A Slow Dance

As those who have written me recently know, I have been working on longer projects. But since so many asked for something in the interim, I went through my incomplete folder and pulled out an unfinished story. I hope you like the ending. I think it fits.

*****

My daughter Annabelle has reached what are sometimes referred to as the terrible twos. If you are a parent or have been a parent, you know how demanding if wonderful a time this is. Annabelle had discovered speech and was walking. You find yourself chasing after a wobbling little person who seems able to traverse ground at the speed of light. A person who has an amazing vocabulary, but uses the word "NO" to the exclusion of all the rest.

It was Saturday evening, and I was bathing my daughter with the help of Mr. Bubbles. It had been a long day. Weekends were very much Dad's time in our house. As the Dad, I had risen early with Annabelle.

"Swings," she had said to begin the day.

It had been a day that included the park with its swings, the little merry-go-round, and the assorted trips through the slides. By bath time, I was near exhausted. Kate, my wife of five years, had used the day to clean the house. It seemed a fair trade. Kate is an attorney in a big firm. She practices criminal law. She makes a six figure income, and we have a cleaning service, but she is a fastidious person who needs everything just so and in its proper place.

Two-year-olds are messy individuals. The division of labor in our house has definitely changed to reflect that fact. Kate was a mother with her infant constantly on her hip, but when the child began to pull away, the chasing was done by the Dad. This evening, Kate was having a girl's night out. There had been more than a few of these lately. I put it down to the need to catch up with friends after being tied down with an infant.

"I'm going out front to wait for the car service," Kate said bending to kiss my cheek as I bathed Annabelle.

Kate then stretched forward to kiss our daughter. As she did, she pressed close to me. I caught the scent of her perfume. It was such a little thing. She had a dozen perfumes. I never take notice, but this was different. She had never worn this scent before. I knew because I instantly recognized it. My mother had died when I was five. A car accident took her life on a cold winter's night. As she'd kissed me goodbye that night, she had been wearing Chanel No.5.

It was a scent memory. A powerful and unmistakable recognition. I did not know Kate owned that perfume, and I knew she had never worn it before. I froze and at the same instant took a good look at her. She was in what I believe women refer to as a car coat. It's a light coat rather like a trench coat. It came to her knees, but it opened above her waist, showing the black dress beneath. The coat hid what she was wearing, but not quite. I thought I recognized the dress, and certainly the four-inch stiletto pumps she also wore.

"Where are you going tonight?" I asked, keeping my voice very casual.

"Mario's," she said.

I knew Mario's had Ben Walker playing there. Ben was a bit of a local celebrity. He had concert piano ambitions but played any gig he could get. I knew Ben. He would be playing sad love songs by the time the evening was over. The women who crowded Mario's loved Ben and his playing. A good friend never missed a night that Ben played at Mario's.

Mario's was a mid-priced restaurant and bar with a little dance floor. Ben knew how to play a dreamy dance ballad, but he always ended with those slow love songs women like to dance to. I like them myself, with my lady in my arms.

Mario's was the kind of place you would expect to find a group of women spending a night out. I trusted Kate. The explanation was reasonable. She was a handsome woman, more woman than you would expect an average looking man like me to attract. But she was no movie star, and we had been happy together for five years. Opposites maybe, in many ways, but we fit together.

"I'll be home around 11:00 O'clock," she said.

I had my hands full with Annabelle and pushed any bad thoughts to the back of my mind.

A half hour later, Annabelle and I were seated in front of the TV in the family room, watching Cinderella. I don't know how much of the story she was getting, but she was all attention. We watched it over and over, until she fell fast asleep. I shut the TV off and just sit there with my sleeping princess wrapped in my arms. I know, I am a lucky man. I have more happiness than I deserve. Guys like me don't end up with a nice home, a pretty wife, and a daughter like Annabelle.

I was seventeen when I joined the Army to be: "All you can be."

However, I was not what the Army wanted. I had done well in their tests. I had a high school diploma, and acceptable if not impressive grades. It was just that something did not fit. I had no discipline problems. Physically, I was well above average. Yet, the Army had no place for me. After basic, they found me one pointless position after another.

I suppose I expected to be a soldier and carry a gun. The Army instead thought 'clerk.' But I was hopeless in an office. I could not file anything to save my life. They tried me in the mess, but I could not cook — I lasted a day and a half. They sat me down and explained that I had no aptitude, I wasn't actually good for anything. So it was obvious that I would make an excellent military policeman.

They were right. I excelled in that job. It was, in fact, an impossible task to perform by the book. The Army had determined correctly that I was one of those unique individuals who could handle the position. You needed a total lack of scruples and very high moral standards. You needed to focus on always achieving the right result without worrying how you got there.

I received my first promotion in Iraq for killing a woman and her children. The car had tried to crash a road block. It was driven by a woman, and I could see there were children in the vehicle. The fact that a woman was driving was just the last clue — I knew it was wrong the moment I first saw it. I watched her get in line, and waited. When the driver made her move, I made mine. Sixty armor piercing rounds do a number, but nowhere near what her ten pounds of TATP might have achieved.

My career took off, but I do not believe those in command approved of me. I know that the general in command did not. He let me know it when he called me one day with a problem.

"Listen you motherless SOB. I know all about the shit you pull. But I got a problem here so fix it," he said.

He sure did have a problem. A young enlisted woman had been raped. The three rapists were officers, all graduates of West Point. The good General had himself a right big scandal — people can lose their commands over such situations. Not actually the commander's fault, but that doesn't seem to matter. A good commander knows you use the resources you have at your disposal.

Three crippled West Point assholes later, along with a well-satisfied enlisted person, I had reached the peak of my Army career. I phoned the general to report.

"What are we calling this?" he asked.

"We were debating whether it was friendly fire or accidental discharge."

"You don't know?"

"Well, my clerk is leaning towards accidental discharge caused by combat stress."

"The woman is satisfied?" he asked.

"Exceptionally so," I said.

"So what do I owe you?" the General inquired.

"Well, I need an honorable discharge for my man."

"Are you fucking me? You want an HD for a pothead who shot three officers?"

"Combat stress. I have the medical certification in front of me," I said.

I didn't say that I had quashed this particular doctor's personal DUI charge, the week before. Nor that it was heroin my man was using, not MJ.

"Ok, send it over, but you are sure about the girl?" he asked.

"The young lady can finish her tour. She is getting help. Army strong as they say."

That seemed to piss the General off. "You may be useful, but you're still a son of a bitch," he said.

"I never said otherwise, but by all means feel free to call again. My door is always open," I said as he hung-up.

I spent ten years doing security details before I called it a day. I then took my veteran's benefits and got a two-year public safety certification. I went to work for the railroad as a security officer supervisor. One night we detained some fellows trying to boost Plasma TVs from container cars in the rail yard. I was called to testify at their trial. That is how I met Kate. Back then, she was an assistant DA. Two years later we were married. A few years after that we were parents.

I put Annabelle to bed, and then went to our bedroom. Ours was a modest three-bedroom house we had bought when we first married. Money had been a problem for us in those early years — Kate had a ton of student loans to pay back.

I began looking for the perfume and there it was, front and center on her dresser. There were a dozen perfume bottles, but this one was new. The closet in the master bedroom is large, but even so it can barely contain all Kate's wardrobe. It was well-organized, and I began looking through it. I knew the black dress I was looking for. She never threw anything still wearable away. She hadn't worn a certain black dress since we'd dated. It was very chic, expensive, and short. It was her come fuck me black dress, that went with the heels she had on tonight. The dress wasn't in her closet.

She had no earrings on when she was in the bathroom earlier, but she always wore her diamond studs with that dress. I checked her jewelry box. The studs were gone. My wife had gone out allegedly with the girls, but dressed for seduction.

It took me less than twenty minutes to find her. I never left the house. I carry just your basic cell phone provided by my employer, but she had an iPhone. I didn't want to spring for a replacement plan in case the iPhone was lost, so instead I'd installed 'find my iPhone' on her phone.

Now I opened my laptop and quickly located her phone. She was not at Mario's, but a different restaurant entirely. Vincentie's is exceedingly high end, far too rich for our budget. Maybe my wife could afford it, but not me. A little searching on Streetviews and I had the front door of Vincentie's on my computer.

It wasn't yet 8:00 p.m., but I am a patient man. Just after 9 p.m. my wife emerged. I recognized the man at once. Judge Leonard Simpel, a recent appointment to the federal bench. I'd met him several years before at a County Republican Party, Fourth of July picnic, when he was still a DA. A good dozen years older than me, he had fifteen on Kate. But, there she was, big as life, and kissing him as they walked out of the restaurant.

On my first meeting, I had instantly disliked Simpel. He was nothing more than a sleazy politician. He was perhaps what women see as good looking, even handsome, but he had shifty eyes and an overbearing manner. Moreover, he had an aura about him that to another male said 'arrogant and weak.' I didn't like the way he had looked at my wife, and I told her so. Kate had laughed it off.

Kate did not make it home by 11:00 p.m. It was 12:30 a.m. when I watched her exit his Mercedes from the window of the third bedroom. We live in an old 1970's development where the houses are smaller, built around a cul-de-sac. They parked so she could come in the back way. I expected this. My wife is a cautious and meticulous woman. She expected me to be asleep, but she prepared for the other eventuality. What she did not expect was that her clueless husband was on to her.

I was lying in bed feigning sleep as she entered our bedroom. She headed straight for her jewelry box. The diamond studs were her first concern, and then she walked into her closet — enlarging her closet had been the only alteration we'd made to the house. She must have changed in the closet because she emerged in an old terry cloth bathrobe. Then left the bedroom to go down the hall to the bathroom. I heard the shower come on.

Exiting the bedroom, I went to the door of the bathroom and turned the handle, but my ever-cautious wife had locked the door. I would not catch her washing off the evidence this night, so I returned to bed. When she eventually came in, she gingerly lifted the covers and crawled into bed, snuggled close, and I heard her say in a low voice, "I love you."

There would be a reckoning, but it would not be tonight.

___________________________________________

Special Agent Thomas MacPierce of the FBI was a seasoned veteran. Divorced from his wife of eighteen years with two children, he was approaching retirement. His seniority had earned him a quiet post but burdened him with a junior agent for a partner, Sheila Marks. Together they crossed the police line with a show of their credentials.

Sheila smiled, relishing the look of respect the FBI creds brought. "Drop the smile, agent. A man is dead after all," MacPierce said.

Sheila put on her game face. She was a tall, athletically built woman. She was not a lot to look at, but smart and had military experience. She had breezed through Quantico garnering accolades. But as a field agent? MacPierce thought she would be better utilized by a swat team with her size and her military bearing. She looked the part with her very short haircut.

Determining who was in charge, the agents headed for a tall fortyish woman. Connie Baker was a Lieutenant of Detectives. Her crew was spread through the area, but she was supervising the coroner's staff removal of the body.

"Been expecting you," she said seeing the agents approach.

"How you doing, Connie?" Tom said.

"Good, and you?"

"Been better. This is my new partner, Sheila Marks," Tom said, and then with a wave of his hand, "Lt. Connie Baker."

"Nice to meet you," Sheila said.

"And you," Connie said to Sheila before turning to MacPierce, "Sorry to hear about your marriage." She was not sorry, but it's the kind of thing you're expected to say. Personally, Connie thought the ex-Mrs. MacPierce a horse's ass. Leaving a man like Tom was the last thing Connie would ever do!

"So what we got here?" Tom asked.

"One dead Federal Judge," Connie said, "looks like a robbery ... BUT."

Two hours later the BUT was still very much there. The killing of a sitting judge was no standard matter, so Tom thoroughly inspected the scene with Connie. She was also a good, dependable investigator. There was no reason for the FBI to intervene in any way with her investigation, so Tom would take his inquiry in a different direction.

Judge Simpel had been a DA, and as a jurist had the reputation of being a harsh law and order man. Someone may have been looking for payback, or the crime could relate to a pending matter. Tom agreed to a division of effort with Connie. He and Sheila would check out possibilities that did not involve robbery. The FBI labs would process the evidence, and Connie and the local authorities would check the robbery angle.

Ten days passed with no substantial progress. The forensics were good on the basics of the crime. Leonard Simpel had been shot from about five feet. He had literally been shot right between the eyes. There was just the one bullet, and it was from a Walter PK .038. That gun was quiet, easily concealed, and very powerful, a professional's weapon. But a professional hit would have come from the back or the side. The Judge was killed exiting his front door about 8:00 p.m., and the porch lights would have exposed the killer to Simpel's view. Whoever had shot Simpel wanted to be seen by the victim.

"He wanted the man to know who was shooting," Tom thought.

So it had to be some kind of revenge thing, "But who and why?" None of the obvious suspects fit the crime. There were some hardened criminals in the mix, but their motives and availability didn't fit. His phone rang, the call was from Connie.

"We recovered some stolen items through a fence," she said.

They had a suspect in custody, a methamphetamine dealer by the name of Alex Slomes.

__________________________________________________________

"I don't say nothing without my lawyer," Slomes began.

"That's fine," Connie replied, "But this here is Special Agent MacPierce of the FBI, and he has a one-time get out of jail card for you."

Slomes stiffened at the mention of the FBI, then as Connie's words sunk in he relaxed.

"Doesn't hurt to listen," Slomes said.

Tom MacPierce went through the explanation of what they were looking for and willing to give for it.

"So you got something to tell me?" MacPierce concluded.

"Yea. I got no name, but I can describe the guy who passed me the goods."

Several hours later the DA and a Legal Aid attorney inked the deal, and Alex Slomes was working with a sketch artist. The picture had good detail and was entirely useless. Both Connie and Tom knew it the minute they saw it. Another hour of questioning Slomes and they were convinced.

"This is something different," Tom said.

"You can say that," Connie replied staring at the picture of an obvious long-term drug addict. It was what you would expect and, therefore, clearly a false lead.

"Doesn't add up. The Walter 38 has a street value of what, a thousand bucks?" Tom said.

"More. The gun is clearly worth more than the items taken from the victim. No addict would travel to the suburbs to commit this crime when he had the means of his fix already in his hand," Connie said.

"No, this was done by someone with a motive who wanted to throw us off and knew how to do it," Tom speculated.

In the end, they agreed to show the picture around, but look more closely at the victim and at who might want him dead.

"I think this was personal," Tom MacPierce said.

________________________________________________

Kate was worried. It wasn't just that the FBI had asked for an interview. Kate had more or less expected that sooner or later. Unless they found the perpetrator very quickly, the authorities would seek to question her because she was Len Simpel's mistress. The affair had been long standing, and following the birth of her daughter it had become rather intense.

Kate loved her husband, Bill. He was a fine man and a great father, but not all that exciting. He was a good steady, dependable type. Len was handsome, rich, and powerful. But Len was not the marrying type, and he was certainly no one you wanted to spend your life with or parent children with. Len was also conceited and self-centered — Kate could take him a few days at a time, but not all the time and certainly not as a spouse. This was fine with Len. All he needed from a woman was sex and a few hours of company once or twice a week.

Len was no Don Juan. He enjoyed women but preferred a steady girlfriend that he was comfortable with. He and Kate had been a close friends-with-benefits couple. They felt quite a bit of passion, but not what it takes to make a marriage. Len's death hit Kate hard. It was difficult to conceal her grief from her husband.

The funeral had been brutal. Everyone kept offering her their condolences. Len's older sister Sharlot was the only family he had left. Officially, Sharlot was the chief mourner, but she and everyone who worked with Len and Kate knew of the relationship between the prominent defense attorney and the Judge.

Kate had debated leaving her husband home, but could come up with no respectable reason why he should not attend the funeral with her. Most people believed that Bill had at least acquiesced in her relationship with Len.

Only her closest girlfriends knew the truth. She had entirely concealed her long-standing romantic involvement with the powerful DA and then Judge from her caring and loving spouse, but she saw her deception as more a protection for Bill. She was shielding him from the harsh fact that he could never compete with a powerful man like Leonard Simpel, a man who took whatever he wanted.