Suicide Season by Rex Burns Page A

and cornice and transformed the warehouse district into tiers of frosted cakes. And the bright glare of the March sun was warm enough to melt it quickly so it did not have time to be sullied by the city’s grime. Below, dark slashes already cut the street down to wet asphalt as the morning trucks lined up for delivery and pickup, and an occasional shaft of melting snow spiraled down from the sun-glowed facades across the street. The snows of spring were far different from those of autumn, more festive, shorter lived, bringing blessed moisture and the soft green of leaves and grass, and signaling an end to the bone-gnawing cold that made it a struggle to walk outside. It was a welcome change, too, from the dust and wind and gritty, noisy streets of Riyadh where Bunch and I had spent the last six weeks. Loomis had promised me that working for McAllister would be a fine opportunity, and ever since the Haas case, the luck of Kirk and Associates had changed for the better. Right now, in fact, Bunch was out following up an inquiry from a brokerage firm for a personnel screening. Whether or not the job came as a result of telephone calls to Owen McAllister—”Say, Owen, can you recommend a good firm in executive security”—the good luck was nonetheless tangibly related to our work for McAllister and we accepted it gratefully. Even Uncle Wyn, on one of his visits, had watched with some awe as the old scarred desk was hauled away and the new one with its richly stained wood was carefully set in place.
    “A new house for you—new furniture for the office. You’re making a real success, Dev. This Peeping Tom business, there must be some real money in it.”
    “Industrial security, Uncle. Executive protection, electronic defense perimeters, the security of classified and proprietary information. We don’t do very much peeping.”
    “Sure. Right. But it’s still good money. Tell you the truth, I never expected to be paid back.” He ran a finger along the edge of an oak bookcase that held shelves of legal and technological references. The finger had an awkward twist in it from being broken by a fastball in the minor leagues, one of a number of souvenirs from his years as a catcher. “Douglas would have been proud of you.”
    “If Dad had hung on for a little while, I could have helped him. Hell, I could have helped him then—so could you. All he had to do was ask.”
    “Don’t blame him, Devlin. Sometimes asking is the hardest of all. Besides, it was that professor—Loomis. He drove him to it.”
    “How?”
    “I don’t know how. I only know what I feel. I never liked that guy.”
    Liking had nothing to do with a bullet in the brain—so permanent a solution to such temporary problems. And it had nothing to do with bringing back my father or telling him the things I never got around to saying. And of course he would never share any of this, either, which drained something of my satisfaction and brought me even closer to understanding those moments of quiet sadness in his eyes that had punctuated my childhood.
    Through the busy rumble in the snowy world beyond the window, I heard the office door open and turned, expecting Bunch. But it wasn’t. Well-tailored, and well worth it, the woman smiled and there was something familiar about her black hair and especially the green eyes that studied me. “Mrs. Haas?”
    She held out a hand. “I’m flattered that you remember. Owen McAllister told me how to find you. I wasn’t certain it was you standing there. I’m afraid I was somewhat disoriented that night.”
    “Understandably. It was a tragic time.” A twinge of pain crossed those eyes and I changed the subject. “How are the children?”
    “They’re doing all right—as well as can be expected. Thank God, children are resilient.”
    “In time it will heal over,” I lied. She nodded and the brightness that had been with her suddenly dimmed as she remembered. I turned one of the chairs whose leather still had a