In the Waning Light (27 page)

He stared, wide-eyed.

“Sometimes they die, and never come home. But your father helped many of them return, even after they were injured, because he was a medic. Injured soldiers who’d been bombed apart or shot were rushed into his tent. Sometimes they were missing legs and arms. Your dad would sew them back together, stop the bleeding, stabilize them long enough for big helicopters to fly them over borders to better hospitals.” She paused. “Many of those injured men and women might never have made it home to their own children, Noah, if your dad had not been there for them.”

“Nobody told me.”

“Maybe you were just too young at the time.”

“Do you think my dad would tell me now, about some of his adventures? Like in the books he reads to me?”

“I’m one hundred percent sure he would. Especially if you ask him.”

He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, and chewed, his little legs swinging again. It lightened Meg’s heart. The kid was a teeter-totter of emotions. She glanced at the window, trying to see Blake and Geoff, but it was getting dark and they’d moved out of her line of sight.

“Do
you
miss your mom and dad?”

Surprise rippled through Meg. “Of course. And my sister.”

“I’m sorry she was murdered.”

Meg blinked. “It’s never easy, Noah. Loss. But with love, and time, it starts to become a little more manageable, and you can see more of the bright things in life. You’re very lucky to have a dad like you do, you know. A real hero. Who loves you with all his heart. I think he’d move mountains for you.”

“And kill lions?”

She laughed, and it felt good; she wiped her eyes. “Yes, even lions.”

“We’re reading about lions. It’s an adventure story in deepest Africa. Do you want to read some to me tonight?”

Sobering, she said, “Yes. I’d like that. I’d be honored.”

“My granddad Bull used to read to me. I don’t remember him that well, though. My dad said it’s because I was too little.”

“You know what I remember about your granddad? He had this crazy-silly crab hat. Like a stuffed crab. Red fleece, with googly eyes sewed on, and legs and claws that stuck out to the sides. He was this super tall, big macho guy with a deep gruff voice who could look scary sometimes, but he’d wear that funny crab hat all summer long, when the tourists came, and he’d joke with them and make them laugh as he boiled their catch, and showed them how to clean the crab. And only when it got dark and they all went home did he take that silly hat off. He even went scuba diving wearing that hat once. There used to be a photo around of him with his head sticking out of the water, wet crab hat, goggles, and snorkel.”

“Where is the hat now?”

“I have no id—”

A noise made her glance up sharply. Lucy’s tail thumped.

Blake loomed silent in the doorway, a strange look in his face.

“Blake?” Meg got quickly to her feet, feeling exposed. “How long have you been standing there?” she snapped.

He came over, kissed Noah on top of his head, ruffled his hair, but his eyes held hers. “Long enough.”

“So! Who’s for pizza? A little bird tells me that Noah loves pizza.” Geoff entered the kitchen behind Blake, wet hair, a big grin on his face, his arms full of bags. He plunked grocery sacks down on the counter and shrugged out of his jacket. “Got some supplies on the way home.” He hooked his jacket over the back of a chair, rubbed his hands, and out of the bags he pulled a six-pack of beer, and a bottle of white wine. “Cold.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Glass of pinot grigio, Meg?”

Meg laughed. “Would love one,” she said. “Let me go see if I can pull Irene away from her puzzle.”

As Meg stepped into the Crabby Jack dining area, her phone buzzed. She turned a light on for Irene, who smiled happily, and Meg stepped back, just outside the archway to answer her phone, but from where she could still see Irene.

“Meg Brogan.”

“It’s Dave, I’m sorry I didn’t return your call right away.”

Dave.
Not Kovacs. Her pulse quickened—the new informality did not escape her. Something had changed. “Is this about Geoff, and my house?” she asked quietly, her gaze flicking toward the kitchen.

“In a manner. He’s in the clear. We have a suspect.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “Who? Keevan Mack?”

“Sally Braden.”

Meg’s mind looped. “I . . . Sally? I don’t understand.”

“We haven’t charged her yet—she’s got herself a good lawyer, but we’ll get there. I need to ask you some questions,” Kovacs said. “Informally. Off the record.”

Meg’s walls went up. “I can’t guarantee—”

“I’ve reopened the Sherry Brogan case. Unofficially, on the quiet. Put two of my guys on it. They’re going through the files.”

Her heart stopped, then kicked into a fast, erratic pattern. Irene glanced up.

“I found it, Meg! I found the missing piece I was looking for.”

Meg forced a smile, and held up her hand, telling Irene to hang on a moment. She stepped further around the corner. “What made you reopen it?” she said quietly.

“My father’s heart was in the right place. I trust him on that. He did what he believed was right. But you’ve raised some serious concerns that will need to be addressed if this book of yours comes out. I’ve been going through the case files myself.” He hesitated. “I need this solved as much as you do. And yes, in part because of my campaign. If I nail this now, I can use it—I can show the electorate that even if it involves family, or comes at personal cost, I can still be objective, that I will serve the public, not myself. And, in part because, no matter what you might think, I do believe in justice. You work with me, we both win.”

Meg blinked, suspicion curling through her. “You been drinking, Kovacs?”

He laughed, then turned serious. “Okay, so why do you think Sally Braden might have done this? What would make her in particular want to take such radical action to scare you off this story? What connection does she have to you, to Sherry, to your family, to Ty Mack? Is there
anything
you can think of?”

Meg closed her eyes, casting her mind back. “Only that Sally was in Sherry’s graduating class. And she’s related to Braden farms, where Mason and Keevan Mack now work.”

“She works there, too. Part-time. Doing their books,” he said.

“Maybe she’s tight with, or seeing one of the Mack brothers? Although it seems unlikely—Sally must be, what? Around thirty-
nine,
forty? The Mack brothers are in their late sixties.”

“I’ve seen stranger things. Attraction can be a tricky little bitch.”

“The wording of the graffiti would make sense, though, if Sally was on their side in hating my family for killing Ty.”

“Still, the motivation doesn’t really play, does it? Why would a single woman with no priors, apart from a drunk driving accident in her early twenties, take her brother-in-law’s rifle, get a bucket of blood, of all things, and go shoot up a house in a peaceful subdivision? Just to vent? Doesn’t add up for me. She’s hiding something. She knows something.”

Meg rubbed her brow, excitement trilling quiet and hot through her blood. Finally, maybe they were getting somewhere.

“Think on it,” he said. “Call me, please, if something strikes you.”

She hesitated, deeply unsure about this swing in Kovacs. “Okay,” she said. “But the information flows both ways.”

“Understood. Within the framework of police legality, of course.”

“And you’ll give me an exclusive, on the record, no matter how this plays out?”

A beat of silence. “Fair enough.”

Meg was about to kill the call when he said, “Oh. Your house—we’re clear. It’s all yours.”

She hung up, went over to Irene. “How’s the puzzle coming?” she said, pocketing her phone.

Irene grinned. “I like puzzles.”

“I can see. But it’s getting cool in here. How about you join us in the kitchen, by the fire? Geoff is making pizza from scratch.”

Meg led Irene into the kitchen where Geoff was pounding dough into shape in a big bowl. His sleeves were rolled up and he wore an old denim bib apron with an orange crab appliquéd onto the front. Noah peered up over the counter like a little Kilroy cartoon, watching the dough.

Irene stalled when she saw Geoff. Confusion chased through her eyes. “That’s Bull’s apron,” she said. “He always wears it for the annual crab boil.” Her gaze darted around the kitchen, as if in search of Bull, but fearful of asking and perhaps highlighting her failing mind.

Geoff and Blake exchanged a look.

“Bull passed away, Irene,” Blake said gently. “Remember? Two years ago.”

Her brow creased and she started scratching her blouse. Meg quieted her hand. “How about something to drink?” she said. “Some wine, pop?”

“I also have orange juice and sparkling water,” Blake offered.

“Orange juice would be lovely,” Irene said. “Thank you.”

“So how have you been keeping, Irene?” Geoff said, turning the dough onto a floured board. “It’s been a long time.”

She frowned, as if trying to recall when in fact she had last seen Geoff. “Yes, it has.” She quickly changed the topic, as if trying to avoid potentially showcasing her mental shortcomings. “Can I help?”

“Sure,” Geoff said with a grin. “You could chop the peppers, slice salami, mushrooms, olives.” He dusted his floury hands on his apron and pulled the vegetables out from another bag. He set them at the far end of the counter for Irene along with a knife and board. Blake pulled up a stool for her and set a glass of juice in front of her.

“Noah,” Geoff barked. “Music! We need music. Be the DJ, man?”

Noah leaped off his stool and turned on the old stereo in the corner. A bluesy jazz tune filled the room. Noah turned it up louder. Blake poured Meg a glass of chilled wine, and she sat sipping it at the counter. Geoff dragged over a small wooden crate, and gestured for Noah to come stand on top. “Here’s the roller. Now, do it like this.” He showed Noah how to beat down, and roll out the elasticky pizza dough.

“Looks like we’ll be christening Crabby Jack’s soon,” Geoff said to his brother over Noah’s head. “Are the contractors all done?”

“
We
are all done.” Blake snagged his own beer from the counter, took a long pull. “Noah and I did most of the work ourselves over the winter, right, champ?”

Noah bobbed his head, a huge grin splitting his face as he rolled the dough. He had flour on his nose. Meg glanced at Blake. He met her eyes, and she could read in his face what he was thinking. This old marina was full of warmth and food, and wine and music and laughter.
Family
. And it had not been alive like this in a long, long time. He raised his bottle, tipped it toward her, and smiled. She returned his smile, but something tilted inside her. She felt a sense of foreboding. Of time running out.

The wind outside gusted, and the night pressed against the windows.

“He hasn’t come home,” Lori-Beth said into the phone. “And he’s not answering his cell. I was hoping . . . that maybe he was with you? Working late on something at your home office?”

“I’m sorry, LB,” Tommy said. “Henry did come into the office today, but he left after lunch.”

“And you don’t know where he went?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Was he . . . did he seem okay?”

A beat of silence. “What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t been feeling too well. He’s been acting a bit strange. I was just worried.”

Another pause. “I’ll let you know if I hear from him.” His voice was curt, as if she’d interrupted something important.

She hesitated, glanced at Sally, who was stirring soup at the stove. “When does one call the police for this sort of thing? Do you have to wait thirty-six hours or something, or is that just on television?”

“Police?” Tom said.

“To report him missing, if he doesn’t come home.”

“LB, listen to me, it’ll be fine. It’s not even late yet. Do
not
worry. I’ll look for him. I’ll call around, okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“Sit tight. Do not involve the cops yet.”

“Okay.”

“Is there . . . something else you want to tell me?”

Lori-Beth twisted the chain with the crucifix around her neck. “Did he perhaps call you the other night, and mention something troubling him?”