by Mica Stone
He’d changed his mind.
He didn’t want to share Miriam with the rest of the restaurant’s patrons. He was having an inexplicably hard time sharing her with the work. He was being stupid, but at least he recognized his faults for what they were. Once this case was put to bed, he’d have no reason to see her again. That had to be a good thing.
Closure. Finally.
“I was about to give up on myself,” she answered at last.
Thankfully, before he could embarrass himself by asking if she’d really been trapped at the office with the investigation, as her text had said, their server was at their table.
Miriam didn’t wait for the man to say more than “Buenas noches.”
“I’d like an elegante margarita, please,” she told him. “On the rocks. No salt. Large.”
“Sí, señorita.” Hands clasped behind his back, he nodded and smiled, turning to Augie. “And you, señor?”
“I’m fine with water,” he said, adding, “and we’re ready to order.”
Miriam frowned. “I just got here, you know.”
He shrugged. “You always get the same thing.”
She held his gaze while telling their server what she wanted. She chose exactly what Augie had expected her to.
She looked good tonight, not as harried as she sounded. Her hair was down rather than swinging in the tail she’d had it in earlier. And the circles beneath her eyes weren’t quite as dark as he’d assumed they might be with the day she’d had.
Maybe that was just the table’s lack of good lighting. Could be that was the whole point of eating in the dark. Pretending things weren’t what they were.
“Be glad I didn’t suggest we meet at the Paisley Cricket,” he said, shaking out his napkin over his thigh.
She stopped in the act of reaching for hers, her eyes going as still as the rest of her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shrugged. “I like their menu.”
She snorted at that. “That’s right. You weren’t there for the stoning.”
“I’ve seen the photos,” he said, knowing the pictures never fully depicted the reality of the scene. The smells were missing. The sounds. The burst of the camera flash. The click of Miriam’s pen.
“I’ve never eaten there,” she said, once her drink had been set in front of her. “And now I never will. Anyway, I thought maybe tonight we could forget about work.”
Though he hadn’t said that when he’d asked her to join him, and she hadn’t suggested it when she’d agreed. “If we don’t have work to talk about, we don’t have anything.”
He wasn’t sure why he was goading her. Unless it was that he didn’t want to get comfortable. He was already feeling a pull he was afraid would leave him torn once he returned to Saint Mark’s, and for the second time in his life, put the UPPD—and Miriam—behind him.
It took her a long moment to answer, emotions like a slide show in her eyes. “Is that really what you think?” she asked. “After all this time?”
He picked up his water glass. “What else did we ever have in common?”
It was all he got out before their server returned to let them know their meal would be right out, which was a good thing. The way his heart was racing was not. He’d write up a report for Chris Judah tonight, let the deputy chief tell Miriam he was finished and wouldn’t be back.
She leaned forward, her words delivered in a harsh whisper. “I’m not going to let you reduce those years we had together. We had a lot more in common than sex. You know that.”
Did he? “Such as?”
“Food, for one thing,” she said, reaching for her glass. “We agree that vegetables other than onions and olives do not belong on pizza. And that a burger isn’t a burger without bacon and cheese.”
He snorted and dug into the chips and salsa that had arrived with their drinks. “It’s a wonder we’re both not dead of a heart attack.”
“I have the cholesterol of a newborn,” she said.
Smiling, he asked, “You still doing yoga?”
“Not often enough. I’m getting stiff.” She rolled her head in a circle. “It hurts to get out of bed.”
“I’m surprised you spend time in one,” he said before he thought better of it. “I lost count of how often I found you crashed on your couch or my recliner when a case had you wired.”
She frowned, toying with the stem of her already-empty glass. The day must’ve been worse than he’d thought. “You know, I’ve been living with someone for a while.”
He nodded, his jaw tight. “The ER doctor from the night of the shooting.”
“You kept up?”
“I came by. Once.” He shrugged it off. “It was a couple of months after I left the department. I wanted to see how you were. I saw him.”
“You could’ve called,” she said, the words a pointed accusation, then sat back as their food arrived.
He waited until they were alone again before speaking. “I wanted to see how you were. And I did.”
She held his gaze a long moment, finally glancing down as she spread her napkin over her lap. “Rebounds. They never last.”
Her indifference fell flat. “But you still live with him.”
“You’re still keeping up?” When he dug into his enchiladas instead of answering, she went on. “Why do you care what I do, anyway?”
He was trying to convince himself that he didn’t. “I’m pretty sure you asked me if I was seeing anyone when you came to Saint Mark’s the other night.”
“Whatever,” she said, then cut through her chile relleno and changed the subject. “Have you ever regretted leaving the force? Or the change in vocations?”
“Not even once.” And that was the truth.
“I guess your dad’s a lot happier now,” she said, signaling to their server for another drink. “I know he wasn’t a fan of you being on the force.”
Happy had never been a word that fit his father. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’m sorry.” She frowned at her food as she said it. “I thought things would be better between the two of you by now.”
Sadly, things between the two of them were what they were. “Pretty sure that ship has sailed.”
“You can’t believe that,” she said, and looked up.
Her eyes saw too much and too clearly. They were a deep brown, bottomless. He’d fallen into them and drowned more times than he could count. He didn’t want to do that now, and shrugged. “I keep trying. He keeps making me wonder why.”
“Because it’s what you do. It’s what you’ve always done. That’s never going to change,” she said, back to attacking her food.
She was right about that. Trying was why he was here now.
“What about your folks? Bet they were glad to see the end of me.”
She finished chewing, then reached for her drink and said, “They were, but not because it was you.”
He didn’t believe her. “Oh?”
She nodded. “My mother thinks it’s bad enough that her youngest daughter’s a cop. Her youngest daughter who’s a cop dating a cop nearly gave her apoplexy. My dad’s a lot more logical. He wants me happy.”
He felt the jump of his pulse in his temple. “And I didn’t make you happy?”
“You did.” She followed the words with a sigh. “That’s what he didn’t understand.”
He fell quiet then, going through another bite of his enchilada as the ramifications of what she’d said had his chest tightening. “How are Esther and Erik?”
“Pretty much the same as they were the last time you asked,” she said, her tone as exasperated as it was impatient.
“No more kids?”
She smiled then, her expression softening. “Esther’s got another little girl, Lori. She just turned two.”
He remembered Miriam’s infatuation with a couple of her other nieces and nephews when they’d been that age, and smiled, too. “And you’ve had the time of your life playing auntie.”
“Yeah, but H
aven’s still my favorite.”
“He was the one who was born right before we”—well, crap—“broke up.”
“Broke up.” She repeated the words with a disgusted huff. “Is that what we did? Broke up?”
He hadn’t meant to bring it up, but now that he had . . . “What would you call it?”
“What it was. You walking out of the ER, handing in your gun and badge, and vanishing without a word.”
“It was an officer-involved shooting, Miriam.” Something she knew. “IA had to investigate. I was just making it easier for them.”
“And me?” she asked, the words sharp, her eyes cutting.
He looked down at his plate and shrugged, knowing she deserved better. Then and now. “Like I said before. The straw and the camel. But, yeah. I should’ve gotten in touch. Done things the right way. I just needed to settle things for myself first.”
“You left me hanging for days, Augie.”
“Days?” Was she kidding him? “You and the ER doc barely waited hours.”
“He saw what you weren’t there to.” She glanced around, leaning toward him and dropping her voice. “That I was fucked up. That I needed help.”
“Help?” He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Is that what he gave you?”
At that, she tossed her fork to the table. Once she’d wiped her mouth, her napkin followed. Then she got to her feet.
“Miriam, wait—”
“No. I’m done here.” She dug into her bag for a twenty, a ten, and a five, and placed the bills on the table, reaching for her glass and draining her drink. “You fixed your life by walking out on me. Let’s see if I can do the same for mine.”
He watched her head toward the front door, then closed his eyes for a moment, thinking it was for the best that she go. He shouldn’t have asked her to join him. She’d had a long day. He’d forgotten how ragged he felt after seeing violence, or the aftermath, firsthand.
Miriam wasn’t great at processing it, either. She internalized. She had this insane need to make sense of actions that by definition had none. It was a hopeless endeavor, but the drive made her a good investigator, as did her degree. She’d always been a better cop than he.
But he didn’t like her methods, so it was hard to admit they worked.
Hard to admit he’d been wrong. That he still was.
When the server came by to clear the table, he asked about Miriam’s plate. “Would you like me to box this up for you?”
Augie thought about the uneaten food being thrown away. He couldn’t deal with more waste. Not tonight. “That would be great, thanks.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.
“How is she today?”
Miriam asked the question of Dorothy Lacey’s nurse, José. He’d met her and Melvin in the lobby of Caring Hands and was walking them to see his patient.
It occurred to Miriam again how nice the center actually was. Not that she particularly wanted to end her days living in such a facility, but considering she was getting a little long in the tooth for having children and would have to rely on her nieces and nephews to keep her in tequila since neither her brother nor her sister would be able to afford her habit—
“She’s quite good today, actually,” José was saying, the swinging door whooshing shut behind them, the glare of the lobby diminished down the length of the corridor by softer lights. Oh, the lobby was attractive enough, and serviceable, but not terribly inviting. Or encouraging.
Miriam wondered why, but kept her observations private as José went on.
“A lot less belligerent than last week when you were here.” He added an apologetic laugh.
“That’s fairly normal with dementia patients, though, isn’t it?” she asked, recalling Melvin saying much the same.
“It is. It’s one of the things families find hard to deal with, that personality change in a loved one.” José gestured toward the common room, which opened immediately after the admin offices off the right of the hall. “We had a long conversation after breakfast today about the children she’d taken care of. She doesn’t understand why they’re all being killed.”
“Neither do we,” Melvin said, his tone of frustration echoing the anchorlike weight in Miriam’s chest. And then he added, “Yet,” which was so very Melvin and had her smiling.
“I told her that’s what you were working to figure out.” José led them across the big room filled with the chatter of residents involved in checkers and Monopoly and bridge. Two women sat in armchairs knitting, silently focused, leaving Miriam to wonder about the safety of needles in this sort of facility.
“She knows about Autumn, then?” Melvin asked.
“Oh, yeah,” José said, his half smile speaking to Dorothy’s interest in current events. “There’s nothing Miss Dottie likes more than her Fox News.”
And that’s where they found her, sitting in front of the TV, the volume almost too low to hear, though her frown said she was making a hell of an effort.
José dropped down in front of her, his hand on the arm of her wheelchair, as he asked, “Miss Dottie? Do you feel like talking to the police officers again?”
Without moving her gaze from the TV or looking at even one of her guests, Dorothy asked, “About Autumn?”
“Yes, ma’am. About Autumn.”
“I suppose I can do that,” she said, and José stood, moving to a nearby table and hopping onto the edge to sit.
Miriam grabbed a chair from beneath it and pulled it close to face the older woman. After last time, José staying nearby was probably a good thing. “Good morning, Mrs. Lacey. I apologize for interrupting you so early.”
“I’ve been up since five, Detective,” she said, though still without meeting Miriam’s gaze. “Nine is hardly early.”
Today she was dressed similarly to the last time Miriam had seen her. Her clothes were clean: her muumuu, this one purple and royal blue, her slippers, her socks. Her person was clean, too—her nails, her hair. Even without eye contact, Miriam sensed the other woman was aware of her surroundings.
Not wanting to waste any of that alertness, Miriam jumped right in. “This may seem like a strange question, but was Autumn in the habit of cursing?”
Dorothy tapped her fingers against the pillow in her lap, frowning as if the memory was unpleasant. “The girl had the foulest mouth I’ve ever heard.”
Good. That jibed with the bloody Scripture in the parking garage. And the requisite biblical punishment, though being sliced in half for using bad language seemed rather extreme. As if the killer was escalating for reasons having nothing to do with the fosters’ supposed crimes.
“Was this just as a teen, or—”
“Oh, no.” Dorothy shook her head in a way that said she was walking down memory lane in bright sunshine. “She came to me with that vocabulary. Obviously, she picked up the words from her parents because I did not allow that sort of language to be spoken in my home.”
“So, you punished her then. For the cursing.”
That was when Dorothy finally looked away from the TV, her gaze locking on Miriam’s in a way that was hard to process. Was she angry? Frustrated? Was she struggling for words?
“I did not spare the rod, if that’s what you’re asking. Neither did I reach for a switch on a whim.”
Miriam opened her notebook, more out of a need to feel grounded than anything. Something about this woman unnerved her. “You tried other things?”
“Of course I tried other things,” Dorothy snapped. “It’s what a parent does. Teach respect to earn respect.”
“But Autumn wouldn’t learn.”
“She had already learned.” The words were harsh, the tone of voice acidic. “She used those words to get attention. From me, from strangers, from people she knew. From those she knew she could hurt. She acted out because she needed to be noticed. She was almost nine years old when I got her. Do you know how much of who you will be is carved in stone by then?”
Miriam nodded.
She knew well. She saw the same in her nieces and nephews and wished her siblings good luck. She’d been set in her ways at about the same age. Augie, too, having taken his father’s treatment of his brother to heart, and determined to be as good.
She thought back to Friday’s conversation with Melvin. “Mrs. Lacey, do you happen to recall the names of friends Autumn or the others had? Close friends? Maybe a teacher?” Someone who might remember Darius and Corky and help me find them? “Or even kids who might have bullied them?” And held a grudge worth killing for all these years later?
“Why would you want to know those things?” Dorothy asked, her eyes mean and narrow. “Why would any of that matter now?”
Miriam opted for the truth. “We’re trying to locate Darius and Corky.”
Dorothy snorted, digging her fingers into her lap pillow. “I don’t know why. No one has ever cared about those kids except me.”
“Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt them?”
“You mean murder them?”
Miriam answered with a nod. It was a long shot of a question, but she wasn’t too proud to ask.
“No. I cannot,” Dorothy responded, as if putting the subject to bed.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Lacey,” Melvin said then, his hands laced between his knees. “Even though your children didn’t stay in touch, their deaths must be hard for you.”
Dorothy frowned at him, her demeanor growing distant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Edward visits every Sunday.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, glancing briefly at José, whose gaze was focused on Dorothy. “I was referring to Gina, and Franklin, and Autumn.”
“Those weren’t my children.” Dorothy’s left hand began shaking. She held it on her pillow with her right. “They were ungrateful sons of bitches who took advantage of me, and ran off my husband.”
Melvin went quiet. Miriam felt as if she’d been slammed in the solar plexus. She couldn’t catch her breath. Edward had led her to believe that neither he nor his mother had any idea what had become of his father.
“Is that what happened?” she asked. “Your husband left because of the children you fostered?”