Blood of Others Read Free Page A

too short to be eating
by yourself from a paper bag with only the birds for company. A pretty girl
like you should jump into life. Don’t be so shy all the time. Don’t be afraid
of heartbreak or two. Olivia, that is how you know you are alive. Better to
have loved and lost…” A smile rose under his thick white moustache. Two days
later he had a massive coronary.
    Mr. Caselli was right. She was
not participating in life. She was observing it from a safe distance where
nothing could hurt her.
    So why was she in pain?
    How many times at the end of the
day had she spotted women cradling flowers, or toting a Caselli’s bag
containing a card she had selected, a gift she had suggested, and
wrapped. She pictured those women, hurrying home to their children, their
husbands, boyfriends, or life partners, for dinner, a movie, or to simply talk.
    Every day Olivia helped strangers
find the right gesture for important moments in their lives but could do
nothing to help herself. She had devoured countless books and articles about
not needing a man to define herself, nor a career, about her biological clock;
had studied advice on overcoming dating paralysis, the twin curses of shyness
and low self-esteem. She had gone to a dating service but backed out.
    She got a makeover once. The
beautician, a gay man, had looked over her five-foot four-inch,
one-hundred-twenty pound frame, then her face, and whistled. “Look at you.
High cheek bones, natural tones, classic features. Hazel eyes. A hetero
heartbreaker, sweetie. Just keep that hair out of your eyes and smile more.” At home Olivia had stared at herself. Who is that? She had scowled, then
scrubbed off the makeup, returned her shoulder-length auburn hair to her side
part. She could hide there. It was safe.
    Olivia sat on a bench in Union
Square, chewing her egg-salad sandwich, gazing into her novel, then at the
Corinthian column that had survived the 1906 earthquake. Long ago she had come
to Caselli’s a painfully shy and lonely college girl. A lifetime later, here
she was, an older, lonelier woman.
    Was this it? Was this all there
was to her life? What was the point?
    A cool breeze brushed Olivia’s
face turning her thoughts to the bridal shop and the dead woman. Murdered. Wasn’t it strange how that woman had died where she had come to plan the rest
of her life?

FOUR

     
    “Dad?”
    Tom Reed was not awake.
    “Dad?”
    A small hand nudged Reed.
    “Dad?”
    “I’m sleeping, Zach.”
    Reed groaned into his pillow,
head hurting, throat parched. After work last night at the San Francisco
Star, he had joined the usual gang for a few. Stayed late because he was
off today and now his ten-year-old boy was shaking him.
    “Son, get your mother. Please.”
    “Mom went to Los Angeles early
this morning, remember?”
    Los Angeles? A vague
memory of Ann in bed telling him something about an unexpected early meeting
with suppliers as he had wrestled out of his clothes in the dark. Then she had smelled the beer, rolling to him, voice like ice. “Tom,
you promised to stop this.”
    He had been snoring about then.
    Well, at least he was off today.
Pulling his sheets tighter, enjoying the whole bed, hearing Zach wretch in
another room, then return.
    “Dad, I don’t feel good. I
puked.”
    Reed thought of the mess he’d
have to clean.
    “Where?”
    “Toilet. Maybe I better see the
doctor.”
    “Come here.” Grunting, Reed sat
up, slipped on his glasses. Zach’s eyes were bleary, he was pale, his skin was
blotched with red patches. He was feverish. Those red patches. Reed had
never seen anything like that on Zach. Not good. “I’ll call the doctor. Go get
yourself dressed, brush your teeth.”
    Who was Zach’s doctor? Shaw?
Crenner?
    Think about that later. He
held his own head. How many beers did he have? The pain. Reed got himself to
the bathroom, swallowed several headache pills, took a hot shower, and
revisited his problem.
    Brader. The Star’s new
metro editor.
    They had