Easy, Zoe-puff.”

The slope grew steeper.

“Fucking bitch!”

Then something appeared on the path. A metal-mesh garbage can. Low enough for her to jump in her jogging days, but not with Zoe. She had to sidestep it and the snake saw her lose footing, stumble, veer off onto the grass, and twist her ankle.

She cried out in pain. Tried to run, stopped.

Zoe’s chubby cheeks were soaked with tears.

The snake smiled and walked around the can and toward her.

“Fucking city,” he said, kicking the can and whipping out a handkerchief and wiping the sweat from his face. Up close he smelled of too-sweet cologne and raw meat. “No maintenance. No one takes any fucking pride anymore.”

Karen started to edge away, looked sharply at her ankle, and winced.

“Poor baby,” said the snake. “The big one, I mean. With the little one making all that fucking noise — does she ever shut up?”

“Listen. I—”

“No, you listen.” A long-fingered hand took hold of Karen’s arm. The one she held Zoe with. “You listen, what the fuck you running away like some idiot make-me-chase-you-sweat-up-my-suit?”

“I — my baby.”

“Your baby should shut the fuck up, understand? Your baby should learn a little discipline, know what I mean? No one learns discipline how’s it gonna be?”

Karen didn’t answer.

“You know?” said the snake. “How’s it gonna be the puppy learns discipline when the bitch don’t know it? You tell me that, huh?”

“That’s—”

He slapped her face. Not hard enough to sting, just a touch really. Worse than pain.

“You and me,” he said, squeezing her arm. “We got things to talk about.”

“What?” Panic tightened Karen’s voice. “I’m just visiting from—”

“Shut up. And shut the goddamn baby up too—”

“I can’t help it if—”

A hard slap rocked Karen’s head. “No, bitch. Don’t argue. You notice what we were eating back there?”

Karen shook her head.

“Sure you did. I saw you look. What was it?”

“Meat.”

“Veal. You know what veal is, sweet-checks?”

“Calf.”

“’Zactly. Baby cow.” Winking. “Something can be young and cute, go bah-bah, moo-moo, but it don’t matter shit when people’s needs are involved, you know what I’m saying?”

He licked his lips. The hand on her arm moved to Zoe’s arm. Pulling.

Karen pulled back and managed to free Zoe. He laughed.

Tripping backward, Karen said, “Leave me alone,” in a too-weak voice.

“Yeah, sure,” said the snake. “All alone.”

The long-fingered hands became fists and he inched toward her. Slowly, enjoying it. The park so silent. No one here, dangerous part of town.

Karen kept retreating, Zoe wailing.

The snake advanced.

Raising a fist. Touching his knuckles with the other hand.

Suddenly, Karen was moving faster, as if her ankle had never been injured.

Moving with an athlete’s grace. Placing Zoe on the grass gently, she stepped to the left while reaching into the big, heavy denim bag.

All the things you had to carry.

Zoe cried louder, screaming, and the snake’s eyes snapped to the baby.

Let’s hear it for distraction.

The snake looked back at Karen.

Karen brought something out of the bag, small and shiny.

Reversing direction abruptly, she walked right up to the snake.

His eyes got very wide.

Three handclaps, not that different from the sound of his feet on the steps. Three small black holes appeared on his forehead, like stigmata.

He gaped at her, turned white, fell.

She fired five more shots into him as he lay there. Three in the chest, two in the groin. Per the client’s request.

Placing the gun back in the bag, she rushed toward Zoe. But the baby was already up, in Doug’s arms. And quiet. Doug always had that effect upon Zoe. The books said that was common, fathers often did.

“Hey,” he said, kissing Zoe, then Karen. “You let him hit you. I was almost going to move in.”

“It’s fine,” said Karen, touching her cheek. The skin felt hot and welts were starting to rise. “Nothing some makeup won’t handle.”

“Still,” said Doug. “You know how I love your skin.”

“I’m okay, honey.”

He kissed her again, nuzzled Zoe. “That was a little intense, no? And poor little kiddie — I really don’t think we should take her along on business.”

He picked up the denim bag. Karen fell light — not just because her hands were empty. That special sense of lightness that marked the end of a project.

“You’re right,” said Karen as the three of them began walking out of the park. “She is getting older, we don’t want to traumatize her. But I don’t think this’ll freak her out too bad. The stuff kids see on TV nowadays, right? If she ever asks we’ll say it was TV.”

“Guess so,” said Doug. “You’re the mom, but I never liked it.”

A bit of sun came down through the thick trees, highlighting his black curls. And Zoe’s. One beautiful tiny head tucked into a beautiful big one.

“It worked,” said Karen.

Doug laughed. “That it did. Everything go smoothly?”

“As silk.” Karen kissed them both again. “Little Peach was great. The only reason she was crying is she was having so much fun throwing food in the restaurant and didn’t want to leave. And the eh-eh worked perfectly. She threw the rattle, gave me a perfect chance to get close to the jerk.”

Doug nodded and looked over his shoulder at the body King across the pathway.

“The Viper,” he said, laughing softly. “Not exactly big game.”

“More like a worm,” said Karen.

Doug laughed again, then turned serious. “You’re sure he didn’t hit you hard? I love your skin.”

“I’m fine, baby. Not to worry.”

“I always worry, babe. That’s why I’m alive.”

“Me too. You know that.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Some gratitude.”

“Hey,” said Doug. “It’s just that I love your skin, right?” A moment passed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

A few steps later, he said, “When I saw him hit you, babe — the second time — I could actually hear it from the bushes. Your head swiveled hard and I thought uh-oh. I was ready to come out and finish it myself. Came this close. But I knew it would tick you off. Still, it was a little... anxiety-provoking.”

“You did the right thing.”

He shrugged. Karen felt so much love for him she wanted to shout it to the world.

“Thanks, babe,” she said, touching his earlobe. “For being there and for not doing anything.”

He nodded again. Then he said it:

“The things we do for love.”

“Oh, yeah.”

His beautiful face relaxed.

A rock. Thank God he’d let her go all the way by herself. First project since the baby and she’d needed to get back into the swing.

Zoe was sleeping now, fat cheeks pillowing out on Doug’s broad shoulder, eyes closed, the black lashes long and curving.

They grew up so fast.

Soon, before you knew it, the little pudding would be in preschool and Karen would have more time on her hands.

Maybe one day they’d have another baby.

But not right away. She had her career to consider.