"Spotty. I know the signs, Dave. And yes, I have some of the classicsI feel let down, stressed, restless, irritable. But I know it, and I know why. What I don't know is why that boy's dead. That's the reason I spoke up in the meeting."
"Phoebe, the chief isn't what we'd call a creative thinker. He's more politician than cop-"
"I thought the same thing when we were up there. I guess we share more than crappy shooting."
He let out a half laugh, rubbed her shoulder. "Well, believe me, he's more concerned now with public relations and the possibility of civil liability than why a sixteen-year-old gangbanger's dead."
"You have ambitions for me." She loaded another clip. "I know that, too, Dave. I appreciate it."
"If I've got a legacy, it's you and Carter." Someone fired down the line, and the sound was harsh in contrast to his quiet voice. "When I'm ready to turn in my papers, I want to know you're taking my desk." He'd wanted children; his wife hadn't. Though he'd never told her, Phoebe knew it because she knew him. So she and Carter were his. "You're worried if I speak up too often and don't say what the brass wants to hear, I'm shooting myself in the foot. Which is something I believe I could manage in the literal sense as it's fairly close range."
"The chief wants this put to bed. If he has to sacrifice Harrison in the public arena, he will. He'd sacrifice you, but there're no grounds. The simple fact is, Phoebe, logic and circumstances strongly support the idea that this was gang-related. A crime of opportunity and turf. That's the drum that's going to be beat."
"Maybe someone should listen to what's under the drum." She lifted her weapon again and fired.
Stupid, Phoebe thought later. Stupid to push and prod where the only result was going to be annoyance to all parties. Politics and public relations were going to play this out, she reminded herself as she changed into a gray suit-black seemed too presumptuous somehow.
She had nothing to add to the mix that wasn't already on record. Except for a few minutes before she'd taken over negotiations, and that horrible aftermath, she'd been inside the diner.
Nobody liked a Monday-morning quarterback, she told herself.
She would go to Charles Johnson's viewing, then she would have to put it away. No comment, she promised herself, unless the department directed otherwise. What more did she have to say, in any case?
She pinned her hair back. Nothing would sober the color, she mused, but the style seemed more respectful than loose.
She stepped into the family parlor. Her mother was crocheting in front of the TV, and Carly was sprawled on the floor paging through a picture book. Puppies, Phoebe realized with a little sink in the belly. "I'm heading out now. I shouldn't be more than an hour."
"Mama! Wait, Mama, look! Aren't they cute?"
Carly scrambled up to hold out the book. The page was full of irresistible balls of fur and adorability. "They are, sweetie. They couldn't be cuter. But they also need to be fed and watered and walked, and cleaned up after, and trained, and-"
"But you said someday we could get a puppy."
"I said maybe someday." And only after she'd been worn down to a nub by pleading glances from those big blue eyes. "And I'm just not sure it's someday yet. I can't talk about it now because I have to go. And this isn't going to be just my decision. I'm at work all day and you're in school, so I need to discuss this with Gran and Ava before we get close to thinking about it. Where is Ava?"
"Book club." Essie gave Phoebe a puzzled look. "She mentioned it at dinner."
"Oh, of course she did. Slipped my mind." No, Phoebe admitted.
She hadn't heard a word anyone had said at dinner. Apparently she hadn't just stopped active listening but listening at all. Time to pull it back together. "You be good for Gran." Phoebe bent to kiss the top of Carly's head. "I'll be back before long."
As she walked out she heard Carly using her slyest, most sugarcoated tone. "Gran, you like puppies, don't you?"
It should've been funny. She wished she could see it as funny. But all she could think about as she headed downstairs was that Carly was going to manipulate the other two adults in the house until they ended up with some shoe-chewing, puddle-making, middle-of-the-nightwhimpering canine.
She liked dogs, damn it. But she just wasn't ready to take on another responsibility.
She knew Ava planned to take her son on a trip out West this summer. She deserved it, absolutely. And it meant ten days where there was no one around to run to the store, the bank, the dry cleaner's, to haul Carly, to do all the endless errands.
She already had an active seven-year-old and an agoraphobic to tend to. Phoebe didn't think it made her a heartless monster not to want to add a puppy to the mix.
But, of course, she felt like one, so when she opened the front door to go out, her scowl was already full-blown.
Duncan came up the last step to the portico. "That's timing."
"What are you doing here? You didn't get my message? I'm sorry, but-"
"No, I got it. I'm going with you."
"To the funeral home?" Shaking her head, she closed the door firmly behind her. "No, you're not. Why should you? You didn't know him."
"I know you, and you shouldn't go alone. Why should you?"
"I'm perfectly capable."
"A reason you could, but not why you should. If it irritates you so much to have me along, you'll just have to pretend I'm not there. You don't go into something like this by yourself. That's stupid, and you're not."
Phoebe yanked out her sunglasses, shoved them on. "Simple competence and responsibility aren't stupidity, thank you very much."
"Okay." Hair trigger, he thought again. Why did he like that about her? "Do you want to stand out here debating the issue, or do you want to go do this thing?"
"I'm not going to drive up to this poor boy's viewing in a Porsche and walk in with some rich guy in Armani."
"First." He stepped aside, gestured. There was a black sedan of some sort at the curb. "Second, this is Hugo Boss, or maybe Calvin Klein. I can't keep that sort of thing straight-so now that I think about it, it may be Armani. And I may be rich but I grew up not two spits from where that kid spent his short sixteen years. Not in a mansion on Jones. So don't call the pot, honey."
She stared a moment, then shook her head. "A few minutes ago something that should've made me laugh just couldn't. Now this just strikes me as funny. Or maybe it's just ridiculous."
She reached forward, flipped back the side of his jacket to find the label. "I was right about the designer. Never test the mother of a minifashionista."
"Points for you."
"No, for you." Irritable and let down, she thought. Yes, she knew the signs. "Thanks for coming to go with me. I was keeping the mad on the front burner so I wouldn't feel too much of the sad. And I neglected to remember one thing."
"Which one thing?"
"This isn't about me." She stepped down. "So, you've got a shiny black sedan. Sort of dignified."
"I thought about bringing the pickup, but that seemed wrong. And the SUV's just too big." He shrugged as he opened the car door. "I'm a guy. I have cars. It's what we do."
"As I have a car that is well on its way to becoming a heap, I appreciate being able to go in one of your manly fleet." She put a hand on his over the door handle. "I'm used to going alone, and I suppose that leads me to think I should. But I don't always want to, and I also appreciate you figuring that out before I did."
Because she looked as if she needed it, Duncan leaned down to touch his lips to hers. "I'm making a study of figuring you out."
The funeral home was small, the parking lot already crowded with cars and people. Phoebe saw reporters on the edge of the property. Some were doing interviews, others trying to hunt them up.