Angels Burning (37 page)

“Chipotle pork tacos with grilled pineapple, chiles rellenos, arroz verde, a habañero salsa. Mason wanted Mexican. We have a ton of leftovers.”

“You make good Mexican food,” he says.

A compliment and a bottle of premium bourbon: he
has
lost his marbles.

I head for the kitchen.

“How's that working out?” he calls after me. “Having your nephew around?”

“I couldn't do it without Neely's help. She's been watching him during the days while I'm at work. He's a nice kid, though. No trouble really.”

“Once school starts, it'll get easier.”

I pause in my preparations and stick my head back into the living room, trying to appear calm, but my heart is thudding in my throat.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I ask him. “Why would he still be here when school starts?”

“You're the one who told me you thought your brother was leaving his kid with you for a while, maybe even permanently.”

“Then you didn't find anything?”

“No.”

I calm down and finish making a plate for him, nuke it, and return to the living room. I also bring some chips and salsa and two glasses with ice.

I set it all on my new coffee table. It was delivered today.

“I've spent the past sixteen hours interrogating Trulys,” he tells me as he digs into the food.

I sit down beside him and tuck my bare legs under the oversize T-shirt I've been wearing to bed since Mason's arrival along with a pair of men's boxer shorts. I usually sleep in the nude and hang out in nothing but a shorty bathrobe before bed but I don't want to run the risk of Mason catching his fifty-year-old aunt in the buff. I can't imagine what kind of psychological damage that would do to the kid. He has enough problems.

“You deserve a medal,” I say.

He looks over at me. “I deserve something.”

There's not a hint of sexual suggestiveness in his glance but I don't take offense or lose hope. We have an unspoken rule that as long as we don't plan our hookups, flirt, or make out beforehand, the actual sex doesn't count.

I let him eat, then pour us a drink. We clink glasses and settle back into the couch. I don't ask him anything. I know he'll tell me the details when he's ready.

He's on his third drink before he begins.

“Jessyca Truly took her sister, Camio, to meet their biological grandmother Adelaide Bertolino with the intention of telling her the truth about their parentage. An argument ensued in Adelaide's home that turned physical. Camio pushed her grandmother, who fell and struck her head. The wound was fatal according to Jessyca. We have no one to back up her story and no evidence to corroborate it so far, but we're sending cadaver dogs out to Campbell's Run at daybreak. Eddie Truly told us where they buried his aunt's body.”

“Near the church?”

“How'd you know that?”

“Lucky guess. Did Jessy admit to killing Camio?”

“The snapped defense. She claimed seeing her sister kill her grandmother made her fly into a rage and lose control. She picked up the nearest heavy object and hit her with it.”

“But she hit her several times.”

He sets his empty glass on the table and leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“There was definitely more going on there than her simply reacting to what she witnessed, but there are also mitigating factors. If a lawyer like Sandra Goldfarb gets hold of it and it goes to court, she might be able to get her a lighter sentence, but she's going to be convicted.”

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the summer night and the spiciness of my salsa. He could be describing me and my situation thirty-five years ago if Neely hadn't convinced me to frame Lucky.

Neely said I shouldn't feel guilty, because I agreed to do what I did for her sake even more than my own. I wonder if Miranda was thinking of Goldie when she agreed to help Jessy cover up Camio's murder.

“What about the burning of the hands?” I ask. “The burn marks on the blanket?”

“The three of them are telling the same story. Eddie and Miranda were accessories after the fact. Neither knew what happened until Jessyca contacted them. Eddie disposed of the bodies on his own. Miranda and Jessyca stayed behind and cleaned up.”

“Jessy wasn't there?”

“Eddie said he tried to put out the fire with the blanket once he started it. He said he couldn't stand watching her burn. The hands may have been badly burned, but I don't think it was done on purpose. It was probably just how the gasoline was splashed onto the body.”

He looks back at my hand clutching my glass.

He hasn't commented on my nails yet. He doesn't now except to say, “But I guess that detail, whether it was a coincidence or not, helped you break the case.”

Even though what he just said is true, and even if Nolan has always
had a reputation for giving credit where credit is due, I'm not prepared for his blunt acknowledgment. I'm completely thrown for a loop. I don't know what to say or do.

I quickly change the subject.

“Has Sandra taken the case?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Jessyca hasn't asked for a lawyer yet. If Sandra does take it, she'd have to agree to do it pro bono. The Trulys can't afford her, and I doubt your sister is going to pay for Jessyca Truly's defense as well as Tug's.”

“You know about that?”

“I know about everything.”

His gaze strays back to me and lingers briefly at the outlines of my bare nipples beneath my T-shirt. I throw back the rest of my drink.

“Whatever happened to Lonnie Harris?” I continue to be casual.

“Came slithering home two days ago. I had a talk with him about the altercation he had with Camio at Dairy Queen. He said it was nothing personal. It was just his way of hitting on a girl.”

“Swell guy,” I comment.

“His wife took him back. No questions asked. I won't be surprised if someone ends up dead out there,” he adds.

“But you won't be surprised if someone doesn't,” I finish for him, smiling.

He kisses me and, before I can respond properly, stands and swings me up over his shoulder caveman-style, and stomps up the stairs to my bedroom.

He could have just as easily thanked me for the food and left mumbling something about an early morning and I wouldn't have been surprised or offended. I never know when he's going to want me and definitely not why.

Nolan doesn't have skills or finesse, but he doesn't want them and doesn't try to fake them. I've been with too many men who I felt had memorized a textbook before taking me to bed; I could almost hear them counting out the amount of times they were expected to rub a nipple. Then there were the ones who learned the art of love from pornos. And those who expected me to act like I was in one with them. And the
talkers. The hackneyed sex scripters.
Yeah, I like that. Ooh that's good. Ooh you're wet.

Nolan is a war machine; his battleground is me. He does thorough recon, invades, penetrates, withdraws, and leaves me in ruins. Every time.

Afterward, he wants to stay but can't allow it. I want him to stay but won't admit it.

I hear him getting out of bed and looking for his clothes in the dark. I pretend to be asleep to make it easier.

He's a sprawling sovereign empire to my lawless island nation.

SINGER SPENT TWO SUMMERS
as the Buchanan Flames mascot, Milton Matchstick, running around in red foil long johns with a big, red, tinselly, fright-wig headpiece. He never showed his face on the field without being pelted with beer cans and ketchup-stained ends of hot dog buns. I didn't hold it against him when he applied for a job with my department. I thought it showed he had composure under fire.

Since then he gets into the games for free and has a seat of honor above the dugout.

I thought a baseball game would be fun for Mason after spending these last few days worrying about his father and being largely ignored by the two aunts taking care of him who have lots of other things to take care of, too.

I came up with the idea yesterday and invited the whole department to come along. Karla had other plans and Everhart's wife explained to him that it's not a good idea to take five-day-old infants to loud sporting events. He didn't understand why and argued over the phone with her before finally giving in and then arguing some more with her over why he couldn't go by himself. After hanging up he continued to complain until Dewey told him to SUDS.

I invited Dewey, his wife, Angie, and kids, and Singer and Blonski back to the house with Mason and me for an extension of our fiesta the night before. Neely and Smoke come for the meal.

My backyard is full of noise and chaos. Dewey's children climb my overgrown apple tree and throw a ball for Smoke.

Singer and Blonski are deep in conversation about a controversial call at third base. Out of their uniforms, wearing shorts, T-shirts, and red ball caps, carrying pennants and giant Slurpee cups, they don't look to be that much older than Dewey's oldest son, who's eleven.

Angie offers to help with the food, but Neely makes her sit and stay outside with a cold beer.

Mason is getting along fine with the Dewey clan but continues to pop into the kitchen now and then to see what we're doing.

I was able to convince him to leave his Trapper Keeper at home and not take it to the game. Since we've returned, he hasn't gone to get it. I think this is a good sign.

Neely hasn't asked me to elaborate on the few facts I gave her regarding the solving of Camio Truly's murder. She was glad to know it's all over and commented on the big notch it would be in Nolan's already well-scarred belt. I didn't tell her what he said to me last night. Or what he did to me. I do keep some secrets from my sister.

I'm surprised when she looks up from taking a couple of baking dishes of chicken enchiladas out of the oven and says, “So after it's all said and done, what was her motive?”

Anyone else asking me this question and I'd reply that I already explained what happened: Jessyca Truly became enraged at the sight of her sister killing their grandmother and reacted violently, striking her with a heavy object and accidentally killing her.

But I know there's more to this story and Neely senses this, too. She isn't any more satisfied with this easy answer than I am.

Jessyca saw a side of her sister that others didn't. I think about how upset she was while telling me Camio showed no remorse over killing Adelaide and that she planned to betray their family by airing their stained, patched psychological laundry for the whole world to see.

How she got blood on her baby.

“There was something Grandma said not long after Mom was killed,” I say while chopping tomatoes for a pico de gallo. “I don't know
if you'd remember this but you were there. So was Champ. We were sitting in her kitchen eating dinner after we moved in with her.”

I fall silent remembering how cramped we were in Grandma's small house after all the space in Gil's, and how deprived we were after all the excess at Gil's, and how deliriously happy and grateful we were to be there.

“Champ was complaining about kids at school asking him questions about Mom's murder. He was asking our advice about what to say.”

“I remember,” Neely breaks in. “I told him to tell kids he didn't like to talk about it. You told him to tell kids he wasn't supposed to talk about it. You were already a cop.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Grandma was busy at the stove and I didn't know if she was paying any attention to our conversation when all of a sudden she said . . .”

I look up from my task and do my best Grandma impression.

“ ‘. . . If you find a small fire in a back room, you don't let it spread and burn down the whole house. You put it out.' ”

“I remember,” Neely confirms.

“At the time I didn't know what she meant. I thought it was just one of the weird sayings she said sometimes like ‘I'm about to have a come apart' or maybe she hadn't heard him right. But now I think I know exactly what she meant.”

We exchange knowing looks.

“Jessyca was putting out a small fire,” Neely says.

The back screen door opens and slams shut.

“I need my binder,” Mason says breathlessly, and streaks past us into the living room.

Neely glances at the clock on the microwave.

“He's gone for four hours without it. That's not bad.”

He returns almost immediately, empty-handed.

“Aunt Dove,” he says. “There's a police car out front.”

Neely and I follow him out of the kitchen.

I look out my windows and see a state trooper cruiser parked on the street. Nolan's car is parked behind it.

I take Mason's hand. Neely takes his other. We walk out onto my porch in a flesh-and-blood chain.

A rumble of summer thunder echoes in the distance and I peer up at the bank of ominous gray clouds gathering over my neighbors' rooftops. Our perfect weather is coming to an end.

Nolan gets out of his car. He bows his head and walks slowly toward the three of us.

I know what this means. Neely and I have a son.