She saw the uncluttered conviction on Reese's face. "I don't think he'd kill her," he said. "No way on Earth he'd kill her."
"But if you're the prosecutor and you get the conviction, every body's going to know your name for fifteen minutes. And that's what it takes to fill Brenkus's empty DA's chair. Brenkus is old. Jaws want his job, whether he'll admit it or not."
Reese shook his head again. "Yeah. That's the way it goes, isn't it? Something like this happens and people use it to move up. The Wildcrafts-rungs on a ladder."
"Did he ever mention Julia?"
"Never." Reese looked at her with guarded interest but nothing more.
"Tell me about his temper."
Reese nodded, as if he expected this question. "Yeah, he's got one. I've been his patrol partner for a year and a half and I still don't know exactly what's going to set him off. He's peaceful. He's alert. He's in the moment. Then, wham. You know those carnival games where you take a giant mallet and try to ring the bell with the weight? Well, that's Archie's temper, sometimes. Something just hits him a certain way and off it goes."
"Is he violent with it?"
"Only once, with me around. But you see it. You hear it. You feel it. You also feel him controlling it."
Like Zamorra controlling his, Merci thought.
"So, you don't know exactly what's going to set him off, but how about in general?" she asked. "What gets him?"
Reese nodded again. "Bad treatment of women or girls. That royally pisses Arch off."
Merci thought about that for a moment.
"We roll on a domestic, Archie won't pay much attention to the guy's point of view. He's always pulling for the woman, no matter how drunk or violent or wrong she is. I mean, he took a lot of verbal abuse from Michelle Mendez before he cuffed her. If Archie smells a woman-hater, look out."
"He got in a fight defending me."
Reese nodded. "That was the one time I saw him not control it. One minute, a somewhat rational talk about whether the department is better off under Vince Abelera or Chuck Brighton. Next, some wiseass and not very fair words about you, Detective Rayborn. Next, Deputy Mark Stump coldcocked and lying on the floor. Archie already bending over him, trying to slap him awake."
"Where did that happen?"
"High Rollers, down on Katella. We tried to keep it quiet. That's just a regular bar we were in, not a cop joint."
"Sticking up for me. That's funny."
"Why is it funny?"
"Unexpected, I meant. Surprising."
"A lot of people think Brighton had it coming to him, and God knows McNally's dad did. And your father, well, he was involved and he admitted it. It was one of those rare times when people got what they deserved."
"Some got a little more."
"You got fooled on Mike. You almost got fooled."
"That's a generous interpretation of events."
"And Brighton's house needed a little cleaning, Merci. You were the one who did it."
She liked hearing Damon Reese sum things up that way. It put him in a good light and made things seem simple. The truth was a lot more complicated than that, and part of the truth was that she had been fooled into the unfair treatment of a fellow deputy-a man she'd been trying hard to love. She'd believed the worst of him because the evidence had told her to. Some people forgave her and some didn't. Mike had forgiven her as he shut the door of his Modjeska Canyon home on her one very cold night last winter.
Since then she had forgiven herself, but she didn't trust herself. Not all the way. And what good was trust if you couldn't, well, trust it? She second-guessed now, and second-guessed again. It was humiliating. That's what was yanking her chain about this Wildcraft thing she was trying not to believe the worst of him even though the evidence was telling her to. Her self-trust was trying to outmuscle her self-doubt but it didn't have the heft and the whole thing was being pushed by what had happened before. What if she was wrong again?" What if Archie's innocence was just another one of her useless opinions?
Shut the fuck up, woman, she thought. She sighed, feeling the heat rise into her face. "Thanks for saying that."
"I should have months ago. I figured I was more valuable with my mouth shut."
"Not being a fix-it guy."
"Correct," he said with a smile.
Damon Reese insisted that she take a small cooler filled with ice and a bag of the bass fillets. Then he walked her out. She saw two little boys with scooters standing on the sidewalk not far from her car.
Reese stopped at the planter beside the garage and used his pocketknife to cut a few white daisies. While she held open the lid he set them inside the cooler with the bag and ice.
He shook her hand and looked at her with a calm intensity. "Call if you think of anything," she said.
"I will. I'd call just to say hello and talk, if I thought you'd pick up."
She'd seen the question coming, but the directness of Reese's phrasing still caught her not quite ready. It wasn't the kind of question you had to think about. You knew the answer, whether you could predict it or not.
"I'd pick up."
He touched her cheek very softly with his fingers and brushed the hair off her forehead. She stood still for this, the sensation of his skin on hers much stronger and more exact than she had expected. She could smell fish and ocean and just a trace of gasoline. In the rearview mirror of the Impala she watched him wave goodbye, and without thinking she raised her right hand off the wheel and waved goodbye back. She glanced at the two young boys standing on the sidewalk, silver Razors propped against their legs. Both smiled: gaps and gums, teeth too big for their faces. One blew a kiss at her and they both took off, laughing and furiously pumping away down the concrete.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Saturday’s were usually Merci and Tim time. But with this Saturday cut short by work, all they had time to do was to go to a fast-food kids' place for lunch, then down to Laguna Beach to cool off in the brisk ocean. Tim chased seagulls until he was panting. Merci sat in the sand and let the sun tingle her bare shoulders and her back.
I'd pick up. God, now what?
That night was a typical one in the Rayborn household: a big dinner cooked by her father, popcorn, videos, scotch and water on ice, the police band scanner turned low in the background.
Tim, brandishing a now-stringless bow that Merci had bought for him at an amusement park, wanted to watch Robin Hood for the something-hundredth time. Merci put it in.
"Robin Hood is real?"
"Robin Hood is not real. He's a character in a movie."
"Prince John is real?"
"Prince John is not real. He's a character in a movie also."
"He's in a movie also?"
"Correct."
"Oh."
Tim bellowed and gushed tears when the endless coming-to-video clips started, so Merci fast-forwarded it to the feature presentation.
"He's got strong opinions," said Clark.
"Wonder where he gets those."
Still blubbering and clutching his bow, Tim climbed into his grandfather's recliner-his new favorite place to sit. Merci stretched out on one of the couches, taking most of it up, nothing but shorts and a tank top in the hot August evening, her hair up in chopsticks. She balanced the cocktail glass on her stomach, which soon made a ring of sweat on the material. I'd pick up. She looked down at her legs, and her big feet propped one on top of the other on the arm of the sofa. She wondered if her legs were good ones. She'd been told they were good ones, but that was back in college.
She browsed the newspaper but found no good crime stories. She checked to see how the Angels were doing: fair. She had no interest at all in baseball but felt obligated to follow them because so many of the deputies did. She checked the stock page for B. B. Sistel's Friday performance: up a buck and a half.