favor.
"When you deal drugs, you're coming in contact with
some brutal people." Understatement. "Ma'am, may I come in?"
"What?" She stared at him with dazed eyes.
"Oh. Yes. Of course. I'm sorry." She backed slowly inside the living
room of the small frame house, leaving him to open the screen door and follow.
When he did, she looked over her shoulder with apparent confusion, as if she'd
forgotten where she was or who ought to be here.
"Is your husband home?" John asked. When she
swayed, he reached for her elbow, expecting her to crumple.
Her worn brow crinkled. "I don't know where he
is." She raised a voice that quavered. "Ralph!" Both she and
John listened to the silence. "He was here a minute ago," she
fretted, completely focused on her husband's absence rather than her son's
death. Denial was something John knew well. "Ralph?" she called
again.
"Could he have stepped outside?"
"Oh!" Relief infused her voice. "I think he
did. Tomorrow is garbage day, you know. That's it. He was taking the garbage
out, he said."
"Why don't you sit down," he suggested, steering
her to the couch. "Let me get your husband."
"Oh, but…" She tried to rise again. "The
kitchen is such a mess! We haven't cleaned up from breakfast yet."
"Don't worry." He smiled reassurance. "I'm a
single father. You should see mine."
She sat again but quivered with worry as he cut through the
old-fashioned kitchen to the back door. It swung open before he reached it. A
heavyset, balding man entered, mind on other things until he saw John and came
to an abrupt stop.
"I'm Detective McLean," John said, holding out his
shield. "Port Dare P.D. Your wife let me in. Sorry to startle you."
Worry settled on him, stooping his shoulders. "It's
Ronnie again, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid your son has been killed, Mr. Floyd."
He caught the implication immediately. "How?"
John told him.
Mr. Floyd shook his head. "His mother has always
believed every word that boy said, but the last time he was here I knew he was
going right back to the low road. That was Ronnie—always spoiled. If he could get
it for nothing, that's what he wanted."
What child didn't? John thought. Wasn't it a parent's job to
teach the virtues of hard work and charity?
"He was our only boy. We have two girls. Good girls. They
both have families now. One works for the county assessor's office. I don't
know, maybe we're the ones who spoiled Ronnie. But that boy. He was in trouble
with the law by the time he was twelve. Shoplifting. It's just been one thing
after the other."
"Ralph?" From the living room came his wife's
shaky voice. "Ralph, are you talking to that policeman?"
Moving wearily, feet shuffling, Ralph Floyd passed John and
went to his wife. He sat beside her on the couch, patting her restless hands on
her lap, and they both gazed with deep sadness and anxiety at John, who sat in
an armchair facing them.
He explained again how Ronald Floyd had died. "I'm
hoping you can tell me something that might help find his killer," he
said. "Can you give me names of friends? Was he working? Do you have his
address?"
They did have that. His father gave the names of some
friends from high school but shook his head when pressed for others. "He'd
mention people in prison—Joe or Buzz Saw or some such nonsense, but I have no
idea whether they're still locked up or not. He wouldn't have brought a cell
mate home. He knew better than that."
"Job?"
"Ronnie was working at a marina," Mrs. Floyd said
timidly. "He was good with boats, you know."
Her husband nodded. "He always liked boats. He did say
he had a job. I think he was taking out those whale-watching trips."
John made a note.
"Was he angry about his arrest? Did he ever mention the
officer who arrested him?"
Both shook their heads. "He said somebody had set him
up, but a couple of years ago he mentioned that the fellow was dead. Said he
would have liked to have punched his nose, and he guessed he wouldn't get the
chance now."
"Did he give a
"When you deal drugs, you're coming in contact with
some brutal people." Understatement. "Ma'am, may I come in?"
"What?" She stared at him with dazed eyes.
"Oh. Yes. Of course. I'm sorry." She backed slowly inside the living
room of the small frame house, leaving him to open the screen door and follow.
When he did, she looked over her shoulder with apparent confusion, as if she'd
forgotten where she was or who ought to be here.
"Is your husband home?" John asked. When she
swayed, he reached for her elbow, expecting her to crumple.
Her worn brow crinkled. "I don't know where he
is." She raised a voice that quavered. "Ralph!" Both she and
John listened to the silence. "He was here a minute ago," she
fretted, completely focused on her husband's absence rather than her son's
death. Denial was something John knew well. "Ralph?" she called
again.
"Could he have stepped outside?"
"Oh!" Relief infused her voice. "I think he
did. Tomorrow is garbage day, you know. That's it. He was taking the garbage
out, he said."
"Why don't you sit down," he suggested, steering
her to the couch. "Let me get your husband."
"Oh, but…" She tried to rise again. "The
kitchen is such a mess! We haven't cleaned up from breakfast yet."
"Don't worry." He smiled reassurance. "I'm a
single father. You should see mine."
She sat again but quivered with worry as he cut through the
old-fashioned kitchen to the back door. It swung open before he reached it. A
heavyset, balding man entered, mind on other things until he saw John and came
to an abrupt stop.
"I'm Detective McLean," John said, holding out his
shield. "Port Dare P.D. Your wife let me in. Sorry to startle you."
Worry settled on him, stooping his shoulders. "It's
Ronnie again, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid your son has been killed, Mr. Floyd."
He caught the implication immediately. "How?"
John told him.
Mr. Floyd shook his head. "His mother has always
believed every word that boy said, but the last time he was here I knew he was
going right back to the low road. That was Ronnie—always spoiled. If he could get
it for nothing, that's what he wanted."
What child didn't? John thought. Wasn't it a parent's job to
teach the virtues of hard work and charity?
"He was our only boy. We have two girls. Good girls. They
both have families now. One works for the county assessor's office. I don't
know, maybe we're the ones who spoiled Ronnie. But that boy. He was in trouble
with the law by the time he was twelve. Shoplifting. It's just been one thing
after the other."
"Ralph?" From the living room came his wife's
shaky voice. "Ralph, are you talking to that policeman?"
Moving wearily, feet shuffling, Ralph Floyd passed John and
went to his wife. He sat beside her on the couch, patting her restless hands on
her lap, and they both gazed with deep sadness and anxiety at John, who sat in
an armchair facing them.
He explained again how Ronald Floyd had died. "I'm
hoping you can tell me something that might help find his killer," he
said. "Can you give me names of friends? Was he working? Do you have his
address?"
They did have that. His father gave the names of some
friends from high school but shook his head when pressed for others. "He'd
mention people in prison—Joe or Buzz Saw or some such nonsense, but I have no
idea whether they're still locked up or not. He wouldn't have brought a cell
mate home. He knew better than that."
"Job?"
"Ronnie was working at a marina," Mrs. Floyd said
timidly. "He was good with boats, you know."
Her husband nodded. "He always liked boats. He did say
he had a job. I think he was taking out those whale-watching trips."
John made a note.
"Was he angry about his arrest? Did he ever mention the
officer who arrested him?"
Both shook their heads. "He said somebody had set him
up, but a couple of years ago he mentioned that the fellow was dead. Said he
would have liked to have punched his nose, and he guessed he wouldn't get the
chance now."
"Did he give a
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