“Really,” he says. “That’s news to me.”
“If you could light a fire under her, I’d appreciate it.”
He gives a noncommittal nod. “I’ll look into it.”
I’d like to get more out of him, but Ann saunters into the dining room with coffee, followed by Charlotte, who looks lovely in a white linen blouse and mustard tan trousers, her lipstick freshly reapplied. I pause to admire her.
To say the years have been kind to my wife, at least physically, is an understatement. As time passes and her contemporaries either go to seed or under the knife, she only improves, still as thin and leggy as the day we married, the patina of fine lines on her face never detracting from its essentially placid symmetry. Looking at her now, the thought that my eyes could stray even for a moment seems ridiculous. A show of ingratitude toward God or the cosmos, whoever arranges such things.
In contrast, Ann sips her coffee with a harried, squinched look, like she’s worried or anticipating a blow. I wonder if this is general agitation, or the result of words that passed between the sisters while they were busy in the kitchen.
“So,” Ann says, adding more cream to her cup. “Alan says you’re assigned to the Hannah Mayhew task force. Is that right, Roland?”
I nod.
To my left, I see Charlotte tense up. Her unspoken rule about no work at the dinner table is being violated by a longtime offender.
“How are you dealing with it?” Ann asks.
“I’ve been trying to get a little help from the ME’s office.”
Alan smiles distantly. “I told you I’d check into it.”
“That’s not what I mean, though,” Ann says. “How are you dealing? I mean, a case like that, and you of all people…”
Charlotte’s spoon hits her saucer. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know -”
“No, I don’t know. Why should Roland have to deal with anything? He’s a professional, Ann. This is what he does. You don’t ask Alan how he deals with having to cut people up.”
“That’s not what I’m saying – ” Ann begins.
“It’s all right,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m doing fine. I’d rather be back in Homicide, and if some tests come through, I should be back there soon. In the meantime, I’m just keeping my nose clean and trying to avoid the cameras.”
“I can’t believe all the interest in this thing,” Alan says.
“They’re trying to get the mother to go on Larry King.”
A little shiver runs through Charlotte, who folds her arms tightly. “That’s awful. The way they make such a spectacle of people’s pain.”
“But if it helps find the girl,” Ann says.
I shake my head. “It won’t. That’s not what it’s about. There’s always the chance, I guess, but the real motive is to get in front of the story, so it’s not about Channel 13 raking the department over the coals again. But maybe I’m just cynical.”
Charlotte pushes away from the table. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
She slips through the kitchen and keeps going. Ann gives me a guilty look, then goes after her, leaving me and Bridger to stare into our coffee.
“Let’s go out back,” I suggest.
The balmy night envelops us, the stars hidden behind muddy clouds that give even the moon a soft-focus halo. I cast a glance toward the detached garage and the side stairs ascending to Tommy’s apartment, then lead Bridger off the deck and across the yard. We stand just outside the pillars of light shining through the back windows, where he can smoke his obligatory postprandial cigarette without Ann telling him off.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” he says, fitting the cigarette between his lips, firing the tip with a shiny Zippo.
“You should.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” He exhales into the darkness. “You’re an all or nothing kind of guy when it comes to vice. No moderation.”
“Are you moderating your smoking?” I ask.
“Considering it, anyway.”
Unseen in the surrounding bushes, cicadas chirp and mosquitoes buzz, forcing us to occasionally shrug them off. Across the fence, the neighbors are grilling outside, scenting the air with barbeque.
“Are you ‘dealing’ all right?” he asks.
“I’m better than all right.” I tell him about the approach from Joe Thomson, with its promise not only to shed light on the Morales killing but also to shovel some dirt over what will hopefully turn out to be Reg Keller’s professional coffin.
“You’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. Hope you don’t get burned.”
“Yeah, yeah. If you could come through on that victim identification and Thomson gives up the names of the shooters, then everything will turn around for me.”
“Everything?” he asks, jabbing his cigarette toward the house. “You and Charlotte seem a little on edge. Are things okay with you two?”
I sniff the air. “They’ve been better, I admit. But I’m working on that, too.”
He gives me a sideways look. “You mean you’re considering it.”
“More or less. It’s that time of year.”
He nods. “You’ve got something special, Roland. I mean that. After all you’ve been through together, I’d hate to see it go off the rails.”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“It won’t,” I repeat.
He rubs out his cigarette, half-smoked, and we head back inside. At the doorway he gives me a pat on the back, a gesture of solidarity, maybe sympathy. We find Ann sitting on the couch with the television on, volume low. A yearbook photo of James Fontaine is on-screen, cutting quickly to a mid-forties African-American couple standing in the driveway of what turns out to be the Fontaine home. I can see one of the concrete lions at the edge of the frame. The man is talking about how outraged he is by the behavior of the local police.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask.
Ann clicks the tube off. “She had a headache, so I gave her some aspirin and put her to bed.”
Bridger gives me a second pat. I could go the rest of my life without another one.
I see them out on my own, then climb the stairs, finding Charlotte in front of the bathroom mirror in a camisole and socks, brushing her teeth with excessive vigor. Her eyes follow my reflection a moment before drifting away.
Gina Robb comes to the door in a T-shirt and shorts, the cat-eye glasses the only reminder of her eccentric appearance the first time we met. Behind her, blue light flickers across an overstuffed couch and a shadowy hallway leads deeper into the apartment.
“I’m sorry it’s so late. With a job like mine, you work odd hours.”
She ushers me inside, frets over the best place for me to sit, then decides the vinyl armchair is the only choice. Once I’m settled, she goes to the kitchenette to pour coffee, which I don’t have the heart to refuse.
“It’s hazelnut,” she says, handing me the mug.
They live on the second floor of a gated apartment complex across from Willowbrook Mall. The spot where Hannah Mayhew’s car was found is just about visible from their tiny balcony. The furniture has a haphazard hand-me-down quality, and apart from a clock over the breakfast nook, the walls are unadorned. The television is flanked by bookshelves filled with crimped paperbacks and DVDs.
Robb appears at the mouth of the hallway, also in shorts and T-shirt, toweling his hair dry. He pours himself coffee and sits on the big couch, then changes his mind and scoots closer toward me.
“Just taking a quick shower,” he says.
Gina flips on a lamp, then feels along the cushions until she finds the TV remote, switching the set off. She sits on the edge of the couch, hands clasped over white knees that seem never to have been touched by sun.
“Is it all right if I stay?” she asks.