One More Life To Live

I wanted to make this good for her, because that was the only way it would be good for me. She reached the brink three times, and three times I let her coast back down. The last time, she started pulling gently at the head of my cock. I’d never felt that before, but I knew she was telling me it was time. I slipped my finger over her inner lips. They were swollen into wet, wrinkled folds and she arched into my hand. She was ready.

I entered her slowly, just a little, pulled back out, and then pushed deeper. I’m not particularly large, but Angie was tight and I didn’t want to hurt her. By the time our bellies touched, she’d opened to me and was trying to push me deeper. She put her hands on my back and started gently caressing me.

I began moving in and out of her slowly, and Angie was responding. Then, something changed. I knew Angie was enjoying what I was doing, but it was like she’d switched into high gear. She groaned, “Oh, God, I didn’t think…”, and pulled me down on top of her. Her hands grabbed my ass and started pulling me into her with every stroke. Angie moaned again and again, and I felt her body squeezing the base of my cock.

She writhed beneath me, forcing herself up to meet my thrusts and pulling at my hips at the same time. Wave after wave of warmth surged around my cock until, with a little cry, Angie buried her face in my neck and began to shudder uncontrollably. She cried out again when I tried to pull out of her.

“No, it’s OK. Don’t stop. God, don’t stop.”

The first spurt raced up my cock just as Angie wrapped her legs around my back and locked me inside her. I couldn’t move, but I didn’t need to. Her body took me the rest of the way with the little spasms in her belly and her cries of release. After a few more jerking spurts, I let my weight settle into the nest of her thighs and belly. We lay there panting and feeling the beating of our hearts.

I figured I was crushing her, and rolled to her side. My lips touched wetness when I kissed her on the eyelid.

“Angie, are you crying?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about it. It’s just me.”

She snuggled her cheek against my chest and hugged me. At about five, I kissed her good-bye and went home to shower and shave.

There were two faxes on my desk. One was from the Recorder’s office in Duluth. The first page was an apology from Betty Johansen, the clerk who’d taken my call. The second was a death certificate for Debra Hastings. The only problem with the certificate was no body had been found. Debra had only been declared dead and the cause was listed as probable drowning. I called Janet to ask her opinion.

“Could be. Lake Superior’s pretty deep and cold. A body could just sink to the bottom and not decompose. There wouldn’t be any gasses to bring it to the surface. It’s been documented before.”

A second fax was from the FBI. They’d confirmed their computer match and double-checked it with two experts. They were confident the prints were Debra’s. Since I’ve never known the FBI to be wrong, I figured Debra had faked her death and was now in my city. It would normally be hard to find her after so many years. Women change their hairstyle and color, gain and lose weight, and sometimes surgically alter the aging process. In this case, I had a little edge. There was only one woman I knew had been in the area at the same time as the murder. The apparent age difference bothered me a little, but some women don’t age as fast as others. Something to do with their skin, or at least, that’s what my ex had once said. I hated to think about it.

The right thing to do would have been to go talk to Angie again and tell her about the prints on the gun, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I saw a file folder in my inbox. It was Janet’s report on the dead hooker. The report was as I’d anticipated. The woman had somehow gotten a better cut than usual on her last buy. The heroin injected between her toes caused her to just nod off and never wake up. The body showed no signs of a struggle, so it was almost certain she’d injected it herself. Putting this case to bed would be easier than talking to Angie. All I needed was a name to go with the body.

I called the lab and asked them about my unknown hooker’s prints. My explanation for rushing the ID was that I wanted to get everything tidied up before next Friday. Ned said he’d push it through. In an hour, the prints were back on my desk with a rap sheet for Linda Day. She’d been in and out of jail over the last thirty years for prostitution and drug use. Linda had never listed any next of kin. It was unlikely that Linda Day was even her real name. She would join the other discards of society in a plain coffin paid for by the state.

At three, I knocked off and went home. Then came a few hours of fitful sleep and a few more of justifying to myself what I was going to do that night. At two, I drove to Phil’s. Angie smiled when I sat down at the bar.

“You look tired. Did I wear you out that much?”

“No. Just a really hard day. Got any coffee?”

She sat the cup on the bar and touched my hand.

“Are you going to take me home again tonight? I’m starting to like having breakfast with you at three in the morning.” Angie made little circles on the back of my hand with her index finger. “I like what happens after breakfast even more.”

I wanted to tell her to slip out the back door and run like hell. I wanted her gone so I’d have a reasonable excuse for not hauling her ass to the station. Like she’d said before, sometimes life fucks you over. Tonight, I was going fuck over what was left of her life.

“Yes. We’ll have breakfast again. The rest depends on you.”

“That sounds like you think I might say no. Believe me, that’s the farthest thing from what I’m thinking.”

My pancakes tasted like soggy cardboard and Angie didn’t help my mood any. She’d been happy since I’d walked into Phil’s, and talked about everything under the sun. To know I was going to smash that happiness into fragments was killing me. I couldn’t talk on the ride to her apartment.

Neither of us saw the man standing in the shadows beside the steps of the old brownstone. Angie almost had her key in the lock when he spoke in a low, menacing voice.

“Buddy, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll haul ass out of here. I got some business with Angie here, and it don’t involve you. Now, beat it.”

I don’t like to be told what’s good for me. I’m plenty old enough to know for myself. Anyway, the guy was short and fat and slimy, and I didn’t like him. I didn’t know what he wanted with Angie, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be good for her if I left.

“Nah. I think I’ll stick around. Angie might need me for something.”

“You damn well better get your ass out of here while you still can.”

He flicked his wrist and I caught the flash of light reflected by the knife. Probably one of those big lockback blades with a thumb button for opening. The fat guy evidently thought he could scare me off. He was wrong. My jacket hid the Smith clipped inside the waistband of my pants. I knew at this distance, I could put at least one shot in his midsection before he got to us. I reached in my jacket pocket and pulled my badge.

“Hey asshole, you know what? You are the unluckiest bastard on the face of the earth. Drop the blade, and get down on the sidewalk. Now!”

I really thought he was going to do it. The guy bent a little at the knees and leaned forward. Then, he spun around and ran. I pulled the Smith and yelled for him to stop, but he’d already turned the corner. By the time I looked around the building, he’d vanished. I went back to Angie’s steps. She was standing there with her hand still on the doorknob and shaking like a leaf.

“It’s OK, Angie. He’s gone.”

She didn’t move.

“Angie, I said it’s OK.”

She threw her arms around me and sobbed into my chest.

“No, it’s not OK. He’ll be back just as soon as you leave.”

“You know this guy? What’s he want with you?”

Inside her apartment, Angie finally told me everything.

“I had just started college when I met Bobby. He was a senior in political science and thought he and his Hippie friends could stop the Vietnam War. It was fun, and I felt we were doing what was right. I wanted to be a journalist, and being involved was giving me good experience, or so I thought until we went to a protest where things got a little rough. Both of us got arrested, but luckily, they let us go the next day. After that, I tried to get him to stop. It was obvious that it would take more than a few college kids to change what was happening. Instead, he burned his draft card in front of a bunch of TV reporters.

“I was impressed by his commitment, and told him I’d stay through whatever happened. Amazing how dumb you can be when you’re nineteen, isn’t it? Anyway, Bobby told me he had to go to St. Paul for a meeting and asked me to come along. I cut my classes and we drove up for the week. On Wednesday, he came back to our hotel and said we had to leave. He was in a big hurry, but he wouldn’t tell me why. When we stopped for lunch, Bobby told me he’d robbed a gas station so we’d have some money to go away with.

“See, there was this underground book that circulated through the peace groups about that time. It had instructions for how to do lots of things, and one of those things was how to get another identity if you were in danger of being arrested. That’s why Bobby had gone to St. Paul. What you had to do was look in the newspaper archives of a big city for the year you were born, and find a baby that had died. Then, you used that name to get a copy of the birth certificate. Most recorders didn’t cross check birth and death records, so it worked.

“Once he’d found a new name, he had to have a Social Security Card and a driver’s license before he could get work. Bobby wanted to get them in another state, but he needed money to get there. That’s why he robbed the station. He told me I’d have to do the same thing, because the police would say I was an accomplice and arrest me too.”

“That’s how you became Angie Carpenter, isn’t it?”

“You knew?”

“I didn’t suspect until this morning. I had Debra Hastings' fingerprints from the gun that killed Tony. Your brother said you were killed in 1969, but your death certificate said they never found a body.”

Angie slumped down in the couch.

“I guess you have to arrest me now, don’t you?”

“I want to hear the rest of your story first.”

Angie took a deep breath.

“Well, Bobby couldn’t find a job that paid much. I mean, he got the card and license, but if you don’t have a past, you don’t have a chance at a decent-paying job. That’s why I’m working at Phil’s, too. Places like Phil’s don’t ask many questions.

“Well, he started smoking more pot than normal, and then started using heroin. That was expensive, so he started selling, too. I was working nights at a bar when he got caught. There were police cars all around our apartment building when I got to our street. The apartment was full of drugs and I knew I’d go to jail if I went home, so I just turned around and started driving. I ended up in Chicago. It was a big city and it was easy to hide. That’s when I changed my name to Angie Carpenter.”

“What about the boating accident that was listed on the death certificate?”

“One weekend, I drove to Duluth and rented a motel under my new name. I knew a girl there from school whose parents had a boat and I took a cab to their house. All day Saturday, I talked to her about how school wasn’t going well and about Bobbie and that sometimes I wondered if it was worth going on. On Sunday morning, I took the key to the boat, motored out about a mile from shore, and jumped in the lake. It was a cold swim, but I’d been swimming since I was five and I’d read up on how distance swimmers do it. The grease I put on kept me warm, and by taking it slow, I made it to the beach at Erikson Park. That was only a few blocks from my motel, so I sat on the beach to dry off and then walked back to my room. The next day, I drove back to Chicago.”

“So your family never knew?”

Angie broke down and sobbed.

“No. I couldn’t tell them…, I couldn’t tell Mom and Dad that I was mixed up in drugs. I know it hurt them to think I was dead, but if I’d gone to prison, that would have hurt them longer. It was best that I never went back.”

I got Angie a glass of water and waited until she stopped crying.

“Who was the guy out there tonight and what does he have to do with you and Tony.”

“He was in prison with Bobby. His first name is Ed. I don’t know his last name. Bobby went to jail before I staged my death. I found out from a friend where they’d sent him, and called him one time to let him know I was all right. He didn’t care. He was just mad because I’d run out on him. Anyway, about a year ago, Ed came to the bar. He’d just gotten out. He told me Bobby had died in prison. Pneumonia, I think it was. Anyway, he also said he and Bobby had been friends, and that Bobby’d told him all about me. Ed said he’d turn me in to the cops unless I paid him two hundred dollars every week.

“Since he was on parole, Ed didn’t want to risk getting caught taking the money, but he had another guy he said would collect from me. That guy was Tony. He’d set Tony up in his movie business and said Tony owed him. Well, two hundred dollars is almost half of what I make every week, but I paid him because I was afraid. On that night, Tony came in just before closing and said he was there to collect. I got the money out of my purse and we went out in the alley. As soon as I gave it to him, I started back to the bar.

“Tony grabbed me by the hair and said he knew what was going on and wanted some for himself. I couldn’t pay more, not if I was going to be able to live, and that’s what I told him. He pulled out his little gun and stuck it in my face. He said if I wasn’t going to pay him in cash, I could pay him another way. He pushed me down on the ground and told me to unzip his pants.

“I decided he might kill me, but I wasn’t going to do that. I hit him in the crotch as hard as I could. When he turned loose of my hair, I grabbed the gun. I was trying to keep it away from my face when it went off. Tony started wheezing and sat down in front of me. He stopped trying to breathe a little while later.”

“Nobody came out to see what had happened? They must have heard the shot.”

“Down there, the less you know, the better off you are. They didn’t even look at me when I came back in and said I was closing up. They just left.”

“Why didn’t you call the police and tell them all this?”

“Oh yeah, right. They’re really have believed me. I tell them this guy has been blackmailing me for a year, and when he asks for a blowjob, I shoot him in self-defense. Sure. Would you have believed a story like that?”

“Probably not without another witness. So, why didn’t you just leave?”

“That’s simple. I didn’t have any money left. Tony took it all. Then you started asking me questions. I was hoping you’d believe what I said and go away, but you didn’t. If I’d run then, you’d have suspected something. I hadn’t counted on you liking me. When you came back the second night, I figured if you were going to stay around, I’d have to make you like me more.” Angie started to cry again. “Dammit, I had it all figured out. I’d be nice to you and let you think I liked you. You’d never be able to arrest me then. In a couple months, I’d have enough money to leave town. Why did you have to make me fall in love with you?”

It was the hardest decision I’d made in my thirty-one years on the force.

“Angie, come on. It’s time to go.”

My retirement party was nice. The guys chipped in and bought me a new fishing rod and reel. That meant more to me than the cheap plaque and the certificate for meritorious service in the black leather folder. At three-thirty, I handed my badge and the holster-worn Smith to the captain. He wished me well and then got a phone call. I left his office and told Hayes the captain wanted to see him about a murder case he’d been working on.

There was a round of handshakes from the guys, and hugs and kisses from the women. I got home just as the super was showing my place to a young married couple. My stuff was already in the rental truck at the curb. I handed the super my keys, took a last look around, and said good-bye to the little apartment.

By early morning, I was in Minnesota. A single man who works all the time doesn’t have many expenses, so I’d put most of my salary in the bank. A week before Tony’s murder I’d bought a little cabin on one of the lakes around Grand Rapids. I figured if I was going to spend the rest of my life alone, I might as well be in a place where I could do some fishing and try to forget some of the things I’d seen and done.

Angie ran out the front door and into my arms when I got out of the truck. We’d only taken her clothes, the typewriter, picture and teddy bear that night. That’s all that would fit in the rental car. There’s a little diner about fifteen miles from the cabin, and we ate breakfast there. That night, we built a big fire on our beach and settled down to drink wine and listen to the loons and the quiet swish of the night waves. I don’t know if we’ll make it or not, but I’m hoping. So far, I’m doing lots of fishing, and Angie is half-way through her novel. In between, we’re getting to know each other all over again. I know I love having her with me and she seems to love being there.

In all thirty-one years on the force, I never stepped across the line. That night, in Angie’s apartment, I decided she was telling me the truth, even though nobody else would believe it. When I left the station the next afternoon, both Tony’s file and Linda Day’s went with me. That night, I pulled Debra Hastings' prints and the FBI identification from Tony’s file, burned them, and flushed the ashes down the john.

When I first started police work, an old cop taught me how to lift prints from a fingerprint card. He said it was a good thing to know if I needed a little more evidence to prove a case. If done correctly, a pretty fair set of latent prints results. I’d done it a couple times to see if it worked, but never resorted to that kind of evidence. Before I went to bed that night, Linda Day’s prints were on a card that labeled them as being found on the gun from Tony’s murder. I wrote both reports the next morning and sent them to the Captain for approval.

The connection between Tony and Linda had been easy to establish. She worked the same area as his apartment and Phil’s Tap, so they knew each other. He’d probably been trying to force her into one of his dirty little movies. I’d interviewed three other hookers who said he’d tried that with them. Linda said she wasn’t interested, and Tony tried to scare her with his little pistol. The murder might have been an accident or she might have somehow taken his gun away and done it on purpose. It really didn’t matter since Linda was dead, too. I wasn’t too worried that Ed would come forward and change that story, but if he did, Linda’s fingerprints on the gun were better evidence than anything he could say.

The captain was so pleased he barely looked at my files before initialing them. He could list each case as closed and improve his statistics without having to lose a detective to a long murder trial. The DA was also pleased. He didn’t have to spend his budget on a trial nobody cared about.

In a city this big, nobody cares about the Tony Cardone’s. Nobody cares about the Linda Day’s, either. Somebody had to care about Angie, and that night, I decided it would be me. Her first life had ended in fear and the loss of her family. Tony Cardone had ruined her second. Linda Day gave Angie a chance at a third life. I thought Linda might understand.

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