Shari turned her attention back to the task that had to be done. “Do you think Dad’s secretary can access it for us?”
“I’ll write up a limited power of attorney from the estate.”
* * *
“I can arrange a birthday cake from the local bakery,” Marcus suggested once he and Beth were in the kitchen away from Shari’s hearing. Finding out Shari’s birthday was a week from Saturday had thrown him. It was bad enough she would have to deal with her father and Carl not being present, but to also have to spend her birthday here, away from her friends—it left a bad taste.
Beth poured herself a glass of iced tea. “I’ve got plenty of time to do some baking. I’d just need you to get my recipe file sent from the house. How about a chocolate cake with a layer of pudding inside?”
“Is chocolate her favorite cake?”
“She’s a cupcake person. Don’t worry; I’ll make her several. She likes lots of icing and those colorful sprinkles on top.”
“Does she?” Marcus smiled. “Well, I personally love the idea of a chocolate cake.”
“Will we be able to go shopping for gifts?”
“The trip will have to be planned, but it won’t be a problem. I’ll get you a list of shops that are in town. Getting Shari occupied elsewhere will be the real problem.”
“Nonsense. You can take her out to lunch or a movie while Josh and I shop.”
“Subtle, Beth.”
“I like you. Shari could do far worse.”
He looked at her, at this lady he had come to admire, and had to smile. “She’s a witness. Please remember that.”
“You won’t be protecting her forever. You’re good for my daughter.”
It didn’t do any good to point out the problems. The stark difference in backgrounds. The fact he couldn’t say he believed. Beth had already heard them and waved them aside. Shari could adjust; he could change. And Marcus was amused to realize he knew better than to assume Beth wouldn’t get her way. “And you’re the nicest mom I’ve ever protected.”
“The only one.”
“Still the nicest.” Marcus accepted a glass of iced tea. “You remind me of my own mom.”
“One of the highest compliments I think you could give me.”
His pager went off. “Excuse me, Beth.”
He walked down the hall to get some privacy. “Yes, Dave.”
“Washington called. The president has made a choice for the Supreme Court nomination. He’s going with Judge Paul Nelcort.”
Marcus frowned. “When will it be announced?”
“There will be a White House Rose Garden announcement at 2 P.M..”
He moved to where he could see Shari. “The timing could be better.”
“I thought you could use a heads-up before they find out the news.”
“I appreciate that.” This moment had been inevitable, but it was going to cut sharp. When he hung up, Marcus found himself torn over whether to tell them now or wait.
Beth touched his arm. “There’s news?” she asked, concerned.
He nodded. Best to do it now rather than wait. “Let’s join the others.”
He walked back into the room with Beth at his side. Shari was laughing with Josh, and it was a sound Marcus had rarely heard. He didn’t want to rob that laughter from her.
Shari’s smile slowly faded when his serious expression registered. “Something has happened.”
There was no way to cushion this but to simply say it. “The president has decided to nominate Judge Paul Nelcort to the Supreme Court.”
It was a shock; there was no other way to describe how she took the news. It brought back that night, that image of seeing Carl die. Marcus saw it happen and willed her to push through that pain. There was nothing he could say that would make that easier to deal with. She just had to accept it.
“He’s a good man,” she finally said. She got up from her seat, crossed toward Mom, then shook her head. Her fist struck the door frame as she turned toward the stairs. “Excuse me.”
“Let her go, Marcus,” Beth said, stopping him with a hand on his arm.
“She’s feeling this was her fault. That she wrote that brief.”
“I know. But telling her it’s not true won’t change what she’s feeling.”
* * *
Shari pushed the clothes she had tossed on her bed that morning to the floor and sprawled face down on the comforter. The emotions roiled and she grabbed a pillow to silently bury her head against it. She wasn’t going to let herself cry. She wasn’t!
Jesus, the only thing I can do is pray that the shooter will be found. Please. I lift that prayer to You again. I’ve been doing my best to quietly trust You like Mom does, but this . . . my heart fractures. I need there to be justice for Carl. I need the shooter found. It feels like You don’t care. I know that isn’t true, but the days pass without news. And I’m afraid of him! I need him found.
She rolled over and reached for her Bible on the end table. She turned to the bookmark she had left at Psalm 4 that morning. The first verse had caught her attention.
“Answer me when I call, O God of my right! Thou hast given me room when I was in distress. Be gracious to me, and hear my prayer.”
She had hung onto that verse when she found it, for it not only expressed David’s own moments of turmoil with God, his distress, but also his similar need to have a prayer answered. She read the words again and clung to them.
Lord, You’re a God who loves justice. Bring justice. Swift, complete justice.
She rolled back over and looked up at the ceiling. And Lord, maybe it’s time to also say one other quiet, private prayer. Please let Marcus reconsider believing in You.
She needed a future, and she wanted him in it. And she needed someone to talk to. It couldn’t be family, for they would only be hurt by the questions she’d ask. Marcus could help.
* * *
Marcus closed the phone, frustrated. Someone took a shot at Shari and they had no leads. All the evidence they had and right now it led exactly nowhere.
“Someone will see him, someone will talk,” Quinn observed from his seat at the other end of the front porch. “It will happen. Just because the rifle has led nowhere doesn’t mean someone didn’t know what was planned. Two people are involved. That’s one too many. Somewhere the nibble is going to appear.”
“Care to take a trip back to Chicago and help shake that tree?”
Quinn tipped back his hat and glanced over. “If you like.”
“I think so. We’re secure here.” Marcus leaned against the porch railing, studying the trees. There were men watching the road, and three patrols covering the grounds. They knew flights that came in to the small local airport, and guests that checked into the local hotels. This location was secure, but someone determined . . . They had to find the man who shot Carl soon or he was eventually going to find them and make another attempt.
“Lisa will come up with something from the room.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s with the pessimism? You’re normally the optimistic one of the two of us.”
Marcus swung his arms in front of him, restless. “This case is different.”
“I’ve noticed,” Quinn replied dryly.
“I don’t mean Shari, well, not entirely.”
“I know, Marcus. Someone killed a judge this time. It’s different,” Quinn agreed. “At least the Hanfords seem to have settled in here. It’s not a bad place to stay if we need it for a few weeks.”
“Shari’s not sleeping,” Marcus said heavily. A glance back at the house showed the den lights were still on. She had settled there after dinner with a pad of paper, working on a speech for John, and she was still there now, long after Beth and Josh had turned in.
“Did you really think it wouldn’t be a problem, having been shot at twice?”
“It would help if she would talk about it.”
“She will when she’s ready.”
As the days passed, Ma
rcus wondered if she would ever get to that point. “She needs to blow off some stress.”
“See if she likes to play basketball.”
“What?”
“She’s not the only one who needs to blow off some stress. You’re pacing. And you don’t pace. If you’re not going to open a Bible and start resolving the questions you’ve been avoiding for years, then at least admit what avoiding them is doing to you. Ever since news of Jennifer’s illness broke, you’ve been building to the point you’re going to blow.”
“I know you’re a Christian, Quinn, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Quinn swung his feet down from the railing. “Good enough. I’ll be around when you do. When Josh goes into town for physical therapy, take Shari over to the gym near the hospital. I’m sure it would be possible to reserve some private court time.”
Shari playing basketball. It was an interesting idea. And goodness knows he would love to run the court for a while. “I’ll think about it.”
Quinn scanned the dark night. “When do you want to relieve me?”
“6:00 A.M..?”
“Sounds good. I’ll schedule a flight back to Chicago, sleep on the plane.”
Marcus straightened from the porch railing. “Say hello to Lisa for me.”
“That sounded like a subtle push to me.”
“Do you need one?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so. I’ll see you in the morning, Quinn.”
His partner nodded.
Marcus opened the door and walked by memory through the dark house to the kitchen. The fatigue was heavy, and normally he would have taken advantage of going off duty to get some sleep. Instead he found himself retrieving two tall glasses, opening the freezer, and finding ice cream. He got out two sodas and set about making two floats.
He walked through to the den.
Shari was curled up in the big leather chair, several pages of a yellow pad of paper turned back. She was spinning a pen between her fingers, lost in thought. Marcus paused in the doorway for a moment just to enjoy the sight.
There were deep stapled stacks of research materials, read and underlined, dropped on the floor around her. He could see her early frustration in the wadded up pages tossed toward the wastebasket. She was struggling to find the words. She started writing, ran out of room at the bottom of the page, and rather than turn to a new page, turned the pad and wrote in the margins.
He waited until she finished writing. “Making progress?”
She glanced over. “Finally. You can’t believe how hard it is to make the environmental issues surrounding water resource management something interesting to listen to. John’s got a great legislative initiative drafted, but writing a speech that can convince people why it matters to their lives just like taxes and education—even I’m having a problem staying awake.”
She accepted the float. “I’m going to get spoiled if you keep this up.”
“Sure you are.” He settled on the couch across from her. He enjoyed the picture she made, curled up, comfortable.
She set aside the pad of paper to sample the float. “Very nice.”
“Drink slow, you’ll get an ice cream headache.”
“Warning noted.”
He reached down, picked up one of the wadded pages, and lofted it toward the basket.
She winced when it went cleanly in. “Ouch.”
“I’m a better shot than you.”
“True. But I wasn’t trying very hard.”
“Your competitive streak is showing.”
“Good. I would like to think Josh taught me something.”
“I saw you working weights with him this afternoon. How’s he doing?”
“His good arm is just about back to full strength. He’s ready to see the physical therapist.”
“It’s all arranged. He starts tomorrow afternoon.”
She nodded and went quiet.
He settled back, enjoying his float, waiting, wondering what her topic for tonight would be. She always had one. Ever since those early days at the hotel when late night room service had become habit, they had talked late at night after the others had turned in. Marcus enjoyed the time.
“Tell me about your sister.”
They had talked a lot about family in the recent weeks. He had been drawing her out about her dad, pulling out the good memories. She in turn was fascinated with his large family, had seen the photos in his wallet and laughed at the humorous stories he told. “Which one?”
“Kate.”
Marcus sank down against the back of the couch, feeling the taut fabric give slightly. “My middle of the night phone buddy,” he said easily, in simple words encapsulating the heart of his relationship with Kate. She had always been there no matter what the time or reason for the call, and it had been the same going the other direction. Those hours in the middle of the night were priceless to him.
Kate had been kidding him recently about the unusually late hour of his calls. Marcus had not told her they were getting delayed because he was first chatting with Shari. He knew Kate wouldn’t mind, but she would find that fact too fascinating for comfort.
To describe Kate . . . he didn’t want to brush off the question with a simplistic answer. It was sometimes hard for people to see the real Kate behind the impassive negotiator wall she presented: polite, nice, but very hard to know what was going on behind her watchful gaze.
“As a negotiator, she’s without compare. The higher the pressure, the more bored she appears. Kate is . . . it’s hard to put into words. She’s the heart and soul of the O’Malley family. I may be the leader of the group, but Kate is the fighter, the courage, the well of fire that cements us together. She’s the passion behind all that we are. When trouble strikes, she jumps in with both feet, plants herself, and takes the battlefield with her elbows out. When she’s beside you, it doesn’t matter what the odds are, you can relax; she’s like a big rock, immovable. She defends the family. I love her for that.”
“And you defend Kate.”
“When she needs it. I would trust her with my life and have on occasions. Kate’s the one who knows my secrets.”
“All of them?”
She doesn’t know I’m enchanted with you, but she’s a very perceptive lady. She’s probably already figured that out. Your name has a habit of coming up a lot.
“Almost all of them. She doesn’t have to know that I did kind of push her toward Dave, or that I punched the boy harassing her in sixth grade, or once had Jack swipe her car keys so she couldn’t go after a fellow cop that blew a negotiation—minor stuff like that.”
“For the good of the family kind of secrets.”
“Something like that. You still owe me another one of yours. I’m ahead.”
“You need to check your tally.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever a scout?”
“No.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” She settled more comfortably against the leather chair. “Let’s see, another secret . . . ” She smiled suddenly. “I voted for my opponent when I was running for high school senior class president.”
“You threw a political race?” He found that idea amusing.
“Just one vote. We had this debate on the small wattage radio station that the high school guys ran. I found my opponent’s arguments very persuasive.”
“Who won the race?”
“I did. By a landslide,” she admitted. “But then I understood the need for a turn-out-the-vote drive the day of the election.”
“It sounds to me like you wanted to make sure he got at least one vote.”
“Well . . . maybe that too.”
“Was that your first taste of politics?”
“It was running for office. I’d been stuffing envelopes, passing out campaign literature as a volunteer since I was twelve. I fell in love with the idea of campaigns and the intricacies of issues and getting
your guy to win.”
It was new to him, meeting someone with politics as her passion. He found he enjoyed it. There was depth to her knowledge of issues that he admired, and more than once he had gotten her to debate with equal fervor both sides of the same issue. She worked very hard to understand the point and counterpoints to an issue. It was a work ethic he really admired. “When did you start writing speeches?”
“I’d see campaign flyers, and think they didn’t get the message across. So I’d rewrite them. I’d listen to John give speeches; he would ask what I thought, so I’d tell him. I would quote back what worked and what didn’t. Anne finally hired me. I fell in love with the job.”
“A self-starter.”
“Or at least able to indulge a passion.”
“You’re fortunate. Your passion became your career.”
“Yes.” Shari agreed, but her eyes shifted away as she said it. Marcus noted the unspoken qualification she made. Something to figure out here, he noted, and tucked it away to think about.
“Do you still enjoy it?”
“Most of the time.” She grimaced. “Except when I’m under deadline and the speech isn’t working.” She held up the pages. “Like this one.”
“Keep working on it, you’ll get it.”
“Or rip it up trying.” She held up her float. “Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome. Do you have an extra pad of paper? I’ll do some work while you finish that speech.”
“You’ve got more confidence than I do.” She passed over a blank pad of paper.
Marcus pulled the sketch from his pocket, the one they knew was misleading.
“I’m sorry I got that sketch wrong.”
He wasn’t letting her take the guilt for that, and it was ground they had been over several times in the last week. “Don’t be. It was just one of many ways he arranged to misdirect us.” He started modifying the sketch, creating yet another permutation to the dozens he had made in the last few days.
The room became quiet as they both worked. Marcus turned the page to make another sketch. And instead found himself sketching Shari.
The Guardian Page 18