Redemption Road: A Novel by John Hart Page B

cabinet doors and dishes clanking, then put both hands on the sink and looked in the mirror. Dyer was right about the weight. She stood five-eight and normally carried enough lean muscle to do the job efficiently and well. Good shoulders. Strong arms. But she looked waifish now, the cheekbones more prominent, the eyes larger and deeper, their irises pale green. Stripping off the robe, she tried to imagine what someone like Carol Beckett saw. The hair was brown and short over a small nose and narrow chin. The skin was pale but clear, the face proportional in all the right ways. Elizabeth knew she was pretty, but a white scar ran across her stomach where a junkie with a knife had cut her from rib to hip bone, and a rough patch discolored her shoulder where she’d gone down on hard concrete. Men seemed to like her, but she didn’t kid herself about the deeper truths. She’d broken an arm and four ribs, torn skin going over fences, and been thrown through two different windows. Thirteen years on the force, she thought. And what am I? It was not a light question. She’d had five serious relationships, and all were dead ends. She was a preacher’s daughter and a college dropout, a drinker, a smoker, and a fallen cop. She was under investigation for the deaths of two men and felt no remorse at all. Would she change anything if she could?
    Maybe, she thought.
    Probably not.
    There were reasons for everything. Why she hated her father. Why she’d become a cop, and why relationships were hard. She could say the same thing about the basement and the shooting and Adrian Wall. Consequence mattered, but so did the reasons.
    Sometimes the reasons mattered more.
    When she came out of the bathroom, she was clean and damp and dressed as conservatively as she could manage, which meant jeans and boots and a linen shirt. Maybe the jeans rode low on her hips, and maybe the shirt was a bit too tailored for someone like Carol. Elizabeth tried to make light of the whole thing. “Is this better?”
    “Much.”
    Elizabeth saw the Julia Strange murder file on the coffee table and scooped it up. “Don’t you have a wedding or something?”
    “Oh, you sweet girl. Not for another hour, and this won’t take nearly that long.”
    “Are you sure?”
    She said it hopefully, but Carol dragged a chair onto the kitchen floor and patted it with one hand. So, Elizabeth sat and allowed her hair to be cut and sprayed and blown. They spoke of little things, but mostly of Carol’s husband. “He loves being your partner.” Carol stepped back, made a small movement with a brush. “He says watching you work is a beautiful thing.”
    “Yeah, well…”
    “Does he talk about me? When you’re in the car, I mean, or on a case. Does he talk about me or the kids?”
    “Every day,” Elizabeth said. “He plays it like everything else—gruff and close—but there’s no mistaking how he feels. Proud of his kids. Loves his wife. The two of you give me hope.”
    Carol beamed, and a little more energy found its way into her brushstrokes.
    “Are you about finished?”
    Carol gave Elizabeth a hand mirror. “Take a look.”
    The hair was brown and bobbed and smooth. It was a little more sprayed than she liked, a little too styled. She handed the mirror back and stood. “Thank you, Carol.”
    “It’s what I do.” Carol patted her blue case and was halfway down the stairs when her cell phone rang. “Oh. Would you hold this?” She pushed the case at Elizabeth and pulled a phone from her front pocket. Still on the steps, she said, “Hello.” A pause. “Oh, hi, sweetheart.… What?… Yes, I am.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Of course. Yes. We’re at her house.” She pressed the phone against a heavy breast and spoke to Elizabeth. “Charlie. He wants to talk to you.”
    Carol handed over the phone and Elizabeth looked at the street beyond Carol’s broad, powdered face. “What’s up, Beckett?”
    “Your phone is off the hook.”
    “I