Too Close to Miss

TOO CLOSE TO MISS

By John Perich

Published by John Perich at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 John Perich

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page and Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Acknowledgments

Too Hard to Handle: Chapter One

About the Author

# # #

CHAPTER ONE

Daniel's in stable condition, but he's been shot.

I lay in bed, propped up on one elbow, my cell phone digging into my ear. I didn't even remember it ringing. Had I passed out while talking to someone? But every light in my bedroom was off, save for the pale green LCD of the alarm clock: 1:45 a.m. My bra and shoes were a shadowy lump on the floor, and the covers were piled at the foot of the bed.

Then the rest of me woke up. Shit, I said, sitting upright.

He's stable, like I said. They're monitoring him at Mass General.

Right. How long? But the phone went dead.

Shit, I said. Then I slid the phone closed and swung my feet out of bed. I felt around on the floor to pull on my jeans and yesterday's bra. A tank top and a ratty Bruins sweatshirt completed the ensemble. Ninety seconds after hanging up, I was out the door.

Daniel's in stable condition, but he's been shot. I tried to regulate my breathing as I hurried to my car. Whoever had called had used that awkward phrasing to keep me from panicking: give the good news first, but let me know the extent of the trouble. Working myself into a tizzy wouldn't do Daniel any good. I had to keep telling myself that.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, let him be all right.

Parking sucks in Somerville, so I had to walk a block to where I'd left the car. I lived in Union Square, a neighborhood taken over by young professionals. They were all in bed by now, of course. I was the only person up and about at quarter of two in the morning.

The autumn air sobered me up enough to realize I didn't have a plan just yet. There was one detail I could check, of course. I fished my phone back out of my pocket and called Daniel.

Hey, this is Daniel Hadley. I'm either on the phone or ... Damn. Is there anything longer than a voice mail greeting when you're in a hurry?

Daniel, hey, it's Mara, I said. "It's 1:50 a.m. on, hell, Tuesday, I think. I don't know. Listen, I just got this really strange call that said you were in the hospital. If you're not, and you get this, please, please, please call me back. If you are, well ..."

I cut myself off there, shutting the phone and stifling tears. He said Daniel's in stable condition. You're going to make it. Drive.

I started my beat-up Corolla. While I waited for the heater to blow warm air, I dialed the next person I knew I'd have to call: Detective Chuck Ivey with the Boston Police. Maybe he'd heard something.

No surprise: voice mail.

Chuck, it's Mara. I just heard that Daniel Hadley's been shot. He's at Massachusetts General. I know your phone's on. Call me when you get this. I know your phone is on. I know you saw my name on the caller ID. Don't duck my calls. Man up. Call me back.

Oh, that was smooth, Mara.

From Union Square it's a quick drive to Massachusetts General Hospital. I could make the drive in twenty minutes with rush hour traffic. At two in the morning it's nothing. It still took long enough for bile to build in my throat. The possibility that Daniel had been shot scared me so much my hands shook on the steering wheel. The possibility that he hadn't — that someone was screwing with me — scared me even more.

Idling at a stoplight, I looked down at my cell phone. There was one more call I had to make. No matter how awkward it felt. Just to be sure.

Hi! It was Chrissie's voice, smoky and warm even when it was trying to be innocent. You've reached the Hadley residence! Daniel, Chrissie and Stevie ...

Five-year-old Stevie's voice broke in. "Stephen, Mom!"

Chrissie's golden laugh. ... and Stephen can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and we'll get back to you soon.

What do I even say? The answering machine's beep forced me to improvise. "Hey, uh, Chrissie. This is Mara Cunningham. We met at your Christmas party last year? I'm a photographer for the Boston Tribune, though I'm, ah, not calling regarding ... well, it's not work related. Although it might be news. Anyway, this is ... um. Could you call me if Daniel's okay? I just got some disturbing news about him and I'd like to ... Anyhow, please call me." I left my number and hung up.

Damn it. What good did that do? Best case scenario, Chrissie was at home asleep. And Daniel was asleep next to her. Worst case scenario, she was at the hospital already, waiting at Daniel's bedside. Right where I was headed at two in the morning. And when she saw me come in the room, what was I supposed to say?

A loud, piercing honk shook me from my reverie. A taxi sat behind me, flicking its brights. The light had changed to green. Another honk.

The hell is your problem? I said. There's no one else on the road! What's your friggin' hurry? Go around! I realized that the other driver couldn't hear me with my windows up. It wasn't really him that I was mad at, anyway.

Rolling through the intersection, I started to put the cell phone away. Then I thought of something. Keeping one eye on the road, I opened up the Recent Calls menu. The call that had started me down this path blinked at the top.

1:45 AM. Unknown ID.

# # #

A slow Tuesday night in the ER waiting room at Mass General. A young man held an ice pack to the side of his head. His girlfriend's fingernails clacked on her phone. A teenager, pale from hairline to jaw, stared into a sloshing bucket between his legs. The vague odor of piss and antiseptic solution. Carts squeaking down the hall.

The receptionist looked fifty and bored.

Moment of truth. Daniel Hadley?

She looked at the computer next to her: a pregnant gray block, its screen buzzing with green-on-black text. She tapped a few keys.

Gunshot, white male, late thirties, I said. Admitted this evening. My press credentials were hanging on a lanyard in my kitchen. They would have been useful.

The receptionist nodded, tracing something on the screen with her fingertips. He's in Recovery B right now. But you can't —

Too bad for her I could find Recovery with my eyes closed. I skipped away from her desk. Hey! she said. I saw her stand up out of the corner of my eye. She had to get around her desk, though. Though I'm not in the best shape, I still run a mean sprint.

I barged through the swinging doors into the Recovery wing. The receptionist shuffled behind me. Ma'am! Ma'am, you can't ... I ignored her. A doctor came around the far corner, dictating instructions to a nurse. I slowed my jog to a walk, acting as if I belonged. The cries behind me stopped.

It took me five minutes in Recovery B to find him. I was already sweating under my hoodie. Some nurse was bound to stop me and demand to know who I was. But I got to the tiny suite at the end of the hall without interference. Three beds and a small bathroom. A window that would look out onto the highway in the daylight. Two of the beds were occupied. Daniel lay asleep in the farthest.

Daniel's thinning brown hair was wrapped in bandages. His eyes were closed, free of their usual worry. The cotton sheets tucked him in tight and his hands rested limp on top of them. An oxygen mask obscured his face. Electrodes monitored his heart rate: slow and steady, just like Daniel. He looked paler than usual, but aside from that he might have been asleep. Except for the bandages.

The bandages reminded me of the phone call. Who knew me well enough to know I'd get out of bed at two a.m. on a Tuesday to be at Daniel's side? Beyond that, who knew that Daniel had been shot? And who had known where they took him?

This mystery was the sort of challenge Daniel would have laughed at. He had been laughing when I first met him.

It was the night of the gubernatorial election, two years ago. The Tribune sent Saul Kirkadian and me to cover the Pendicott campaign. We'd knocked on the door of the campaign's hotel suite and Daniel had answered. When I mentioned the Tribune he put his hands up in mock horror. Then he threw his sport coat over his head and laughed. I laughed too. It wasn't the last time Daniel brought that out in me.

At one point, Daniel had ducked into the bathroom to take a phone call. When he came back he was smiling, like a kid who knew his parents had a surprise for him. The hotel suite was packed by that point: many of the volunteers from the Pendicott campaign. Everyone tired, but coasting on Daniel's energy. Even the district attorney, Josh Edgerton, had shown up. The room was dense with sweat and body heat. I had loosened the collar of my blouse.

You've got something, I said, pointing to his cell phone.

He smiled. Am I that transparent?

Would it be too early in our acquaintance to say you are?

You're a photographer. I trust your eye.

I trust yours. You should be the one running for governor with a face like that. I lifted my camera to take a picture of him. That picture was how I wanted to remember him: standing tall, sandy brown hair smoothed back, blue eyes twinkling. Triumphant but restrained. Not beaten down by the world. Not like this.

A wet smacking sound brought me out of the memory. I looked up to see Daniel's head tossing on the pillow. His lips worked like he was struggling for words.

I rushed to his side. My breath caught in my throat as I wondered what to say. That's it, champ? Keep breathing? I stood there, holding his hand. It felt weak, like paper wrapped around dry twigs.

His eyes fluttered. They opened once, then a second time. He looked around the room, pupils wide. I didn't know what his last memory was, but to go from that to a hospital room at night must have thrown him.

I waited a few seconds before speaking. Daniel, I said.

He blinked. Mara. His voice was hollow through the oxygen mask.

Danny. My throat hurt from the effort of holding back tears. Daniel's in stable condition, but he's been shot. He was okay. He would be okay. I could breathe again.

He smiled, curling his fingers into my palm. Then the smile vanished. Mara, he said, do ... do they know?

I sighed. Of course that's his first question. No. They don't know about us.

CHAPTER TWO

Daniel moistened his lips, like he was gearing up to say something else. I held his hand, trying not to crush it. Then he closed his eyes. His head sank back on the pillow.

No. They don't know about us.

But someone did. I wanted to deny it, but the rational part of my brain wouldn't leave it be. I have a persistent intuition that solves puzzles, then drops the solution into my consciousness. Like a cat dropping a dead bird on your porch. I can't stop thinking about trouble, even if I want to. That's why I drink at night.

Why would anyone think that I'd drive to Mass General at 2 AM if I heard Daniel Hadley had been shot? Because they knew I'd been sleeping with him.

That was last year, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t know who I'd scream it to. And none of that answered the question of who'd shoot him.

Daniel Hadley was the epitome of Boston success. Not yet forty, he practiced real estate law for a long roster of local businesses. Graduating from Harvard Law gave him contacts all over the country. And he'd been a key fundraiser for Weston Pendicott in the governor's race two years ago. A man with ambition, opportunity and dozens of friends. Not the sort of person likely to get shot.

Or maybe the most likely. This was Boston, after all.

I shook off my paranoia. There were plenty of other explanations. Maybe a home invasion gone awry? Maybe some random serial killer? Maybe his wife, furious after discovering an affair? The thought made my stomach go cold.

That's her.

It was the receptionist I'd sprinted past a few minutes ago. She stood in the doorway, pointing at me. Towering behind her stood Chuck Ivey, Detective in the Major Crimes Unit of the Boston Police Department.

Shit.

Ivey was tall, black, clear-eyed and freckled. He wore his hair in braided cornrows down to the top of his spine. Every detective in the MCU dressed cheap except for one luxury affectation: shoes, a watch, cufflinks. For Ivey it was his two-hundred and seventy-nine dollar Prada shades. They hung from the front pocket of his wool suit jacket. I don't know why he needed them at two in the morning.

That's her, the receptionist said again.

Of course it is, said Ivey.

Detective, I said. I let go of Daniel's hand, hoping my body obscured the gesture.

Ms. Cunningham. The man needs his rest. Ivey came to the foot of the bed and held out one hand. "And I'm sure Mr. Hadley isn't ready to give interviews to the Tribune just yet."

But he just woke ... I looked over my shoulder. Daniel's head had slumped back onto the pillow. His eyes were closed again.

Ivey took another step forward. He wasn't grabbing me by the shoulder, but it was clear that was his next move.

Fine, fine. I left the suite, glaring at the receptionist. Detective Ivey followed me. A uniformed officer stood in the hallway, thumbs tucked into his belt.

How're you doing, Chuck? I asked.

Not bad for a Tuesday morning. Yourself?

My relationship with Chuck ran hot and cold. Being a reporter meant I had to embarrass his department, his bosses and the City of Boston as part of my job. But it also meant I could give him useful intel or even leak the occasional story. If Chuck liked me at all, it was against his better judgment.

What's MCU doing on an attempted homicide?

Ivey snorted. That's what this looks like to you?

I didn't follow his meaning, so I drew him out a little more. Guards at the door, detectives pulling overtime.

My department answers to the chief of police, Ms. Cunningham. And the chief answers to the mayor. And the mayor still needs favors from the governor, and Daniel Hadley ...

Put the governor in office, I said.

"What's the Tribune doing at the bedside of a man who just arrived at Mass General an hour ago?"

I got a phone call. The words spilled out without my thinking.

A phone call? From who?

A friend. I didn't think Ivey would believe me if I told him a stranger had called me in the middle of the night. It never hurts to let a Boston cop think you have friends everywhere.

Your friend have a name?

What do you have so far? I asked, changing the subject.

We reached the lobby. Ivey held open the swinging double doors for me. He said nothing.

Clues? Leads? Suspects? What do you have?

What I have, he said, are orders not to talk to the press. Especially not to members of the press who are close personal friends of Mr. Hadley. Out of respect for the family.

He let the doors swing closed with me on the far side. Then he spun on his heel and went back the way we came.

I turned back to the lobby, face burning and fists clenched. The same crew of late-night misfits still waited there. The young thug and his girlfriend. The pale teenager staring into a bucket. No sign of Daniel's wife or son yet.

A man in his late thirties sat at the far end of the row of chairs, separated from the drunks and thugs as if by an invisible shield. He wore a black turtleneck and jeans, with a dark wool overcoat tucked over his arm. His watch cost more than the outfits of everyone else in the room. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, running a thumb through his prematurely silver hair. He was about Daniel's age, which made sense since they had gone to school together.

Adler, I said.

He looked up, his eyes wide. Mara? What are you doing here?

Daniel ... I pointed down the hall toward Recovery B. I didn't know how to finish the sentence. You know, your friend? The guy I used to sleep with? He's been shot.

You saw him? The nurse wouldn't let me go down there. He stood and came over to me, putting a hand on my arm. How is he?

He's resting. Floating in and out of consciousness. Doesn't really know where he is. I thought of Daniel's blue eyes searching for mine. Mara ... do they know?

Adler nodded, his shoulders softening. In addition to going to school with Daniel, the two of them shared offices in Cambridge. Adler practiced zoning law, while Daniel did real estate law. He'd known me since the night I met Daniel, during the gubernatorial race two years ago.

How're you holding up? he asked.

Holding up. Adler must have expected me to be a wreck, hearing about Daniel's condition. Did he know? Did Daniel share it with him, or could he just see it in my eyes? I liked to think of myself as street smart, but maybe I wasn't as good a liar as I thought.

I waved his question off. Let's get some coffee.

We crowded around the instant coffee machine at the far end of the lobby. Adler fed it a dollar and it voided hot, brown water into a wrinkled cup.

How did you get here? I asked.

Taxi. Adler lived in a sumptuous brownstone in the Back Bay, the dense heart of the city. Had to jog three blocks to find one at this time of night.

How did you know he was here?

The police. He lifted the cup out of the machine and blew across the top. They called Danny's office. Got the voice mail, which gave them the landlord's number, who gave them my number in turn.

I nodded. Then it hit me.

This is what I meant by my persistent intuition. I always know when I'm missing a piece of the story. Even before I've put what I've heard into logical sequence, I'm already shaking with adrenaline. My editor, Gary, used to call it my bullshit detector. Then I made one too many calls to the State House and got transferred from a Tribune byline to crime scene photography. Gary called it something ruder now.

If I could turn it off, I would. But it never shuts off.

Where's Chrissie? I asked. I'd allowed myself to forget her. If I saw Chrissie, I'd have to explain why I'd come to visit her injured husband. I'd pushed her out of mind.

But everyone was here who should be. The cops were here. Daniel's best friend and office neighbor was here. I was here. Everyone except the one person who counted.

Adler looked at me, brows furrowed. You didn't hear?

Hear what?

Mara, honey... He cut himself off. It's ...

Tell me.

What exactly do you know already?

I grabbed him by the shoulder. Adler.

He sighed, slumping against the coffee machine. Up until then he'd looked like his usual cool self. Tired but otherwise unshaken. Whatever he had to say next broke him, though. He couldn't look me in the face.

Adler's voice was husky. Someone broke into Daniel's house tonight, Mara. When the cops got there, they found Daniel, Chrissie and Stevie. All shot. They got them here and pronounced ... Something caught in his throat. They pronounced ...

I already knew what he was going to say. Nothing else would make him react like that. Adler covered his mouth with his shaking hands. But I photographed gunshot victims, car crashes and fires every day for the Tribune. I reached for Adler's shoulder and my hand didn't shake.

Chrissie? I asked.

He nodded.

And Stevie? Five years old, honey-brown hair like his dad, named after his mom's favorite guitar player. Preferred to be called Stephen.

Adler turned away from me, burying his forehead against the coffee machine. Another nod.

I let go of Adler's shoulder and folded my arms around myself. I felt numb, like nothing anchored me to the world. Detective Ivey's words floated back to me. The scowl on his face after I'd asked him why MCU had been summoned for an attempted homicide. That's what this looks like to you?

CHAPTER THREE

The last time I'd seen Daniel had been the Saturday before Christmas, ten months earlier.