room.
Karen waited until she heard the sound of Allie’s bedroom door closing. “I can’t do this, Danny,” she said, her voice breaking as she began pacing across the room. “I just can’t take it anymore. You were sober for three solid months, and I was finally starting to feel hopeful … and then I come home to this!”
“Karen, I’m so sorry,” Danny said, standing and walking toward his wife. She put her hands up, gesturing for him to stop, and turned away from him.
She was sobbing now, and Danny reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She recoiled. “You should be sorry, Danny! But that’s not enough. We’ve talked about this before—the late nights, the nights you don’t come home at all, drinking until you can’t even talk, drinking until you pass out and can’t even remember where you were or what you were doing. I can’t live like this anymore, I just can’t! And now someone’s gotten hurt because of it, and there’ll be legal implications, not to mention the shame and humiliation!”
“You have every right to feel that way, Karen, and I’m truly sorry for what I’ve put you through. I don’t know what I can possibly do to make it right, but I’ll find a way.” Karen turned and looked directly at him. “There’s nothing you can do, Danny,” she said with quiet resignation, her voice steady now. “It’s too late.”
CHAPTER 8
V ic Slazak drove toward North Beverly at a leisurely pace, giving himself time to formulate a plan for each of the interviews he hoped to conduct that afternoon. As he cruised past the luxurious homes, some part of him felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t taken his father’s advice and gone to law school. Had he done so, he might be enjoying life in an affluent neighborhood like this one.
His father had spent forty years as a Chicago cop, and had made it abundantly clear that he was disappointed in his son’s career choice. He had insisted that his son was far too smart to settle for the meager pay and lifestyle offered by the Chicago PD, but Slazak hated school and hated the thought of spending his working days cooped up in an office. So he joined the police force, believing that working as a homicide detective would provide plenty of opportunity for him to use his wits. He had proven that to himself throughout his career; however, his hypercritical father would never believe that. As with most of the people in his past, Slazak’s relationship with his father had become permanently strained, and they seldom spoke anymore. When they did, the conversation was typically limited to brief exchanges about sports.
Slazak’s ruminations were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Officer Wilson, calling to pass along Blair Van Howe’s address. As luck would have it, Van Howe lived less than two blocks from Danny Moran, so he might be able to catch both of them on this trip. But first, he would drop in on the one person who might be in a position to actually remember something about the previous night’s accident: Ashley McGrath.
A frizzy-haired teenager with thick glasses and braces opened the door hesitantly in response to his loud knock. She looked nervously at the lean and wiry stranger with the intense dark eyes and greasy brown hair.
“Is Mrs. McGrath home?” Slazak inquired.
“No, she’s at the hospital,” the girl replied in a timid voice. “Who are you?” asked Slazak.
“I’m Tammy, the babysitter.”
Slazak pulled his badge and identification card from his pocket and showed it to the girl. “I’m a police officer, Tammy, and the person I really need to talk to is Ashley. Is she here?”
Tammy studied Slazak’s ID carefully. “Yeah, she’s in the backyard,” she said, after satisfying herself that his face matched the photograph on the ID. “You can come through this way.”
She guided Slazak through the house to a sliding glass door that led to a cedar deck and a large backyard that clearly belonged
Karen waited until she heard the sound of Allie’s bedroom door closing. “I can’t do this, Danny,” she said, her voice breaking as she began pacing across the room. “I just can’t take it anymore. You were sober for three solid months, and I was finally starting to feel hopeful … and then I come home to this!”
“Karen, I’m so sorry,” Danny said, standing and walking toward his wife. She put her hands up, gesturing for him to stop, and turned away from him.
She was sobbing now, and Danny reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. She recoiled. “You should be sorry, Danny! But that’s not enough. We’ve talked about this before—the late nights, the nights you don’t come home at all, drinking until you can’t even talk, drinking until you pass out and can’t even remember where you were or what you were doing. I can’t live like this anymore, I just can’t! And now someone’s gotten hurt because of it, and there’ll be legal implications, not to mention the shame and humiliation!”
“You have every right to feel that way, Karen, and I’m truly sorry for what I’ve put you through. I don’t know what I can possibly do to make it right, but I’ll find a way.” Karen turned and looked directly at him. “There’s nothing you can do, Danny,” she said with quiet resignation, her voice steady now. “It’s too late.”
CHAPTER 8
V ic Slazak drove toward North Beverly at a leisurely pace, giving himself time to formulate a plan for each of the interviews he hoped to conduct that afternoon. As he cruised past the luxurious homes, some part of him felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t taken his father’s advice and gone to law school. Had he done so, he might be enjoying life in an affluent neighborhood like this one.
His father had spent forty years as a Chicago cop, and had made it abundantly clear that he was disappointed in his son’s career choice. He had insisted that his son was far too smart to settle for the meager pay and lifestyle offered by the Chicago PD, but Slazak hated school and hated the thought of spending his working days cooped up in an office. So he joined the police force, believing that working as a homicide detective would provide plenty of opportunity for him to use his wits. He had proven that to himself throughout his career; however, his hypercritical father would never believe that. As with most of the people in his past, Slazak’s relationship with his father had become permanently strained, and they seldom spoke anymore. When they did, the conversation was typically limited to brief exchanges about sports.
Slazak’s ruminations were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Officer Wilson, calling to pass along Blair Van Howe’s address. As luck would have it, Van Howe lived less than two blocks from Danny Moran, so he might be able to catch both of them on this trip. But first, he would drop in on the one person who might be in a position to actually remember something about the previous night’s accident: Ashley McGrath.
A frizzy-haired teenager with thick glasses and braces opened the door hesitantly in response to his loud knock. She looked nervously at the lean and wiry stranger with the intense dark eyes and greasy brown hair.
“Is Mrs. McGrath home?” Slazak inquired.
“No, she’s at the hospital,” the girl replied in a timid voice. “Who are you?” asked Slazak.
“I’m Tammy, the babysitter.”
Slazak pulled his badge and identification card from his pocket and showed it to the girl. “I’m a police officer, Tammy, and the person I really need to talk to is Ashley. Is she here?”
Tammy studied Slazak’s ID carefully. “Yeah, she’s in the backyard,” she said, after satisfying herself that his face matched the photograph on the ID. “You can come through this way.”
She guided Slazak through the house to a sliding glass door that led to a cedar deck and a large backyard that clearly belonged
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