was up there three nights a week, and on weekends. Maybe Jenny could tell him some stories about her kids. Give him a few pointers.
Peter left, and an awkward silence filled the air between them.
“Why do you do it, if you’re so sure they haven’t got a chance?” Jenny asked finally, leaning closer to see if it was all bullshit, or if there was something there.
“I’m an idealist. Screwed up, I know, but it’s the way I was born.”
She was more confused than ever.
That Saturday they met at the Y for the first of many three-point shooting contests. She kicked his butt, winning 10–4. In the three years since, he had never beaten her. He could, however, dunk with two hands.
The elevator door opened and Jenny stepped into the corridor. In the time it took to descend three stories, she had gotten herself sick with worry. Her born survivor should have checked in by now. She knew she’d be able to track him down at work, but she couldn’t wait that long. It was time to start checking hospitals.
8
Thomas Bolden sat studying the dregs of his coffee when the door to the interrogation room opened and a tall, bleary-eyed man walked in. “I’m Detective John Franciscus,” he said, a mug in one hand and a sheaf of files under his arm. “How ya doin’? Need some more coffee? Or is it tea?”
Bolden looked up. “What happened to Detective McDonough?”
“Little out of his league.” Franciscus pointed to the Styrofoam cup in front of Bolden. “You okay?”
Bolden crumpled the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Out of his league. How do you mean?”
“Quite a tale you spun. Robbery. Abduction at gunpoint. Assault. We’re talking three felonies right there. You’ve got a lot of us interested.” Franciscus pulled out his chair and froze halfway between standing and sitting. He was lean and rickety and on the wrong side of sixty, with lank gray hair that hung across his forehead and an alert, angular face. He wore a .38 snub nose strapped to his waist and a badge pinned to his belt to show that he knew how to use it. “Sure you don’t like the brew? I can run downstairs, get you a Coke, iced tea, whatever.”
Bolden shook his head. “What about the guy I brought in?” he asked. “Detective McDonough said you were running his prints. Any idea who he is? You check out the construction site yet?”
“Slow down a second,” said Franciscus, dropping into his chair. “I need a little time to get things all set up.” He arranged the folders on the desk. He unclipped his cell phone from his belt, checked that it was on, then set it down within arm’s reach. He dug into his breast pocket and fished out a pair of bifocals and set them down next to the phone.
“Construction site was a goose egg. Nobody there. Gates were locked.”
“Locked? No way! I drove a car through them two hours ago. Did you send someone up to look?”
“Like I said, the gates were locked. We saw no sign of intrusion. Tell you what, I’ll go by there in the morning . . . have a look around. That all right?”
“That’s fine.” Bolden eyed the clock and yawned. Four-thirty. Since arriving at the precinct house, he’d been fingerprinted, photographed, questioned, and kept isolated in an interrogation room. He’d given his name, social security number, address, home phone number, his work, cell, and BlackBerry numbers, too. He’d shown them the bruises on his back and sides. An officer had taken a look at his cheek and informed him that the grains of gunpowder had been blown so deep into the flesh that they would take months to work themselves clear. They wanted cooperation. He gave it to them in spades. Now he wanted a little cooperation himself. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Sure thing.” Franciscus tossed him the phone, low and fast. “You’re quick.”
“Reflex.”
“Like how you took down that bruiser?”
“Something like that.”
“Think you might have overreacted?”
“No,” said
Peter left, and an awkward silence filled the air between them.
“Why do you do it, if you’re so sure they haven’t got a chance?” Jenny asked finally, leaning closer to see if it was all bullshit, or if there was something there.
“I’m an idealist. Screwed up, I know, but it’s the way I was born.”
She was more confused than ever.
That Saturday they met at the Y for the first of many three-point shooting contests. She kicked his butt, winning 10–4. In the three years since, he had never beaten her. He could, however, dunk with two hands.
The elevator door opened and Jenny stepped into the corridor. In the time it took to descend three stories, she had gotten herself sick with worry. Her born survivor should have checked in by now. She knew she’d be able to track him down at work, but she couldn’t wait that long. It was time to start checking hospitals.
8
Thomas Bolden sat studying the dregs of his coffee when the door to the interrogation room opened and a tall, bleary-eyed man walked in. “I’m Detective John Franciscus,” he said, a mug in one hand and a sheaf of files under his arm. “How ya doin’? Need some more coffee? Or is it tea?”
Bolden looked up. “What happened to Detective McDonough?”
“Little out of his league.” Franciscus pointed to the Styrofoam cup in front of Bolden. “You okay?”
Bolden crumpled the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Out of his league. How do you mean?”
“Quite a tale you spun. Robbery. Abduction at gunpoint. Assault. We’re talking three felonies right there. You’ve got a lot of us interested.” Franciscus pulled out his chair and froze halfway between standing and sitting. He was lean and rickety and on the wrong side of sixty, with lank gray hair that hung across his forehead and an alert, angular face. He wore a .38 snub nose strapped to his waist and a badge pinned to his belt to show that he knew how to use it. “Sure you don’t like the brew? I can run downstairs, get you a Coke, iced tea, whatever.”
Bolden shook his head. “What about the guy I brought in?” he asked. “Detective McDonough said you were running his prints. Any idea who he is? You check out the construction site yet?”
“Slow down a second,” said Franciscus, dropping into his chair. “I need a little time to get things all set up.” He arranged the folders on the desk. He unclipped his cell phone from his belt, checked that it was on, then set it down within arm’s reach. He dug into his breast pocket and fished out a pair of bifocals and set them down next to the phone.
“Construction site was a goose egg. Nobody there. Gates were locked.”
“Locked? No way! I drove a car through them two hours ago. Did you send someone up to look?”
“Like I said, the gates were locked. We saw no sign of intrusion. Tell you what, I’ll go by there in the morning . . . have a look around. That all right?”
“That’s fine.” Bolden eyed the clock and yawned. Four-thirty. Since arriving at the precinct house, he’d been fingerprinted, photographed, questioned, and kept isolated in an interrogation room. He’d given his name, social security number, address, home phone number, his work, cell, and BlackBerry numbers, too. He’d shown them the bruises on his back and sides. An officer had taken a look at his cheek and informed him that the grains of gunpowder had been blown so deep into the flesh that they would take months to work themselves clear. They wanted cooperation. He gave it to them in spades. Now he wanted a little cooperation himself. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Sure thing.” Franciscus tossed him the phone, low and fast. “You’re quick.”
“Reflex.”
“Like how you took down that bruiser?”
“Something like that.”
“Think you might have overreacted?”
“No,” said
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