Hades by Russell Andrews Page A

see the body . . . couldn’t that have waited? Until he’d been cleaned up, I mean. Did she have to see him like that?”
    Justin scratched under his chin, felt the stubble that had grown back since he’d last shaved. “No,” he said. “She didn’t have to see him like that. It could have waited.”
    Still speaking just a shade above a whisper, Gary said, “Then . . .
Jesus . . . why’d you make her do it?”
    “Because I needed to see how she’d react.”
    “You think she killed him?”
    “No. But she might’ve. So I wanted to watch her when she saw the body, see if she was calm or surprised or sickened.”
    The two men faced each other. Gary nodded his understanding. Justin turned to return to the living room, but Gary reached out and grabbed his arm.
    “It was kind of a cruel thing to do, what you did.” It wasn’t a statement, more like half a question. The younger cop knew the answer but wanted to hear it said.
    “I thought it was necessary,” Justin told him.
    “And you like her, don’t you? I mean, you—you know . . .”
    “Yes, I know. And, yes, I like her. I like her very much.”
    Gary didn’t say anything else, but Justin knew he wasn’t quite through. There was still another question hanging in the air and Justin decided to deal with it before it could even be asked.
    “You want to know what I think my job is?” Justin asked. “And your job? What a cop’s job is?”
    Gary didn’t even nod this time, but his eyes answered yes.
    “It’s to find out what happened,” Justin said. “That’s all. Everything else after that—justice, lack of justice, punishment, revenge, everything else—all depends on us doing our job, finding out what happened, finding out the truth. Without that there’s nothing.”
    “But—”
    “There’s no but. There’s only the truth.”
    “And once we know the truth?”
    “Then we’re on our own. Then it’s every man for himself.”
    “I understand.”
    “Do you?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Then you want to ask the question you really want to ask?”
    “What’s that?”
    “If I could do something that cruel to someone I like, what could I do to someone I don’t care about? Is that your real question?”
    “Yeah. More or less.”
    “You want me to answer it?”
    “No,” Gary said. “I don’t think so.”
    “Good,” Justin said. “Make sure that skinny little creep gets put to bed and get him to the station by nine tomorrow.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’ll see you in the morning,” Justin said.
    And with nothing else to say, he took Abigail Harmon out to his car and drove her back to his house. As he made his way around the circular driveway, he saw her peering out the window at a black Lexus.
    “Evan’s car?” he asked. When she nodded he said, “His only one?” And she nodded again.
    He didn’t say anything else to her during the ride, let her fall asleep in the silence, her head resting on his shoulder as he drove. The only thing he made sure to do was not look in the rearview mirror. He didn’t want to see his own eyes. Not because of the Bobby Short song. Not because there was a party going on inside his head. It was because of something else someone once said: that the eyes were the mirror to the soul.
    If that was true, that was the one place he definitely did not want to peer at.

5
    One more vodka and an Ambien—no self-respecting wealthy Hamptons woman was without a supply handy at all times—and Abigail was sound asleep in Justin’s bed twenty minutes after they got back to his house on Division Street. He helped her get undressed, made sure she was securely between his almost clean sheets, and gently pulled his light wool summer blanket up to cover her. He leaned over and, although she didn’t feel a thing, he kissed her gently on the top of her head. As he went downstairs, the sweet smell of her shampoo filled his nostrils. He quickly shook it away. He didn’t need any distractions now.
    Downstairs, he