“Are you sure? I would hate for you to think I’m such a prude. It’s really none of my business.”
“Just give me a few minutes. A shower. Another cup of coffee.”
Carol smiled weakly. “If you’re positive.”
“Five minutes.”
In the bathroom, Elizabeth stood in front of the mirror and breathed deeply as her smile drained away. She heard the sound of cabinet doors and dishes clanking, then put both hands on the sink and looked in the mirror. Dyer was right about the weight. She stood five-eight and normally carried enough lean muscle to do the job efficiently and well. Good shoulders. Strong arms. But she looked waifish now, the cheekbones more prominent, the eyes larger and deeper, their irises pale green. Stripping off the robe, she tried to imagine what someone like Carol Beckett saw. The hair was brown and short over a small nose and narrow chin. The skin was pale but clear, the face proportional in all the right ways. Elizabeth knew she was pretty, but a white scar ran across her stomach where a junkie with a knife had cut her from rib to hip bone, and a rough patch discolored her shoulder where she’d gone down on hard concrete. Men seemed to like her, but she didn’t kid herself about the deeper truths. She’d broken an arm and four ribs, torn skin going over fences, and been thrown through two different windows. Thirteen years on the force, she thought. And what am I? It was not a light question. She’d had five serious relationships, and all were dead ends. She was a preacher’s daughter and a college dropout, a drinker, a smoker, and a fallen cop. She was under investigation for the deaths of two men and felt no remorse at all. Would she change anything if she could?
Maybe, she thought.
Probably not.
There were reasons for everything. Why she hated her father. Why she’d become a cop, and why relationships were hard. She could say the same thing about the basement and the shooting and Adrian Wall. Consequence mattered, but so did the reasons.
Sometimes the reasons mattered more.
When she came out of the bathroom, she was clean and damp and dressed as conservatively as she could manage, which meant jeans and boots and a linen shirt. Maybe the jeans rode low on her hips, and maybe the shirt was a bit too tailored for someone like Carol. Elizabeth tried to make light of the whole thing. “Is this better?”
“Much.”
Elizabeth saw the Julia Strange murder file on the coffee table and scooped it up. “Don’t you have a wedding or something?”
“Oh, you sweet girl. Not for another hour, and this won’t take nearly that long.”
“Are you sure?”
She said it hopefully, but Carol dragged a chair onto the kitchen floor and patted it with one hand. So, Elizabeth sat and allowed her hair to be cut and sprayed and blown. They spoke of little things, but mostly of Carol’s husband. “He loves being your partner.” Carol stepped back, made a small movement with a brush. “He says watching you work is a beautiful thing.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Does he talk about me? When you’re in the car, I mean, or on a case. Does he talk about me or the kids?”
“Every day,” Elizabeth said. “He plays it like everything else-gruff and close-but there’s no mistaking how he feels. Proud of his kids. Loves his wife. The two of you give me hope.”
Carol beamed, and a little more energy found its way into her brushstrokes.
“Are you about finished?”
Carol gave Elizabeth a hand mirror. “Take a look.”
The hair was brown and bobbed and smooth. It was a little more sprayed than she liked, a little too styled. She handed the mirror back and stood. “Thank you, Carol.”
“It’s what I do.” Carol patted her blue case and was halfway down the stairs when her cell phone rang. “Oh. Would you hold this?” She pushed the case at Elizabeth and pulled a phone from her front pocket. Still on the steps, she said, “Hello.” A pause. “Oh, hi, sweetheart… What?… Yes, I am.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Of course. Yes. We’re at her house.” She pressed the phone against a heavy breast and spoke to Elizabeth. “Charlie. He wants to talk to you.”
Carol handed over the phone and Elizabeth looked at the street beyond Carol’s broad, powdered face. “What’s up, Beckett?”
“Your phone is off the hook.”
“I know.”
“Your cell phone’s off, too.”
“There’s no one I really care to talk to. What’s going on?”
“A kid got shot out by the prison.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Why does it concern me?”
“Because odds are fifty-fifty Adrian Wall’s the one who shot him.”
Elizabeth felt the world go soft under her feet. She wanted to sit, but Carol was staring at her face.
“There’s more to it,” Beckett said.
“What?”
“The kid that got shot is Gideon Strange. Look, I’m sorry to be the one-”
“Wait. Stop.”
Elizabeth pushed on her eyes until she saw red haze and white sparks. She flashed on every autopsy photo in the Julia Strange murder file, then remembered what Gideon had been like on the day his mother had gone missing. She could see every detail of the boy’s living room, the furniture and the paint, the detectives and the crime-scene techs that drifted like smoke from the kitchen. She remembered Adrian Wall-pale as a sheet-and the feel of the boy’s hot, squirming body as he’d screamed in her arms and other cops tried to calm his wild-eyed, wailing father.
“Is he alive?”
“Surgery,” Beckett said. “I don’t know any more than that. I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth was dizzy, the sun too bright. “Where was he shot?”
“The high right side of his chest.”
“No, Beckett. Where did it happen?”
“Nathan’s. The biker bar.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No, you won’t come anywhere near this. Dyer was specific. He doesn’t want you around Adrian Wall or this case. Obviously, I agree.”
“Then why did you call me?”
“Because I know you love the kid. I thought you’d want to go to the hospital, be there for him.”
“I can’t do anything at the hospital.”
“You can’t do anything here, either.”
“Beckett…”
“He’s not your son, Liz.” She froze, the phone painful against her ear. “You’re just the cop who found his mother dead.”
That was a hard truth, but who else was closer to the boy? His father? Social services? Elizabeth had been the first on scene when Gideon’s mother went missing. It might have ended there, but she’d also found Julia Strange broken on the altar of Elizabeth’s father’s church, the body so vulnerable in its desecration she’d almost wept. They’d never once met; and yet Elizabeth, even now, felt a kinship between them, a thread that twisted through thirteen years and found its embodiment in the small boy left behind. A man such as Beckett would never understand that. He couldn’t.
“Go to the hospital,” he said. “I’ll meet you there, later.”
Beckett hung up, and Elizabeth handed the phone back to Carol, who said a good-bye that barely registered. There was a blur of face, a cough as the car started and made a brushstroke of color in the road. When it was gone, Elizabeth walked to the bathroom, kept her eyes down so as not to see her face, and used the sink to rinse spray from her hair. She was numb, her mind spinning on images of Gideon as a toddler, and then as a boy. She thought she knew everything about him, his wants and needs and secret hurts.
Why was he at the prison?
Elizabeth shied from the answer because deep down she knew that, too.
Sitting on the sofa, she opened the murder file and pulled a photograph taken by a crime-scene tech less than an hour after Julia Strange was discovered missing. In the shot, Elizabeth stood in uniform with a red-faced infant in her arms. The Stranges’ kitchen was in disarray behind her. Gideon had the fabric on her shirt balled in his tiny fist. As a rookie and the only woman in the house, she’d been given the child to take care of until social services arrived. She didn’t know then how she’d react to such need and helplessness. She was a kid herself. She couldn’t have.