Ice Shear (37 page)

“Marty, can I come in?” I looked for the young man I had met before, who spoke of living an honorable life, but that Marty had disappeared behind tired, bloodshot eyes. “I'd like to apologize personally.”

“Aww. Think I'll sue? Or maybe you'll claim that the party I had last night was a cartel, and bring me up on RICO charges. You bumped titties with me, sister, tried to pin it on me. I get it; it's what you pigs do.” He was closing the door on me as he spoke. “But we're even.”

I shoved my foot inside. The door bounced hard off my boot, and the vibrations ricocheted through my body, making my shoulder throb, fresh and bright. The pain must have shown on my face because Marty stopped, leaving those last few inches open—his core of decency and honor was still there. I grabbed my chance.

“I'll leave you alone.” I held my sling close, easing the ache and giving me a second to figure out how to say what I came to tell him. “But I want to ask you—to ask your family, the Abominations, not to take revenge on the Byrnes. Jason and Greg were innocent—”

“No shit. I told
you
that, remember?”

“I remember.”

“My family won't be a concern.” He spoke slowly, concentrating on every word, and I wondered if he had been drinking. “We made a deal: Jason and his family . . . his father . . . can live.”

I didn't want to know the answer to my next question. “What do your parents get?”

“In exchange? Me.” He held his arms wide like a game show host, kicking over a pile of empty beer bottles that stood next to the door. “And ain't I a prize? Going back to the loving bosom of my family. Where I belong.”

“You could belong here.”

He shook his head, disgusted. “Jesus, you sound like Jason. Pair of half-wits. Told him to never show his
fucking
face here again or I'd kill him, and the same goes for you.”

I was afraid to ask the next question. “Marty, have you been drinking?”

“No! And if I was? It's not
illegal
.”

“But your sobriety—”

“My sobriety is my business, not yours. Not yours, not Jason's, not anyone's in this town. God, Hopewell Falls is a shit-hole. I have to finish up some business, and I'm gone. You won't need to worry that I'll seduce any more sweethearts of the city. Unless, of course”—his smile was feral—“my dad thinks there's some growth opportunity here. And I'm a pretty good tattoo artist, one of the best, and lord knows this state could use some good ink. And I'll have family here to visit—Jackie's kid should know his uncle. I might come back.”

“Marty—”

“That's it. I'm gone.” He slammed the door.

And he was, three days later, when I visited to drop off his security badge from the capitol and a huge ring of keys, which he had left at the station.

“Cleared out of here yesterday,” Marty's neighbor said when he saw me peering in the window. I peeked again. The house looked occupied, fully furnished, with dirty dishes and ashtrays across the table. The neighbor kept talking. “Said I could keep everything. Not much worth anything, mostly a bunch of books. The gaming system will bring some money. And he gave me his car.”

“His car?” I found that hard to believe.

“Yeah. And before you say anything, he signed the deed over to me, so it's mine fair and square. ‘Didn't need no cage anymore,' he said. Rode a motorcycle right out of here, only had the clothes on his back.”

I didn't know if I ever wanted to see Marty again. He'd lost hope, and that made him dangerous. I would see him at Jeff Polito's trial, if we even had one. But that was months away, months when Marty would be living and working with his family.

The next week was a blur of cleanup, having my sling removed, and avoiding reporters trying to “understand the woman behind the badge.” The craziness continued until Chief Donnelly ordered Dave and me to take five days off.

“Get out of here. Now that our murders are solved, I again have no money to pay you two overtime, although that may change: the mayor received a call from the governor who got a call from the congresswoman's office, and we may not only have money for overtime but for a whole additional detective.”

Detective,
I thought.

“Of course, it's still in discussion, but let's just say you”—he pointed at me—“impressed the right people. Who control the purse strings. Now be gone, both of you.”

I made it all the way into the ladies' locker room before jumping up and down and squealing. I stopped when I knocked a chair into one of the lockers.

“I can hear you, Officer Dignified,” called Dave through the hole.

Today, the first day of my vacation, I was up early, making breakfast for my father and daughter before running out to the hardware store to pick up paint. I was going to redo my bedroom: brighten the white on three walls and paint one wall a nice brick red. On the way home I stopped at the cemetery. The grave was almost pretty, the marble slab glowing gold under the sunlight, glossy with melted snow.

“Are you going to stay? After I die?” Kevin had asked one day, lying sideways on the bed, pillows propped under his head and his swollen stomach.

“Here? With my dad?” I said, breathing hard. I was hauling boxes of books up from the basement. Kevin and I had both been readers and I realized that the room didn't feel like home without books in it. “Hopewell Falls is home. I know this place.”

“You're part of it. I want to be part of it, too. You should bury me here.”

I met his eyes. I'd gotten better at not flinching when we talked about his death. “Gray marble slab over in Saint Agnes?”

“Yeah. Pick out what you want. Pick out something Lucy won't be afraid of. I don't want her to be afraid of me, ever.”

“You might end up with something purple.”

“Purple's good. Or a nice ‘safety orange,' ” he said wryly, grasping my hand in his cold fingers. “We ought to let people know they should consider avoiding cancer.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and let him hold my hand, appreciating the comfort he was offering even though he was too weak to put his arms around me.

“I wish this wasn't true,” I said, after a while.

“Me, too.” He yawned. “But I'm glad we were . . . we.” He fell asleep.

In the days after the funeral, when we were waiting for the ground to thaw enough to bury Kevin, I asked Lucy what sort of headstone she wanted. Lucy wanted something like the sun, and we picked a yellow marble. By the spring, Lucy could trace the carved rays with her fingers, talking to me, talking to Kevin, talking to the dandelions that sprouted up around the grave. These days, I no longer had the running conversations with him, but I still saved up things to tell him. He answered back less and less.

As I squatted beside the grave, Hale's SUV approached. He parked right behind my car and turned off the engine but didn't get out. As his car ticked away, I walked toward him. He got out when I was almost at his door but stood there, unsure of himself in a way I had never seen.

“Hey there, June.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“This okay, me stopping over here?”

“Don't be stupid.” I stood on my toes and pulled him down into a hug. He came gladly, lifting me up briefly before putting me down. He kissed my cheek, a quick bit of warmth against my skin.

He gazed beyond me to the grave, as if he wanted a formal introduction. His southern gentleman came out at the oddest moments.

“It's fine,” I said, taking his hand and pulling him over to Kevin. “I visit all the time. Unless you want some time alone? If so, we can catch up later. I have an ice-skating date that I can't miss.”

“No . . . It's not . . . That's not why I dropped by. Today's shaping up to be busy, what with going back to DC, but, well . . . June, I have something to discuss. Work related.”

I waited. His eyes darted to the grave.

“We would've talked business in front of Kevin before,” I said.

“Fair enough.” He pushed his toe in the gravel of the drive before catching himself and standing at attention. “Look here, they need a new ASAIC in Albany.”

I played along. “In charge of everything from western Vermont through Syracuse. That does sound glamorous. Anyone I know?”

“The powers that be like that I know the area,” he said modestly. “And it would make a whole lot of sense, careerwise, for me.”

“That's great!” At a grave five plots over an older man jolted up, and I dropped my voice.

“Really,” I whispered. “Congratulations.”

He shrugged his shoulder, but a smile broke through. “Thank you kindly. I'm pleased.” He leaned in close. “But I'd like to talk to you about coming back in.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Me and the Bureau, we parted ways,” I stammered out. “They don't want me.”

“Now then, don't forget, you left them. Your service record is exemplary.”

“That would be . . .”

“Yes?”

“Wonderful,” I said.

He grinned broadly, the hard angles of his face dissolving.

“But,” I said, and Hale's smile dimmed, “but I can't. With Lucy, I can't pick up and move every two years.”

“I see.” Hale squared his shoulders. “Roots are important.”

“That's part of it. But even this current job, where nothing happens—”

Hale laughed.

“Where nothing
usually
happens,” I went on, “it wouldn't be possible without my dad. Back in L.A., during big cases all my plants would die. What would happen to Lucy if I got transferred to Missouri? Or was on a stakeout for two weeks?”

“There's administrative.”

“Hale, I appreciate what you're trying to do. But I would prefer to roust drunks and go on calls for old ladies who heard a noise in the night than do paperwork.”

“Consulting?” he asked. He tugged at the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Just think on it. I need at least one ally up among the Yankees. And I'll need to be introduced to all the hot spots.”

“I think you'll need a different tour director.” I laughed. “The library is the only hot spot I know. Great kids' section and a mastodon. They took the bones they found at the bottom of the falls in the 1870s, covered them in fake fur, and added eyes that follow you.”

“Well, that sounds very . . . educational.” Hale took a step onto the lawn, sinking a half inch into the mud. He hugged me, and I smelled clean dirt and the first hint of grass.

“Glad to have you back,” he said into my ear.

“Glad to be back.” I disentangled myself from the hug, unstuck my shoes from the ground, and walked toward the car. “But if I work for you, no hugs. Now I've got to go ice-skate. Someone pulled some strings for me, arranged for Lucy and me to have some private time. But I'll see you in court if not before.”

“Count on it.” He winked. I blushed, much like I did all those years ago at Quantico.

Sitting in the car, I watched Hale lope over, stopping ten feet away from the grave. He squared his shoulders and walked the last few feet. Overhead, the sun was high in the sky. In my rearview, I saw him trace the rays that were carved in the headstone, like Lucy would.

Lucy was now slinging herself across the ice toward the exit. She still didn't understand the concept of gliding and was frustrated by the distance between her and the hot chocolate. I was as excited as she was, the powdered variety somehow tasting better at an ice rink, but I chose a few more laps. Our time was almost up, and soon tinny pop music would be blaring and open skate starting up.

Jackie brought the chocolate, holding up two cups in victory and grinning before putting them on the bench next to the rink's exit. She placed her hands on her lower back as she waddled toward the exit, a pose I remembered from when I was pregnant. Of course, I was eight months pregnant at the time and Jackie couldn't be out of her first trimester. You couldn't really tell exactly how pregnant she was under the maternity clothes she insisted on wearing.

“Thank you!” I called over my shoulder, picking up speed as I rolled into the turn. I cut through the air, no resistance. This was going to be the last go-round, and I wanted to make it good.

“My pleasure,” yelled Jackie. “I owe you my life! Me and the baby.”

I laughed as I whizzed past. I came out of the other turn and sped into the straightaway, wanting height as well as speed. My muscles anticipated the jump, and I was up and spinning. My lungs filled with air; I expanded.

I came out of the jump too far back on my blade. The first thing I learned in skating was how to fall safely. I landed on my butt and slowed to a halt, laughing.

“Mom, that was really high!” Lucy called. “Do it again.”

I got up and started another circuit around the rink. Maybe I did have another in me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
AM SO GRATEFUL TO
my editor, Rachel Kahan, whose enthusiasm and brilliance challenged and encouraged me to write a better book, and who has been a tireless advocate. My publisher has been amazing, and I'd like to thank assistant editor Trish Daly, copy editor Brenda Woodward, production editor Lorie Young, and designer Jamie Kerner, as well as the stellar marketing and publicity group, including publicity director Danielle Bartlett, publicist Camille Collins, marketing director Kaitlin Harri, and the whole team at William Morrow.

Endless thanks go to my agent, Lisa Gallagher. Her wit, wisdom, and instincts for good storytelling, which she shared with me with such kindness, nurtured this book from its inception. I know, absolutely, that this couldn't have happened without her.

Thanks to those who provided advice and expertise, including my writing group, Kate Curry, Nita Gill, Maggie King, Colleen Olle, and Carole Pollard, without whom I would have abused the word
actually;
my early readers, Lisa DeLange, John McEneny, Kristen Sunkes, and Michele Tepper; and my law enforcement reviewers, Frank Hagg and John Aspinwall, who helped me understand how police officers think, speak, and even walk. Any errors you find are all mine.