It rose and fell with the unhurried pace of a deep and restful sleep.
Bittersweet reality.
He lay back down and drew the covers up to his neck. The pillow was soaked in sweat and so was he.
Waking up from that nightmare into this one was a small relief, but he’d take it.
He’d take it wherever he could find it.
His pulse rate was falling back toward baseline, and sleep was creeping up on him again like a welcome predator.
No more dreams.
As if he could will such a thing away.
Grant closed his eyes, and they had been shut for less than a second when a sound like a gunshot filled the house.
His eyes opened.
He didn’t move because he couldn’t.
Frozen with liquid fear.
He stared into the ashen bed of coals beneath the grate, glowing the same subdued color as the brownish-purple dawnlight that was filtering in through the windows.
His heart banged inside his chest with a relentless fury, and he was on the borderline of hyperventilation, his vision sparkling with pulsating specks of black.
That sound.
He knew exactly what it was.
The door to Paige’s room had just slammed shut.
Chapter 16
You’ve reached Grant Moreton. I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll—
Sophie Benington shelved the handset.
Her sergeant, Joseph Wanger, walked over, looking every bit like the terrifying slob he was—big and broad, his white, button-down oxford hanging out of his waistband, his collar stained with duck sauce the color of radioactivity.
He was tearing through a carton of Chinese food from Grant’s second favorite restaurant in the world—the Northgate Panda Express.
When he reached her desk, he rapped his knuckles on the particleboard.
Sophie shook her head.
Wanger sighed heavily and stabbed a plastic fork into the carton.
The rippled surface of his shaved head was sweating from the handful of hot mustard packets he’d undoubtedly squeezed onto his meal.
“I’ve been calling him all morning,” Sophie said. “It rings, but he’s not picking up.”
“You guys are close, right?” His voice pure gravitas and boom. Sophie had seen it break more than a handful suspects, blundering unis who’d muddied the chain of evidence, and even the occasional detective.
“I don’t know if I’d say—”
“Come on, Benington. What’s going on with your boy?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you do know Grant’s got a taste for scotch. I mean, that don’t require any sort of special training to deduce.”
“I’m aware, sir.”
“He’s been fine the last year or two, but he’s has not always been the straight and narrow. Any chance he’s going through a thirsty spell, and you just don’t have the heart to rat him out? It’s not a part of your job to protect him, you know.”
“I’m not protecting him.”
Wanger shoveled a pile of lo mein noodles into his mouth, his massive black mustache glistening with MSG.
“Look, I’ve known Grant for two years,” Sophie said. “He’s shown up for work hung-over a few times.”
“A few?”
“A few times a week. Rolled in still drunk once or twice. But he’s never not shown up.”
“Boy could be going through some shit not on your radar.”
“I don’t think so.”
“So you guys are all cuddly then?”
She imagined lifting the paperweight off her desk—a viceroy butterfly enclosed in a clear globe—and smashing it into Wanger’s ball sack.
“No, but I do sit across from the man every day. I wouldn’t be a good detective if I couldn’t tell if something was bothering my own partner, would I?”
“So does this mean you’re worried?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve tried him at home?”
“His cell is the only way to reach him. I also texted him and sent him an e-mail. No response. I was thinking of driving over to his apartment in Fremont.”
Wanger was already nodding as he chewed.
“Do it,” he said. “Right now.”
# # #
Sophie stood at Grant’s door on the third floor of his townhome walkup. The building was nice, but Grant had about as much design sense as a monk.
She pounded on his door again.
“Grant! You in there?”
No answer.
Turning away, she pushed the thought out of her mind that he was lying dead in there. She had circled the surrounding blocks several times, but couldn’t find his black Crown Vic. At least that was something.
Halfway down the last flight of stairs, her phone rang—Detective Dobbs calling. She answered as she moved past the mailboxes and toward the front door.
“What’s up, Art?”
“I just got a strange call. A groundskeeper spotted a man in the Japanese garden at the Washington Park Arboretum.”
“So what?”
“Silver responded. Turns out it’s Benjamin Seymour, your missing lawyer.”
“So Seymour’s okay?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just go see for yourself.”
Sophie pushed open the front door and headed down the concrete steps toward her silver TrailBlazer which she’d double-parked in front of the building.
“I’m on my way,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“Fremont. Have Bobby keep eyes on him.”
“Any word on Grant?”
“I’m just leaving his apartment. He isn’t here.”
“Your boy’ll turn up. Probably just tripped over a big night.”
“Hey, Art?”
“Yeah?”
Her car alarm chirped.
“He’s not my boy.”
“If you say so.”
Chapter 17
Grant could see that he was standing on two feet, but it didn’t feel that way. He’d had his share of I-feel-like-death hangovers in recent years, but nothing approaching this. His head felt like the Liberty Bell—deeply cracked—and a pool of something in his stomach was threatening to surface.
He stepped over his still-sleeping sister onto the frigid hardwood floor and made a mad dash to the bathroom off the kitchen.
Knees hit tile, and he just managed to throw open the toilet seat before spewing his guts into the bowl.
He flushed.
Hauled himself up.
Cranked open the faucet and rinsed his mouth and spit.
He’d had a few drinks the night before, but he didn’t deserve this.
Grant turned the water off and straightened. His back cracked. He dug the crust from the corners of his lids with a knuckle and checked his reflection in the mirror—eyes sunken and red-veined, hair like something out of an eighties music video.
He ran a hand over the scratch of fresh beard.
Something about his face seemed off. After a night of too much booze and restless sleep, he could faithfully count on swollen cheeks and puffy eyes. But this morning, nothing about him looked bloated. His face was as thin as he’d seen it in years. Verging into gaunt.
He walked through the kitchen and up the hallway into the foyer.
Unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the porch.
His ears popped from that persistent pressure gradient.
The rain had stopped and the air smelled of wet pavement. The sky hadn’t cleared, but the clouds overhead were thin enough for the incoming sunlight to burn his eyes. It was a suddenly warm Friday for December and people would be pouring out of their homes and into the green spaces with the kind of shared satisfaction that only rainy cities relish on days like this.
A woman ran by pushing a jogger-stroller.
The streets hummed with traffic.
The hedges dripped.
Wind pushed the scent of a distant coffee shop his way.
He glanced at his watch—later than he thought. They’d slept past noon.
His fingernails looked dirty, but he knew it wasn’t that.
Don’s blood.
The despair and heartache nearly brought him to his knees.