by Karen Rose
Steven shrugged. “It’s possible. Unlikely. Some of those cuts are recent.” He pointed to a series of jagged cuts with the end of his pen. “These still have red, puffy edges. They were probably inflicted less than a week before she entered the hospital after her ‘fall’ down those stairs.” He punctuated the word in the air, a sneer twisting his mouth.
Ross sighed. “Let’s talk about the night she fell down the stairs.”
“Pushed,” Steven muttered.
Ross shook her head. “As I recall he had an alibi for that night, Thatcher.”
Steven frowned. “I know.” He drew another folder from his briefcase and blew off the remaining layer of dust. “I got the duty rosters for that night. Your duty rosters from nine years ago are stored in a warehouse clear across town waist high in dust, did you know that? Anyway, Winters was on duty that night. Here are his logs listing all the calls he responded to that night. Most of the night he was at least twenty miles from his house.”
“Did he stop to eat that night?” Ross asked.
Steven shrugged. “He clocked out for an hour, but there’s no telling where he could have gone.”
“And the restraining order?” Ross held out a hand for the folder.
Steven handed it to her. “I got a copy from Farrell. He kept copies of all the paperwork. There’s no sign of it here or at the county courthouse.”
“Then we have an issue in Records,” Ross responded, her lips tight. “I’ll get an internal investigation started right away.”
“Good, but I still want to talk to that Legal Aid attorney. I’m working on locating him.”
Ross handed back the copy of the restraining order. “Now for the big question? Where’s our grieving daddy?”
Steven’s brows lifted. “Sue Ann Broughton says he’s been gone since Wednesday.”
“You think she’s telling the truth?”
Steven shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s a hell of a lot more afraid of him than she is of us.”
Ross frowned. “None of this has any direct connection to the disappearance of his wife and son, you realize.”
Steven acknowledged her point with a nod. “But it will go to show intent,” he said thoughtfully.
“Only if you can get anything to take to the DA on the known crime at hand—the disappearance of his wife andson,” Ross argued. She pulled the photos together and slid them back in the folder. “You may be able to accuse him of spousal abuse, but you can’t prove he did it.”
Steven dropped the folder into his briefcase. “Not yet.” He flashed Ross a grin. “See you on Monday. I’ve got a date with a bass boat with a depth finder and a GPS this weekend.”
Ross’s lips quivered. “Does a woman happen to come with this boat?”
Steven’s smile vanished. He’d almost been able to forget about young Suzanna Mendelson. “Only if I can’t convince her daddy to come instead.”
Raleigh, North Carolina
Saturday, March 10
2 P.M.
Winters had taken a little break in his surveillance of Susan Crenshaw, who he’d found in the city of Greenville, about a two-hour drive from Raleigh. He was on a proactive information-gathering mission, spurred by Ben Jolley’s continued reports of Steven Thatcher asking questions. Lots of questions. To people who didn’t like him very much. Winters needed some insurance.
He sat in his car watching the white house with blue shutters. The mailbox was an enormous large-mouthed bass, its hinged mouth open, just waiting for the mailman. The name THATCHER was stenciled on the post along with the address. White curtains hung at the open windows, blowing a little in the mild March breeze. Three bicycles were lined up on the tidy front porch, one still with training wheels. He watched as the front door opened and an older lady walked out with a little redheaded boy. The boy strapped on a helmet and climbed on the bicycle with the training wheels. He looked over his shoulder and seeing Winters sitting in his car, waved cheerily.
Cute kid, Winters thought. Chatty, too. Special Agent Steven Thatcher should be home teaching his kid not to talk to strangers instead of digging up ancient history from old has-beens like Gabe Farrell and that poor bastard who was married to the sanctimonious Nurse Desmond. Yeah, little Nicky Thatcher was entirely too trusting. He watched the old woman and the little boy head down the street, little Nicky peddling furiously.
The boy was likely to get hurt someday.
He’d been very helpful, the little guy. Winters had been pretending to change his tire and Nicky hadn’t been able to resist his own curiosity. Told him his daddy sometimes changed tires, that his mommy had gone to live with the angels, that his daddy had gone on a fishing date with a beautiful queen. Winters hadn’t been able to interpret that last part. But then Nicky went on to tell him where he went to school, his teacher’s name and that he hated the broccoli the school served at lunch. So now Winters knew where he could find Thatcher’s most prized possession between the hours of eight and two, Monday through Friday. He tucked the information away, keeping it for the day Thatcher got a little too close. Tricky business, threatening cops. But, just like other people, all cops had their buttons. Winters specialized in finding the best buttons to push and the best time to push them. Thatcher’s button was a six-year-old, freckle-faced, redheaded boy named Nicky.
Ta-da.
Chapter Eleven
Chicago
Saturday, March 10
6 P.M.
He’d missed it. Max hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the bustle, the laughter, the sheer noisiness of it all. They’d gathered as the boisterous horde they were, Peter and his wife Sonya, Cathy and her husband, David, and Elizabeth. Ma was in heaven with her ten grandchildren surrounding her. The older boys had started a game of touch football out in the yard and Caroline’s son Tom was out there with them.
Caroline had fallen in with his sisters as though she’d known them for years. Cathy and the other women dragged her away before the first round of introductions was complete. “Guess you’re chopped liver,” Ma had commented with a chuckle. Cathy and Liz had barely kissed him hello, but that was okay. There would be plenty of time for renewal of those relationships.
He was home now.
He’d stayed on the first floor when the others had tramped down the stairs to the basement recreation room, needing a few moments to process the joyous welcome, to calm the rollercoaster of emotions that threatened to break his composure. He stood in his living room, basking in a glow that enveloped like a warm blanket. Conversation floated from downstairs where everyone gathered around a roaring fire. His brothers had ESPN turned up loud, but he could still hear Cathy trying to assemble a crowd for Pictionary. He raised a brow when David loudly claimed Caroline as his partner and decided his momentary respite was finished. David could get his own Pictionary partner. Caroline is mine, he thought.
Astonishment at the thought made him pause mid-step. Mine. It was primal, old-fashioned. Spontaneous. He wanted her to be his. Desperately. He was so tired of being alone.
His hand was on the railing, his foot on the top step when the sound of shattering glass pierced the air followed by hushed whispers. Muttering a mild curse, Max turned for the kitchen to investigate.
“Hurry!”
A childish voice whispered back, “I’m trying, Justin, I’m trying.”
“Hurry, Petey. We need to hurry before Uncle Max catches us.”
Max walked to the kitchen to find two of Peter’s sons clumsily sweeping the remains of a vase into a dustpan, flowers and water strewn around their feet. The older peeked up from his crouched position on the floor, his expression one of open dismay and, Max thought with a frown, maybe a little fear?
“Petey didn’t mean to break the vase, Uncle Max, really,” Justin said, trying unsuccessfully to clear the mess from the floor. At eight, his housekeeping skills left a lot to be desired.
It was fear. Four-year-old Petey was cowering against the cabinet, his eyes wide and terrified, clutc
hing a wilted flower in a chubby fist. Max lowered himself to one knee, using his cane for support, as dismayed as his nephews. “It’s okay, boys. Really.” He grabbed the dustpan. “I’ll hold; Justin, you sweep. It’s okay, Petey,” he repeated calmly, and watched both boys ease a little.
“Y-you’re n-not m-m-mad?” Petey whispered.
“No, Petey, of course not. It’s only old glass. Come here.” And he watched as the little boy inched closer, his little shoulders tensing again until Max pulled him close in a hug. “It’s no big deal. Just be careful not to walk around here without shoes until your brother and I clean up the mess.” Max held little Petey against his side, maneuvering the dustpan until all the glass was swept, then drew the little boy to stand before him. Even on one knee Max towered over the child.
“Petey,” he began, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Why were you afraid?”
“He was afraid you’d be mad, Uncle Max.” Justin toed the floor, his eyes on his feet.
“Why would he think that?” Max asked, his voice sharper than he’d intended and Petey took a step back. “I’m sorry, Petey. Why did you think I would be mad?”
Petey’s gaze dropped to the floor and Justin put a protective arm around his shoulders. “Because you’re ir-tible, Uncle Max,” Petey said, his voice very small, his body pressed up against his brother’s. “Like when I don’t have a nap.”
Irritable? A denial sprung to his lips, but died as Max looked at himself through the eyes of a four-year-old. The last twelve years of his life had been one long stretch of irritable. The childish word stung. Knowing it was true stung even worse.
“An’ …”
“Sshh, Petey.” Justin started to pull him away.
“No, Justin, it’s okay. Go ahead, Petey.”
“An’ you don’t like little boys.”
Max drew a breath, reeling from the childish honesty. In the few times he’d come home for holidays over the years, he must have seemed like a cross between Captain Ahab and Oscar the Grouch. Time to push the old Max aside.
“Well, Petey, I can see how you might have thought that.” He could see Justin’s eyes grow round and Petey peek up from beneath the red hair that fell over his little forehead. “I suppose I was grouchy and you maybe thought it was because I didn’t like little boys. But that wasn’t true.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope. The truth was I didn’t like myself.”
Petey chanced a full glance and Max made his mouth curve into a smile he didn’t feel.
“What did you do bad so you didn’t like yourself?” Justin asked, sucked in.
For a moment, Max was speechless, unable to pinpoint the answer himself. “I was mad because I had to walk with a cane,” he finally answered.
Petey nodded sagely. “And your shoulder must hurt, too.”
Max’s brows drew together in a mild frown. “Why would my shoulder hurt?”
“Daddy says you have a chip on your shoulder the size of a mountain.” He stared in curiosity, but saw nothing more than his uncle’s broad shoulder encased in a wool sweater. “Carrying it around must’ve hurt.”
Max pressed his fingers to his lips and rubbed the rueful smile from his mouth. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought. “It did, Petey. I’m glad it’s gone now. I really appreciate this welcome-home party. Thank you very much.”
“We didn’t do anything, Uncle Max,” Justin insisted. “Mom and Aunt Cathy did it.”
“But you did.” Max pulled Petey close and hugged him again. “You came to celebrate with me. And I appreciate it. I remember all the parties we had here when I was your age.” Max chuckled at Petey’s dubious expression. “Yes, I was once your age, believe it or not. We’d have cake and ice cream and scream at the top of our lungs.”
“With Grandma Hunter,” Justin said, his freckled face now sad.
“I don’t remember her,” Petey confessed.
“Well, I do,” Max said and tousled Petey’s red hair. He’d never believed his sister-in-law’s hair was naturally that red until Sonya and Peter reproduced it in every one of their six children. “My Grandma used to have a trunk full of toy soldiers up in the attic. Your dad and Uncle David and I played with them a lot, especially on days like this when it was too nasty to play outside.”
Petey’s lower lip trembled. “The big boys are playing outside. They won’t let us play.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Max told him, never taking his eyes from the child’s face. It was something small he remembered his own father doing. Undivided attention and unbroken eye contact even with the smallest child. It had made him feel like he was the smartest, most important boy in the world. Seeing Petey’s eyes warm, Max knew it still worked. “The big guys would probably knock you down and that would hurt. But I bet those toy soldiers are still in the attic. I can’t get up those stairs real well, but you two can.” They were already running for the attic. “They were in an old black trunk,” Max called after them, waiting until they were out of sight before struggling to his feet and emptying the dustpan.
“That was … nice, Max.”
Max didn’t turn around at the sound of Peter’s deep bass, even gruffer than normal. He hadn’t heard his brother approach, but it didn’t take a genius to know Peter had heard the whole conversation, had stood waiting to step in should his grouchy brother become “ir-tible” with his smallest children. “They’re good boys, Peter. You and Sonya have done a good job.”
They stood in awkward silence for a minute, Max staring at the vegetable wallpaper, Peter staring at Max’s rigid back. Finally Peter let out a huge sigh.
“I’d apologize for them, Max, but they were right. Could it be that ‘were’ is the operative word here?” he added, his voice roughening just a bit more.
Clearing the constriction from his throat, Max lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’d like to think I don’t scare small boys anymore.”
“Max.” Peter took the first step, lifting a tentative hand to Max’s back. “I didn’t believe David when he said you’d changed. But I want to.” He, too, cleared his throat. “I really want to. I want things to be the same as they were before …” Peter didn’t finish the sentence, but Max’s memory finished it for him. Before you killed Pop. It had been one hell of an argument, four years ago last Christmas. Peter’s previously unspoken accusation finally became spoken that night and it was the last time they’d exchanged any words at all. Until tonight. “I’m sorry, Max,” Peter whispered harshly. “I said things I shouldn’t have that night. Can we put it behind us and start again?” After a beat of silence, Peter removed his hand from Max’s shoulder. “Okay. Have it your way. At least I tried. For the record, I’m glad you’re home.”
Another long silence hung between them while Max struggled for his composure.
“Oh, to hell with it,” Max muttered and turned, his emotions naked on his face. “I’m glad I’m home, too. I missed this, all of you, and I was a stupid fool to stay away so long.”
A slow grin took Peter’s face, a look of pronounced relief in his eyes. “So now we kill the fatted calf, for the prodigal son has returned?”
Max’s lips twitched. “Well, not that prodigal.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He threw an arm around Max’s shoulders, six inches taller than his own. “After you tell me all about Denver and actresses and … secretaries.”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “David has a big mouth.”
Peter’s husky laugh vibrated as they started down the stairs. “And it’s been running on overdrive, little brother.”
“We’re tied.” Phil stood in the makeshift end zone, panting, his breath making huge clouds. He was the oldest cousin and had made himself the leader of the group. Tom didn’t really care; he was just grateful there were kids his age at this party his mom dragged him to. It was cold and wet outside, but for the moment he didn’t have to listen to his mom’s new boss. He grimaced. His mom’s new boyfriend. It would be too weird to even
think about his mom that way even if he liked Max Hunter. Which Tom did not. Seeing his grimace Phil yelled over, “You want to stop?”
“No way.” Tom leaned over, braced his gloved hands on jeans wet from tackling and tumbling in the slushy snow. “I want to win.”
“I’m cold,” Jason protested. He was a little younger than the others. “I’m going inside for some hot chocolate.” He tossed a snowball at his cousin’s shoulder. “You coming, Zach?”
Phil’s brother Zach looked to Jason, then back to Tom, torn. “Sorry, Tom. I’m going to quit while I still have feeling in my toes. Come on in. Aunt Cathy makes the best hot chocolate in the universe.”
“With those little marshmallows?” Tom tucked the football under his arm and began to walk back with the other boys, pleased at having discovered a hidden talent for tossing spirals. The boys had been duly impressed with his status of junior varsity starter on the basketball team, so he felt he’d had little to prove by winning at the expense of frostbite.
“And whipped cream.” Jason licked his lips, then immediately wiped them dry when the wind burned them.
“From scratch?” Tom asked.
“Nah,” said Phillip. “One of those cans.”
“My mom makes it from scratch.” And if a little pride stole into his voice, Tom could live with it. He understood how rare his mother truly was.
“From scratch? No way.” Phil approached the end of the driveway where a fifteen-foot pole stood alone, cemented into the ground. Pretending to dribble, he turned a fast circle, faked to the left and executed a perfect air dunk. “Y’think Uncle Max will ever put the backboard back up?”
“I don’t know,” Jason answered, studying the top of the pole thoughtfully. “My mom hopes so. She cried when she asked him to come home and he said yes.”
Intrigued, Tom eyed the pole as well. “Why did he take the backboard down?”
Phil stopped in his tracks. “You don’t know? Uncle Max was one of the best rookies the Lakers ever had. Went MVP at Kentucky, too.”