Roses. And jasmine. Something woodsy, too. The smell of rain, somehow.

  I know I am smiling, and I can only wonder what the other two are thinking of me, seeing me smiling there, with my shades on and part of my face destroyed. Not all of it, granted—and, I’m told, I had lucked out. The scarring isn’t hideous. I have been told that, in the right light, I still even look somewhat handsome. I’ll gladly take the ‘somewhat handsome’ part. Then again, I would take many things at this point.

  So, I am smiling as she places her hand in my hand, and what happens next has become second nature to me, although it has taken many, many tries to get it right.

  Rachel—I think her name is Rachel, I am too embarrassed to ask her again—uses American Sign Language now. Pinkie up, she presses her hand into my palm and I immediately recognize the letter “I.”

  She pauses, tapping my palm once to indicate a space.

  A closed fist with the thumb in is pressed into my palm—then a closed fist with the thumb out.

  A—M—

  Another tap. More letters pressed into my palm.

  S—O—R—R—Y—

  Another tap, more letters.

  T—O—

  Tap.

  S—E—E—

  Tap.

  Y—O—U—

  Tap.

  L—I—K—E—

  Tap.

  T—H—I—S—

  And two taps to end the dialogue.

  All in all, the process takes just a few seconds. I can feel the signed letters being pressed into my palm. It is a cumbersome way to communicate, true, but it is effective for someone like me who can’t see or hear.

  The captain’s words sink in. I haven’t seen him in many years. Perhaps even five. I haven’t seen many of my old friends from the station, no pun intended. Few could communicate with me, and sitting with me in awkward silence is, well, awkward. Most of my friends are gone. My parents are passed, and I only have one brother, who visits me weekly. He’d long ago mastered sign language, and we have a good time together. Or as good as we can.

  I use both hands to sign back: “What do you mean?” But then, I smile, or think I smile. Half of my face is mostly paralyzed, although I am told my smile is still kinda adorable, with a few new dimples thrown in for good measure. Who told me these things? Who’d blow smoke up a blind and deaf man’s ass? My ex-girlfriend, of course. My ex-girlfriend who’d cared for me for many months after the explosion. My ex-girlfriend who is now long, long gone, although I think about her often. And dream about her even more. In fact, I’ve been meaning to look her up again, crazy as that might sound.

  Very, very crazy. After all, my ex had made it known that she wanted nothing to do with me after my rehab.

  No, I think. Those words are too strong. She was just exhausted, overwhelmed. Maybe we can get coffee someday soon.

  The idea of coffee with my ex sends a thrill through me. I have not seen her in, what, four years? Maybe she’s still single? Maybe she misses me, too? Maybe she’s waiting for me to reach out to her?

  Maybe.

  I suspect I know the answer to most of these questions. Still, the thought of being with her again, touching her, sends a thrill through me.

  And the woman sitting next to me, with her small hand once again pressed into my hand, is, I suspect, the source of this thrill.

  The explosion mercifully spared the rest of my body. My hands are intact, as are my legs. The blasts had been centered around my facial area. In particular, around my neck region. My voice box had been destroyed. My windpipe had been destroyed, too. The close proximity of the explosion had permanently damaged the inner and outer hair cells of my ears, those all-important sensory receptors that pick up sound. And there is no healing or replacing such receptors.

  Shrapnel had destroyed my eyes. So much so, both eyes had been enucleated, or removed, leaving me with empty sockets. Early on I had tried orbital implants—glass eyes—but grew tired of them. Additionally, my scar tissue was such that the implants irritated me more than helped. These days, I prefer to hide behind my wraparound sunglasses…and keep my eyelids closed.

  Remarkably, my esophagus had stayed intact, which allows me to still eat and drink with my mouth. However, my larynx—the organ responsible for speech—had been completely destroyed. The damage was so severe that traditional voice aids do not work. Even handheld devices, electric larynxes as they are called, were rendered ineffective due to severe scarring at my throat and my inability to hear the sounds. Such devices sent vibrating sound waves into the mouth and throat area, which, in turn, could be shaped into words with tongue, jaws, lips and teeth just as one would have done with sound from the larynx. It is an ingenious device that has been around longer than I would have guessed. With my hearing loss, I was never fully able to use the electronic larynx. After all, one needs to hear the sounds coming out to learn how to manipulate them, adjust them, correct them. For now, speech is a lost cause for me, although I tried many times to use the device, and each time, I was told I was unintelligible. I haven’t tried again, and doubt I ever will.

  For now, I get by using American Sign Language, reading braille, using writing pads, blocks of plastic letters and a new phone app that converts text messages and emails into, of all things, vibrating Morse code, spelling out my texts one letter at a time, much as Rachel the translator was now spelling out words, one letter at a time.

  Communication on my end is a little easier and faster, as I can use both hands to sign full words, and so I rapidly ask the captain to what did I owe the pleasure of his company?

  There is a pause, and I feel her nodding her head, undoubtedly listening to the captain’s response.

  Then I feel gentle hands take my own hand again. I open my fingers and she rests her palm flat against mine—and I feel another thrill that made me think of my ex-girlfriend again, and it also makes me wonder for the first time, just what Rachel looks like. That is, until I realize I would never know what she looks like, and I let the thought go.

  Still, her touch is gentle and slightly…seductive, but that could just have been my imagination. Truth is, words like ‘seductive’ had long since departed my vocabulary. ‘Getting through the day’ are common words. ‘Not killing myself’ is another common phrase that runs through my mind.

  Still, her touch is…pleasant, and it sends shivers through me. The first shivers, I’m certain, in nearly five years.

  And now, she is spelling out the words, which she does a little faster this time around, as our connection is already growing. At least, I’d like to think so. She presses each sign firmly into my palm, then quickly forms the next, pausing and tapping between words, until the sentence is spelled out, a minute or so later.

  “I need your help, Lee.”

  I absorb this, and then sign: “You need a driver?”

  I feel the couch shake slightly, and I think Rachel might have been laughing. A moment later, the captain’s return message arrives: “It’s good to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Lee.”

  “My sense of humor is one of the few senses I have left,” I sign back.

  There is another pause—and what was meant to be another small joke suddenly turns into not such a small joke. Maybe it sounded more like a cry for help, or pity, neither of which I had intended.

  Now, I feel the floorboards beneath me move and Betsie jerk her head off my foot. Someone is coming over, and that someone is the captain. He reaches around and wraps a meaty arm around my shoulder and presses his head against mine and holds me closer than anyone has held me in a long, long time.

  When he is done hugging me, I can feel his tears rolling down my neck. Either that, or my trachea valve needs another cleaning.

  Now, he sits next to me, his legs pressing against mine. He has Betsie’s full attention, and for now, she continues sitting up, undoubtedly staring at him, undoubtedly assessing him.

  I sense he is talking, and now, Rachel lifts my hand and once again, presses hers into mine.

  “I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve this, Lee. No one deserves this.”

  Except, of course, I did deserve this. I deserved this and so much more. I don’t respond and we all sit in silence again on my couch. Betsie lowers her head once again to my shoe.

  After a short reprieve, the captain speaks again; as he does so, he rests his hand on my shoulder, and this, along with the hug, is the most the captain has ever touched me. My old boss has gotten sentimental over the years. Rachel promptly translates his voiced words into my open palm.

  “I hate to do this to you, Lee, but we could use your help on a case. Many cases, actually. One, in particular. A case we call the Big Case, with a capital B and C.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People are disappearing, Lee,” comes his response a few minutes later. “Many people, in fact. Ten, as far as we are aware.”

  “Any bodies?” I ask, signing.

  “None yet.”

  “Tell me more,” I say, and the captain does. This is a lengthy process, one that challenges the translator and, I suspect, the captain’s patience. But when he is done, I have the full picture.

  And what a crazy picture it is.

  Chapter Four

  People are disappearing.

  It began six months ago. At first, the disappearance of a middle-aged man hadn’t gotten much attention. That is, until another middle-aged man disappeared. The media found this suspicious, even for a city as big as Los Angeles. And then, a month later, a woman in her early thirties disappeared. Followed by a mother of three, exactly a month later. One disappearance a month, roughly. Ten total.

  I had missed this story. I read a general braille newspaper that shows up in my mail once a month. The disappearances hadn’t made the braille news yet. And if they had, I might have skipped it anyway. I’d spent my career in robbery-homicide, and most of that was in homicide. After the explosion, I needed time to heal physically and emotionally.

  Now, there isn’t much more to heal other than my mind.

  At any rate, I make it a point to skip the lurid headlines, even in the braille newspaper. I tend to focus on politics and sports, and, yes, I’ve even been known to read an article or two about the Kardashians, although I hated myself afterward.

  Anything to keep my mind away from crime and criminals, from death and mayhem, from the very thing, in fact, that had taken so much from me. And from one other, too, of course.

  My partner.

  But that was, as they say, another story.

  Anyway, the disappearances had stopped after ten, all while the police searched wildly for the cause; sure it was one man, and sure they would start coming across bodies sooner or later. So far, no bodies. The last disappearance was two months ago.

  I ask all the usual questions, questions I know the captain and his squad have asked themselves a hundred times, but sometimes, it’s nice hearing the answers again, even when you think you have all the answers. Sometimes, something stands out, even something you’ve looked at a hundred times before, in a hundred different ways.

  Our dialogue is fast-paced. At least, as fast-paced as we can go under the circumstances. It is stilted and without much, if any, inflection or humor. In this situation, we don’t need inflection and humor. Besides, these days, my humor is often lost on most people.

  I begin with: “Is there security footage anywhere?”

  “Yes, but not much. Two of the missing lived in apartments. We have them exiting the apartments.”

  “What are they wearing?”

  “Jeans, light jacket. One has a backpack.”

  “Any footage of them at airports, bus stations, train stations? Uber accounts? Lyft accounts? Bank ATMs?”

  “Nothing.”

  This throws me off for a minute. Usually, someone, somewhere, will show up in such an establishment.

  “Is there any evidence of foul play?”

  “None yet.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None have been found or have come forward.”

  “What time of day do the disappearances occur?”

  “Always at night.”

  “Where do the disappearances occur?”

  “Over greater Los Angeles, although generally in West Hollywood, Los Feliz, and one from Echo Park.”

  “Has anyone asked for a ransom?”

  “No.”

  “Have any of the victims’ credit cards been used?

  “No.”

  “Money taken out of banks?”

  “Nothing excessive, and nothing at the time of the disappearances or just after.”

  “Socio-economic profile of the victims?”

  “Mostly middle class.”

  “Do the victims have criminal records?”

  I think here he is going through his notes or his files. The captain probably came prepared. A moment later, I feel Rachel pressing letters into my hand. “Two or three, but nothing alarming, and nothing that connects them.”

  “What patterns have you established?”

  The captain pauses here. While the captain thinks this over, I notice that the translator and I are still touching hands. Not quite holding, but her fingertips are nestled between my own fingers as she waits to translate. Her touch is…intoxicating, although I try not to think about it too much. The captain’s appearance has done something to me. Jostled something awake inside me. Something that had lain dormant. My investigator’s mind.

  And so, even as the woman lightly touches my hand, and even while I feel a rare thrill course through, I feel an even greater thrill take hold of me: that of being wanted, needed.

  That of being useful.

  No, I haven’t asked anything that the captain and his own investigators haven’t already asked, but I am excited to feel myself perk up, pick up, slip right into the game. Yes, it’s all coming back to me, which is good and bad. Good, because I’m beginning to feel like my old self. Bad, because I could never feel like my old self. Not the way I was.

  “All victims headed out on foot, we know that.”

  “Any phone calls prior to disappearances? Text messages?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing telling. No pattern. But get this: all of the vics left their phones behind. And their wallets, I.D.s, credit cards and money.”

  “Walking blind,” I sign.

  I chewed on this, literally, biting down on my scarred lower lip. Not so scarred that I am told it looks deformed. Just puffy from the stitches that had put it back together. Flying shrapnel is hell on a human body.

  “You say you have two on the apartment security feeds. Any indication where the vics were heading?”

  “Both turned north.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” I sign.

  “Did the vics live alone?”

  “Only three lived alone.”

  “Did they tell anyone where they were heading?”

  “No. Only that they were going for a walk.”

  “All vics said the same thing?”

  “It appears, yes.”

  “So, all the vics told those closest to them that they were going for a walk?”

  “A handful did. Some didn’t say anything. Some lived alone, or were alone that day.”

  “So, those who did tell someone where they were going, said they were going for a walk?”

  “Yes.”

  I nod when the single word is spelled out. I had broken out into a small sweat. Generally, when a fellow investigator and I hash out motives and leads and evidence, I would pace. Pacing is not an option. Not when I need my open hand for communication.

  I sign: “They were told to say that.”

  “We think so, yes.”

  “And they were told to meet someone.”

  “We think so, too.”

  I sign: “Somewhere out of sight, away from security cameras.”

  We sit quietly. I wonder what Rachel thinks about all of this. I wonder what she looks like, too, especially the longer we touch hands. Her proximity is exciting. And so is the prospect of working on a case again, albeit in a peripheral fashion. A lot of heady stuff is going on for me today.

  Finally, I sign: “I wish I could check out the video feeds.”

  “Trust me, Lee. We have pored over them. Many of us have. We had the best eyes looking for anything and everything.”

  “You didn’t have my eyes,” I said.

  There is a long pause, and the captain’s heavy hand falls on my shoulder. I feel him speaking, and a moment later, Rachel signs into my open hand. “No, we don’t, and I wish like hell we did.”

  “So do I,” I sign.

  I feel him nodding as he stands. Rachel signs: “I’m leaving you with the reports. They’re in braille. If you have any further thoughts or ideas, get back to me, will you?”

  And just like that, they both stand. I shake Rachel’s hand, which seems a little formal after spending the past forty-five minutes holding it. The captain gives me another pat on the back, and just like that, I am alone again.

  Well, not entirely. I feel Betsie pressing against my leg.

  I think she has to pee.

  Chapter Five

  After Betsie had done her duty and been fed, I sit in my living room with the police report.

  I can do things like feed my dog and take her out to pee. My life is a challenge, but not that challenging. If anything, my life is about patterns and routines. For instance, I know where everything is in my apartment. Literally. I have memorized what’s in what drawer, from the kitchen to the bathroom to the bedroom. Nothing is out of place, ever. If anything, being blind, deaf and, for all practical purposes, a nonverbal communicator, has made me the world’s neatest of neat freaks.

  If I need something outside of my home, something that is beyond the small shopping center at the bottom of my hill, I will do so with my brother, who visits every Sunday.

  My life is often boring, and for that, I have no excuse. Then again, there is only so much I can read in braille. I may not get to watch—or even hear—Seinfeld anymore, but I can read the scripts in braille and imagine the characters acting out the scenes. I often laugh while reading such scripts.