"Any jealous coworkers or angry ex-boyfriends?"
She's silent for a moment. She frowns, pushes her hair out of her eyes, murmurs, "One bigoted neighbor, and," she pauses, "one disgruntled ex-girlfriend."
Peter blinks, but that's the full extent of his reaction. If there's anything he's learned in the past two years of working with Leight, it's that people are never as simple as you expect them to be. So he nods and asks, "Have you questioned them yet?"
The Captain strains a smile. "Thought we'd save that bit for you."
Leight's smile is inappropriately radiant. He swallows the rest of his coffee in one inelegant gulp. He stands up and says, "Brilliant."
"It's a sin!" the white-haired, hunch-backed Jehovah's Witness wails. She's an old woman, standing with her battered boots planted firmly apart, swaying gently, a tattered beige cloak draped over her shoulders.
"If you fornicate before marriage, you will never enter God's kingdom!" She smells, distinctly, of stale urine.
They're on a bus, for once, because the ex-girlfriend lives in a suburb that's inaccessible by subway and outrageously expensive by cab. Peter almost wishes they had paid the exorbitant cab fees. He forgot how many loons ride buses. He tries to ignore her, so he turns to Leight and asks, "Do you actually think it's the ex-girlfriend?"
Leight laughs. "Of course not."
"Then why are we going all the way out to Fairmont? The wedding is in less than 24 hours. We don't exactly have time to waste."
"We're not wasting time at all. There's a perfectly good reason for going out to meet the ex. There's a perfectly good reason for everything; we're just too daft or stubborn or blind to see it."
The rain hammers heavily on the roof of the bus. The windows are rain-soaked, blurry, opaque. Traffic is loud, honking, raging.
"Hell!" the old woman screams. "Fornication outside the sanctity of marriage will deliver you into Satan's arms."
The rain keeps falling, falling, falling.
"A perfectly good reason," Peter echoes. "What is it?"
"You'll find out soon enough." Leight smiles, pulls the cord to request a stop. "What do you know," he murmurs, "here we are."
Peter shivers but stands up all the same.
The bus screeches to a halt. Peter's halfway out the door when he realizes that Leight isn't behind him. He turns back.
Leight's standing next to the old woman. He taps her on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he says, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid fornication within the sanctity of marriage isn't an option for me."
He smirks, "I'm gay."
Then he follows Peter off the bus, without waiting to watch the woman sputter further condemnations.
They stand on the street corner as Peter searches his pockets for a map. The bus rolls away with a splash. The rain keeps falling, falling, falling.
"Ms. Jameson, please." Peter's knuckles ache from knocking on the door of the duplex.
"Mal," he sighs as he backs away from the door. "Maybe she's not here. You don't even think she sent the note, and we don't have much time, so maybe we should just—"
"Nonsense. She's there." Leight is disgustingly certain.
Peter can't help but glare. "How on Earth do you know that?"
"Are you deaf? Listen!"
Peter puts his ear to the door. Sure enough, he hears the muffled notes of a piano. Then Leight nudges him out of the way and knocks—bangs, hammers—on the door himself. The rattling shakes Peter to his bones. The music stops, and a few moments later, the door opens.
The woman who is staring at them looks about Jennifer Smith's age. She is short and in decent shape. She has short, somewhat spikey brown hair. She is dressed casually in simple clothes that satisfy her musician stereotype, and she is definitely frowning.
Her voice is sharp and shrill as she demands, "Who are you?"
"Malcolm Leight, consultant to the police, homicide division," Leight announces, sounding thoroughly bored. "This is Dr. Peter Grayson, my," now he pauses, thoughtful, "partner."
Peter blinks, his lips part, and he instinctively turns to look at Leight (who is pointedly not looking at him).
"You are Samantha Jameson, correct?"
"Sam, yes," she corrects, still frowning, "Why exactly are you here?"
"You once dated Jennifer Smith," Leight states.
"Yes."
"The break up was not amicable."
"No, not exactly." She purses her lips. "Why exactly is this your business?"
"All in good time." Leight smiles his oh so fake smile. "You're aware Jennifer Smith is getting married tomorrow?"
"Yes. I've been invited to the wedding. Aren't you going to invite yourselves in?"
"Is that an invitation?" But Leight doesn't wait. He steps forward, Sam Jameson steps backward, and within a few beats of the dance, they're all inside.
She walks over and sits backwards on the piano bench, facing a couch in an otherwise sparsely furnished living room. Absently, she comments, "You may as well sit."
Peter sits. The couch is lumpy. He ignores it. He wants to apologize to this woman for the way they're invading her house, her life. He ignores that, too.
Leight doesn't sit. He paces around the room. He goes to the far wall. There are a few pictures (four by sixes, neither framed nor matted) taped to the wall. He steps in front of them, studies, speaks. "Have you met her fiancé?"
"No," she snorts, "but I told you, I saw the invitation. There was a name and a picture."
"Of course." Leight whirls around, and he's facing her once more. "How did you react? To the picture."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm happy my ex-girlfriend is marrying a man?"
"The truth, maybe." He smiles, and it's downright creepy. "You're not happy."
"No, not exactly."
"Because he's black?"
"What?" her brow furrows. "Of course not. Because he's a man. I'm not exactly fond of the idea that I turned a lesbian heterosexual."
Leight's still smiling as he walks over to the couch, sinks down, and puts a hand on Peter's thigh. "Describe the break up."
"Why? You're not a licensed private investigator or a cop. You don't have a warrant."
Leight shrugs. He takes so little seriously; he cares so little. "All right. There's been a threat on David Markoff's life. Captain Smith asked me to look into it."
"And Jen seriously believes I'm capable of making threats on the lives of strangers?"
"You tell me. Are you?"
"No. I don't care anymore, not really. It was too long ago."
"Oh, I think you do care, but no matter. It was five years ago, wasn't it?"
She blinks. "Yes. Exactly."
"She left you."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Is this really relevant?"
"Yes. Now, why?"
For the first time, Sam Jameson fails to meet Leight's eyes. She falters, laces her fingers together, and stares at them. There's a sparkle where she's staring, on the fourth finger of her right hand. The simple silver band glitters in the dim overcast light of the afternoon.
After a while, she says, "Jen left because she didn't trust me."
Leight leans forward. "What did you do?"
Peter expects an explosion. It doesn't come.
She just shakes her head. She has lost her tough façade. She's small, and maybe just a little broken.
"What I did," she shakes her head again, "I'm not proud."
"Neither am I," Leight shoots back. "What did you do?"
"I didn't treat her with the respect she deserved. I took her for granted." She shakes her head yet again. "I cheated."
"You feel guilty."
"Yes."
"You still love her." Once again, it isn't a question. It's just yet another fact that's as clear to Leight as the color (mustard) of the sofa on which they're seated.
"Yes." A second, a heartbeat, passes.
"I want her to be happy." Another second, another heartbeat. "Is she? Does he treat her right?"
Peter can't quite breathe. His lungs and his throat and his heart are tight. It's all he can do to say, "Yes."
Sam Jameson smiles, in spite of the tears that are developing in her eyes. "Good. Then I'm happy," she says, in spite of the fact that she doesn't sound good or happy at all.
.
.