The press outside could not monitor its scrambled
frequencies. He wanted a moment alone and went to the kitchen. He noticed its
black-and-white-tile floor, skylights, lace curtained windows, French doors led
to the patio and backyard. The table looked like maple. On the refrigerator
door, at eye level, was a newspaper clipping with tips on quake readiness. What
about kidnappings? Below it, tiny Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse magnets held up
a colorful finger painting with a “D” scrawled at the bottom. There was a
Smurf’s calendar next to it. Danny’s doctor’s appointment was next Friday at
two.
Sydowski called his old man’s unit at Sea Breeze in Pacifica.
“Hahllow.”
“Hey, Dad. You got home okay?” Sydowski said in Polish.
“Oh sure, no problems. Sixty dollars for the cab. Do you believe
that? I remember when you could buy a house for that.”
“So, who won the game?”
“A’s, ten to eight.”
“It got interesting after I left?”
“You going to be working all night on this. I saw it on the TV. It’s
pretty bad. It breaks my heart.”
“The ones with kids always break my heart, Dad.”
“Why do people do this? What does it prove? It’s crazy. Crazy.
Better to shoot the sonofabitch.”
“Listen, I’m going to be working hard time on this one, but I’ll
come down and see you when I can.”
“Sure, sure.”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I got to cut hair for John. Remember Big John?”
“The retired bus driver.”
“Yeah, I’m to give him a haircut.”
“Good. Well, I got to get back to work, Dad.”
“Sure. You better catch the sonofabitch. Shoot him.”
“I’m doing my best, Dad. Good night.”
Sydowski was tired. He poured coffee and took a bite of a pastrami
on rye, delivered by a deli. Turgeon entered.
“So, you killed a man., did you? Who handled the file, Ditmire?” She
sat down next to him. “Going to tell me about it?”
“Maybe.”
She smiled, took some coffee, brushing back the hair that had
curtained over one eye. She was pretty. Reminded him of his daughters. His
heart swirled with warm, then sad thoughts.
“I’m sorry, I never knew your dad.”
“It was a long time ago, too. Look”—Turgeon shifted topics—“I’d like
to go to the hall tonight and read the Donner file.”
“Forget Lonnie. I’ll bring you up to speed. It’ll be a long night.”
“Fine, but while we’re speaking of Ditmire. I appreciate your help,
Inspector, but you don’t have to protect me.”
A scolding. He bit into his sandwich.
Dad, please. You’re suffocating me with your loving concern. His
oldest daughter would chide him whenever he offered misgivings on her dates.
Sydowski understood.
“And,” Turgeon said, “for the record, I asked to be teamed with you.
Insisted, actually.”
“Let’s hope you won’t regret it. Getting what you want can sometimes
be terrible.” Sydowski finished his sandwich and coffee. “I need some air. Tell
the Hoover boys I’ll be outside with this.” He left with the cellular phone.
Strolling through the backyard to the park helped Sydowski think.
The cool night air invigorated him. At the edge of the pond, he watched the
swans sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings.
It could be the same guy who murdered Tanita Marie Donner. Catch
this guy and you could clear both. That was the department thinking. Results were
expected fast before it got out of hand.
Sydowski picked up two round pebbles, and shook them like dice. It
was just a little too pat. Could’ve been planned to appear like the first one.
Could be coincidence. He looked up at the darkened windows of Maggie Becker’s
studio.
Sydowski threw the pebbles into the pond, startling the swans.
EIGHT
“I visited my baby’s
grave this morning.” Angela Donner felt the eyes of her weekly bereavement
group upon her. It was always hard when her turn came.
Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed or afraid. We’re here together. That
was the
frequencies. He wanted a moment alone and went to the kitchen. He noticed its
black-and-white-tile floor, skylights, lace curtained windows, French doors led
to the patio and backyard. The table looked like maple. On the refrigerator
door, at eye level, was a newspaper clipping with tips on quake readiness. What
about kidnappings? Below it, tiny Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse magnets held up
a colorful finger painting with a “D” scrawled at the bottom. There was a
Smurf’s calendar next to it. Danny’s doctor’s appointment was next Friday at
two.
Sydowski called his old man’s unit at Sea Breeze in Pacifica.
“Hahllow.”
“Hey, Dad. You got home okay?” Sydowski said in Polish.
“Oh sure, no problems. Sixty dollars for the cab. Do you believe
that? I remember when you could buy a house for that.”
“So, who won the game?”
“A’s, ten to eight.”
“It got interesting after I left?”
“You going to be working all night on this. I saw it on the TV. It’s
pretty bad. It breaks my heart.”
“The ones with kids always break my heart, Dad.”
“Why do people do this? What does it prove? It’s crazy. Crazy.
Better to shoot the sonofabitch.”
“Listen, I’m going to be working hard time on this one, but I’ll
come down and see you when I can.”
“Sure, sure.”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I got to cut hair for John. Remember Big John?”
“The retired bus driver.”
“Yeah, I’m to give him a haircut.”
“Good. Well, I got to get back to work, Dad.”
“Sure. You better catch the sonofabitch. Shoot him.”
“I’m doing my best, Dad. Good night.”
Sydowski was tired. He poured coffee and took a bite of a pastrami
on rye, delivered by a deli. Turgeon entered.
“So, you killed a man., did you? Who handled the file, Ditmire?” She
sat down next to him. “Going to tell me about it?”
“Maybe.”
She smiled, took some coffee, brushing back the hair that had
curtained over one eye. She was pretty. Reminded him of his daughters. His
heart swirled with warm, then sad thoughts.
“I’m sorry, I never knew your dad.”
“It was a long time ago, too. Look”—Turgeon shifted topics—“I’d like
to go to the hall tonight and read the Donner file.”
“Forget Lonnie. I’ll bring you up to speed. It’ll be a long night.”
“Fine, but while we’re speaking of Ditmire. I appreciate your help,
Inspector, but you don’t have to protect me.”
A scolding. He bit into his sandwich.
Dad, please. You’re suffocating me with your loving concern. His
oldest daughter would chide him whenever he offered misgivings on her dates.
Sydowski understood.
“And,” Turgeon said, “for the record, I asked to be teamed with you.
Insisted, actually.”
“Let’s hope you won’t regret it. Getting what you want can sometimes
be terrible.” Sydowski finished his sandwich and coffee. “I need some air. Tell
the Hoover boys I’ll be outside with this.” He left with the cellular phone.
Strolling through the backyard to the park helped Sydowski think.
The cool night air invigorated him. At the edge of the pond, he watched the
swans sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings.
It could be the same guy who murdered Tanita Marie Donner. Catch
this guy and you could clear both. That was the department thinking. Results were
expected fast before it got out of hand.
Sydowski picked up two round pebbles, and shook them like dice. It
was just a little too pat. Could’ve been planned to appear like the first one.
Could be coincidence. He looked up at the darkened windows of Maggie Becker’s
studio.
Sydowski threw the pebbles into the pond, startling the swans.
EIGHT
“I visited my baby’s
grave this morning.” Angela Donner felt the eyes of her weekly bereavement
group upon her. It was always hard when her turn came.
Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed or afraid. We’re here together. That
was the
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