He stared at his knees, shaking his head like a bull that had been gored one too many times.
"I'll drop the charges," Clare said again. "I'm fine, and Amado's fine, and that's the only thing that matters."
"That's not the only goddam thing that matters," he said, his voice low.
Clare risked laying her hand on his arm. "Maybe not," she said. "But I'm not willing to-"
Buy my happiness with your marriage. She could see it in his eyes, the echo of the words she had said to him so many months before. Before his wife died. Before they had both been broken.
She inhaled. "To see you endanger your job and the reputation of the police department." She looked at the ADA. "I don't need state-sanctioned punishment. As long as they stay away from Amado and me, I'm willing to drop the whole matter."
Nguyen nodded. "We can absolutely make that part of the deal."
Russ snorted. "Like a restraining order is going to stop those guys? Please."
Nguyen steepled her fingers. "I leave the enforcement up to you."
He still looked deeply unhappy.
"If it makes you feel any better," she went on, "it appears they truly weren't after Ms. Fergusson. They indicated in their statements that your handyman"-she gestured toward Clare-"had been seeing their sister, and they wanted to speak to him. They didn't even know your name."
The mechanics of dropping the complaint were simpler than Clare had feared. The assistant DA had already prepared the order of restraint, and all Clare had to do was sign it in front of one of the frazzled court clerks, who then stamped her notary seal on the paper and sent them out to wait. After half an hour, they were ushered into Judge Ryswick's chambers-the ADA had pointedly suggested Russ go out for a sandwich, and he had just as pointedly ignored her-and Clare got to repeat her account of the events of Friday night. Ryswick made a few disapproving tchs, jotted a couple of lines on the papers Nguyen had given him, and, after a long look at Clare that made her feel as if she must be guilty of something, approved the order.
She was back outside in the parking lot an hour after she had arrived, clutching a sheet of paper that was supposed to stand between her and the Christies. "That was fast," she said to Russ, who was scowling at the sunshine as if it were a personal affront. "Who said, The wheels of justice grind slowly?"
"That wasn't justice," he said. "That was convenience."
"I told you, as long as they leave me and Amado alone, I'm happy." She glanced up at him, shading her eyes. "Do you think they told the truth? About Amado dating their sister?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe. That would certainly clear up how they knew him. I haven't been able to figure out any other explanation. It's not like the kid's been out partying at the Dew Drop Inn."
"So how did he meet the sister?"
"I dunno. You've spent more time with him than anyone else. Is he a Latin lothario?"
"Hardly. He strikes me more like Kevin Flynn, if Kevin had been born in a poor village in northern Mexico. Sweet, helpful, and can't say boo to a woman."
"Huh. Not anymore. Friday afternoon I caught Kevin propositioning our new officer. Had to read them both the riot act."
"Kevin Flynn? Propositioned Hadley Knox? I don't believe it."
"Well." Russ hitched at his gun belt. "It was more along the line of asking to carry her books home from school. Which for Kevin is the equivalent of inviting her to meet him up against the wall in the alley. I laid down a blanket no-fraternizing rule." He glanced back as the courthouse doors swung open, discharging a group of men and women suited in every hue from black to charcoal. "I suppose I'll have to get the town's attorney to draw something up for us and make it all legal."
She was facing away from the sun, toward the parking lot, while he was talking, which is why she saw trouble coming first. "Uh-oh," she said.
He turned. "What?"
She gestured with her chin to the man ambling across the asphalt toward them. Sleeves rolled up, no jacket, tie loosely knotted-as he drew closer, she could see it had a picture of Snoopy on it-in this bastion of lawyers and defendants and witnesses, no one would mistake him for anything other than a reporter.
"Oh, crap on toast," Russ said. "Ben Beagle."
VI
"Be nice." Clare sounded like his mother.
"Nice? He printed a story in the Post-Star implying we spent the night together before I killed my wife! Do you know the circulation of the Post-Star? Twenty-five thousand! I looked it up."
"Ssh." She got the same look on her face he had seen on the times he'd been to her church: bright, open, welcoming. It wasn't fake, but it was certainly whitewashed.
"Hey! Chief Van Alstyne. Just the man I was hoping to see. You've saved me a trip to the MKPD." Beagle pulled a small notepad from his pocket and clicked his pen, smiling as if Russ was an old army buddy who owed him a drink. "What can you tell me about the two bodies found this past Sunday in Cossayuharie?"
"How do you know about that?"
Clare cleared her throat. "Uh, Russ-"
"There were close to two hundred people there," Beagle said cheerfully. "You know what they say. Two hundred can keep a secret if one hundred are dead. Or something like that." He waggled his fingers at Clare. "Reverend Fergusson. Nice to see you again. I understand it was a little boy from your congregation who started the whole hullabaloo."
"Uh, yes," she said.
"For chrissakes, Clare, you don't have to talk to him." She frowned at him. Him! "I'm just trying to save you trouble," he said under his breath. "Every time you land in the newspaper your bishop has a fit."
"Really?" Beagle's eyes lit up. "Why is that?"
Her frown became a glare before she turned to Beagle. "Oh, you know Chief Van Alstyne," she said, going all southern. "He will have his little joke." Russ was pleased to see Beagle looked dubious. He didn't have a reputation for little jokes, and he didn't want one, either.
"A two-and-a-half-year-old wandered away from the St. Alban's parish picnic," Clare went on. Her voice took on that precise tone people get when speaking for attribution. "He was lost in the nearby woods for-oh, almost three hours before the Millers Kill Search and Rescue team located him, with the help of a wonderful dog handler from Saratoga. I can't recall her name, but John Huggins will have it. We're all very grateful to have him back, safe and sound. That's St. Alban's, Five Church Street, Millers Kilclass="underline" Holy Eucharist Sundays at seven-thirty and nine in the summer, child care provided." She crossed her arms and smiled sweetly while Beagle scribbled on his pad. Russ couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss her or drop her on her head.