see me.
Hockey . My aching body cringed at the thought. "Not right now, sweetie."
He shot me an outraged look. "Why not, Daddy?"
"Later." I headed toward the kitchen as fast as the old bod could carry me. If Gretzky started crying, my skull would crack into little tiny pieces.
I heard noises from the study and went in. Dave was with another cop, collecting prints from my desk. The purplish-gray powder they were using made me sneeze, which made my head feel even worse. Dave and his partner looked up. "Let me see your thumb," Dave said.
I held it up, and he examined it under the lamp and compared it to a thumbprint they'd taken off the top drawer. "Yup, it's a match," he said.
"You find any others?"
"Sure. Andrea's."
I watched for a while until it became apparent they weren't getting anywhere, then went to the kitchen. Andrea and Babe Ru th were in there reading a base ball book. I looked up at the clock: 10:35. "Hey, how come you guys are still at home?"
Babe Ruth ran and jumped into my arms, hugging me tight around the neck. It jarred my head painfully but I didn't complain. Babe Ruth isn't a kid who hugs too often, so when he does hug me, I treasure it.
Andrea kissed my forehead as her eyes searched mine. "We wanted to make sure you're okay. How are you feeling?"
"Nothing a cup of coffee and another hug wouldn't cure."
But the Sultan of Swat pulled away from me. Enough of this hugging stuff; now for the important business of the morning. "Daddy! Who won the Mets game?"
So we settled into our usual routine of checking the box scores and discussing the Mets bullpen. How had my son, at such a tender age, already turned into a guy who wasn't comfortable giving hugs, but would talk sports with you ad infinitum? Was it something I did? Something he pic ked up from watching men in gen eral? Or is there really something defective about that Y chromosome?
All of this speculating wasn't doing my head any good, especially with Gretzky running in an d de manding to know if it was "later" yet, because if it was, then we should be playing hockey already.
I reached out for the coffee that Andrea had placed on the table for me. And that's when I noticed, on the obituary page placed for some reason at the back of the sports section, the small item about Donald Penn. His viewing was scheduled at Otis Funeral Home from 10:00 to 11:00 this morning. "Damn," I said. I got out of my chair.
"What's wrong?" Andrea asked.
"I gotta hit the funeral home. The showing's almost over." I threw on my jacket.
"But you promised you'd play hockey with me!" Gretzky screamed.
"How about the Devil Rays?" Babe Ruth shouted. "Who won the Devil Rays game?"
"Honey, are you fe eling well enough to drive?" An drea asked.
"The Brewers, three to two," I told Babe Ruth, and headed out the door.
"Jacob, my grades are due today. When will you be back to take care of the kids?"
But I was gone. And so was my headache, driven off by adrenaline. Because I had a strong intuition.
A strong intuition that whoever cared enough about The Penn to break in to my house looking for his mas terpiece would also care enough about him to be at Otis Funeral Home, viewing his body.
By God, I was going to find out who had walloped me and terrorized my kid.
And I was going to make the bastard pay.
9
Well, I guess I should leave intuition to the feminine half of the species, because whoever had busted my head was definitely not at the funeral home. There were only two people there: Virgil Otis, who owned the joint and had to be there, and his nineteen-year-old daughter Molly. The father was too fat to have been my burglar, and the daughter was too short.
It was odd that we w ere the only people at the view ing. I mean, it seemed like the entire population of Saratoga Springs was intrigued by this guy, so how come nobody came?
Before I ventured into the room where Penn's body lay, I stopped and chatted with Virgil for a while. I knew him from befor e, had
Hockey . My aching body cringed at the thought. "Not right now, sweetie."
He shot me an outraged look. "Why not, Daddy?"
"Later." I headed toward the kitchen as fast as the old bod could carry me. If Gretzky started crying, my skull would crack into little tiny pieces.
I heard noises from the study and went in. Dave was with another cop, collecting prints from my desk. The purplish-gray powder they were using made me sneeze, which made my head feel even worse. Dave and his partner looked up. "Let me see your thumb," Dave said.
I held it up, and he examined it under the lamp and compared it to a thumbprint they'd taken off the top drawer. "Yup, it's a match," he said.
"You find any others?"
"Sure. Andrea's."
I watched for a while until it became apparent they weren't getting anywhere, then went to the kitchen. Andrea and Babe Ru th were in there reading a base ball book. I looked up at the clock: 10:35. "Hey, how come you guys are still at home?"
Babe Ruth ran and jumped into my arms, hugging me tight around the neck. It jarred my head painfully but I didn't complain. Babe Ruth isn't a kid who hugs too often, so when he does hug me, I treasure it.
Andrea kissed my forehead as her eyes searched mine. "We wanted to make sure you're okay. How are you feeling?"
"Nothing a cup of coffee and another hug wouldn't cure."
But the Sultan of Swat pulled away from me. Enough of this hugging stuff; now for the important business of the morning. "Daddy! Who won the Mets game?"
So we settled into our usual routine of checking the box scores and discussing the Mets bullpen. How had my son, at such a tender age, already turned into a guy who wasn't comfortable giving hugs, but would talk sports with you ad infinitum? Was it something I did? Something he pic ked up from watching men in gen eral? Or is there really something defective about that Y chromosome?
All of this speculating wasn't doing my head any good, especially with Gretzky running in an d de manding to know if it was "later" yet, because if it was, then we should be playing hockey already.
I reached out for the coffee that Andrea had placed on the table for me. And that's when I noticed, on the obituary page placed for some reason at the back of the sports section, the small item about Donald Penn. His viewing was scheduled at Otis Funeral Home from 10:00 to 11:00 this morning. "Damn," I said. I got out of my chair.
"What's wrong?" Andrea asked.
"I gotta hit the funeral home. The showing's almost over." I threw on my jacket.
"But you promised you'd play hockey with me!" Gretzky screamed.
"How about the Devil Rays?" Babe Ruth shouted. "Who won the Devil Rays game?"
"Honey, are you fe eling well enough to drive?" An drea asked.
"The Brewers, three to two," I told Babe Ruth, and headed out the door.
"Jacob, my grades are due today. When will you be back to take care of the kids?"
But I was gone. And so was my headache, driven off by adrenaline. Because I had a strong intuition.
A strong intuition that whoever cared enough about The Penn to break in to my house looking for his mas terpiece would also care enough about him to be at Otis Funeral Home, viewing his body.
By God, I was going to find out who had walloped me and terrorized my kid.
And I was going to make the bastard pay.
9
Well, I guess I should leave intuition to the feminine half of the species, because whoever had busted my head was definitely not at the funeral home. There were only two people there: Virgil Otis, who owned the joint and had to be there, and his nineteen-year-old daughter Molly. The father was too fat to have been my burglar, and the daughter was too short.
It was odd that we w ere the only people at the view ing. I mean, it seemed like the entire population of Saratoga Springs was intrigued by this guy, so how come nobody came?
Before I ventured into the room where Penn's body lay, I stopped and chatted with Virgil for a while. I knew him from befor e, had
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