“Cordial.”
“People change, Jacob.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “They sure do.”
“I know you’re mad at me. You’ve always been mad at me for something. I wish you could please stop, just for a little while.”
“Do I look mad?”
“I always did the best I could, Jacob.”
Hatcher finished off his cup, set it on the tray. “What does Carl think of all this?”
“Carl? You know how he is. But he understands. He never spoke much to Garrett, but he was sorry to hear what happened.”
Yeah, sure he was, Hatcher thought. What a humanitarian.
Some things change, and some things don’t. She was acting like she didn’t know why he’d simply up and left after high school, but there was no way, he thought. Just no way. He didn’t really remember saying good-bye as much as merely leaving, taking a bus and a suitcase to a tiny college in another state, an undersized and relatively slow linebacker on a Division II scholarship. Her marrying Carl Woodard had been the final straw. Having that clown come in and “lay down the law” had disgusted him to the point of wanting to puke. Or make Carl puke. Blood. All those staredowns and arbitrary rules, those conversations Hatcher could hear where that fucking loser would talk about the “kid” needing to be put in his place. Carl had a stepson from a previous marriage, older than Hatcher, who’d been in and out of rehab and constantly doing time. Carl had cut ties with him after his divorce, but he was always telling Hatcher’s mother how Hatcher would turn out the same way if someone didn’t get tough with him, teach him to respect authority. Hatcher wondered if the asshole ever knew how close he’d come to getting the shit stomped out of him back then.
“What do you want from me, Mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“What am I doing here?”
“I thought you would want to come, because of your brother.”
Hatcher glanced over to the photos on the wall, nodded toward them. “A brother I didn’t know I had, that I never met. I haven’t spoken to you in a dozen years, and suddenly I’m summoned for a funeral. I’m sorry, it doesn’t add up.”
“I know. It’s all just so horrible.”
“That’s not what I mean. What I’m talking about is, what made you track me down? Go to the Red Cross? Why was it so important to have me here?”
“I . . . thought I might need some help with all the arrangements. Help dealing with things. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. It’s all so overwhelming.”
Hatcher tilted a finger in her direction. “You’re lying.”
“What kind of thing is that to say?”
“If the funeral is the day after tomorrow, you’ve already taken care of the arrangements. Now just tell me the truth.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re trying not to, but you’re not being candid. Picking and choosing your words. You’re hiding something. Believe me, I can tell.”
She poured some more coffee into her cup, steadying the back of her pouring hand with the fingers of her other. “Please, Jacob. This is difficult enough.”
“Okay, let me spell it out for you, and make it simple. I can tell by your nonverbals that you’re not telling me everything. I can tell by the way you move your eyes, the way you look up and away before you say certain things. I can tell by the way you’re holding that cup in front of you right now, like a shield. By the way you use your necklace as an excuse to hold your hand near your mouth. Don’t bother trying to convince me I’m wrong, because I’m not. Just tell me.”
“I don’t want you to think I don’t want you here, Jacob. I do. I’ve always thought of you. You’ve always been in my thoughts.”
Hatcher shot a glance at the ceiling as he took a breath. “What is it?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t tell you how much my heart jumped when I heard the door. When I talked to you on the phone.”
“Tell me.”
“It was something your brother said.”
He nodded impatiently, rolling his hand for her to keep going. “What?”
“A few days before he died, on the phone. He told me, almost like he was joking . . . He said if anything should happen to him, I should find you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Hatcher’s eyes drifted over to the framed photo of the man on the wall, that measured smile. “He probably just meant that you should find me because I’m your son, thinking it would be a good thing. Or maybe you misunderstood him.”
“No. We were talking on the phone, and I asked him how things were going, and he said fine, and then he grew quiet, and then he said if anything out of the ordinary should happen to him, that I should find you. I told him he was making me nervous, and he changed the subject, told me to forget about it, laughed a bit, like he wished he hadn’t said it.”
“Why would he say something like that?”
“I’m not sure. Not long after he contacted me, just after he started talking to me and your father, he became interested in you. Said he never had a real brother, just like you’ve been saying. A few weeks ago, he said he had located you, that you were on an assignment for the military, and wouldn’t be back until the summer. He told me you were in the army and had your unit information. He said in a few months, he’d get in touch with you, had me hoping maybe you’d want to come back and see me.”
Hatcher’s eyes roamed the room, skipping from flamingo to flamingo as he digested the information.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he tell you to find me if something happened to him? He didn’t know anything about me.”
“Jacob, I think he knew he was in danger, or might be. The police are saying it was some crazy person Garrett got tangled up with in the street, trying to help some woman who was being mugged, but I don’t think I believe them. When I remembered what he said . . . it was frightening. I think he knew someone might try to hurt him.”
“Even if that’s true, I don’t see where I fit in to any of this.”
“Garrett knew about you, Jacob. He was in the military, too, for a while. The air force. He said you were some kind of elite soldier. He spoke admiringly of you, said men like you made things better for everyone else. With your bravery.”
“What could he possibly know about me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe enough to trust that his brother would figure out what happened.”
Before he could respond, Hatcher heard the sound of a car door shutting from somewhere in front of the house.
“That’s Carl now. Please listen to me, Jacob,” Karen said, scooting forward to the edge of the cushion. “Your father isn’t well. Garrett told me he’s been suffering from diabetes for years. He could hardly walk. Garrett forced him into a hospital, insisted he go. In fact, I think Garrett may have been going to visit him when he was . . . when he died. He had just found a special diabetes center for him at a hospital in the city. It’s very bad. They may have to amputate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hatcher said, though he actually found it hard to feel anything specific.
“It would be nice if you could go see him. I think he and Garrett had grown close. I spoke to him on the phone right after I found out, then again yesterday. He’s not taking it well.”
“I haven’t seen him since I was eleven years old.”
“But it would mean so much to him.”
“Him? Or you?”
The door opened and Carl entered, pausing to wipe his shoes on the welcome mat. He was still short, with slicked down strands of thinning hair and a gut that hung out over his belt like he was trying to sneak a bowling ball in somewhere. He wore a tan shirt and tan slacks. A state highway department patch was sewn onto one of the sleeves. Some kind of civil service uniform.
“Dear, Jacob’s here! Isn’t it so nice to see him again?”
Carl grunted a greeting, shooting Hatcher an expression that was
part smile, part snarl. Hatcher stood, realized he’d actually been looking forward to this. A little bit, at least. It also gave him an excuse to cut things short and get out of there.
“Don’t you look all growed up,” Carl said, running his gaze from toe to crown. “Must be nice, sitting around all day, lifting weights, doing nothing.”
“Kind of like working for the state,” Hatcher said. “Except for the lifting weights part.”
“Still got a mouth on you, huh?”
“Oh, Carl,” Karen said, slapping his shoulder, an unconvincing look of scorn pinching her face. “Quit being such a grouch.”
“I’m just saying, is all.”
“That’s okay,” Hatcher said. “I was just about to leave anyway.”
“No!” Karen said, putting a hand on Hatcher’s arm. “I’ve been making dinner all afternoon. A pot roast. Please say you’ll stay.”
“The boy wants to go, Karen. Let ’im go.”
Hatcher held his stare, peering down into those eyes, remembering just how much he couldn’t stand living under the same roof with the man, how he marked the time until he would be able to leave and never come back. “On second thought, I think I will stay.”
“Oh, good,” Karen said. “And I hope not just for dinner. We have a second bedroom with a foldout bed.”
Hatcher smiled at Carl. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to do what you want, no matter what I think.”
“Oh, don’t mind him. We’re happy to have you.” Karen hugged him one more time, giving an extra squeeze at the end, then gave Carl a peck before heading to the kitchen. “You just relax. I’m going to check on dinner.”
Carl watched her leave the room. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said.
“I guess thinking isn’t your strong suit.”
“Don’t you go making things tougher on her than they already are, convict.”
“I don’t plan on making anything tough for anyone. Except for you, if you talk to me like that one more time.”
“This is my house. I can say anything I want.”
“You absolutely can. I’m just letting you know there’ll be consequences this time around.”
Carl glared fiercely into Hatcher’s eyes for a few seconds, then backed off a step. He reached into his pocket and removed a small flamingo figurine, a white one and a pink one sharing the same space, necks intertwined, and placed it on a table next to a few others, glancing over toward the kitchen as he did.
“Unlike you, I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset your mother,” he said.
Hatcher rolled his eyes. Puh-leeze. “In case you hadn’t noticed, being here wasn’t exactly my idea.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea, either. All the fault of that Garrett, went and got himself killed.”
Hatcher shot a look over his shoulder, lowered his voice a notch. “Since you brought it up, maybe you could quit being a jerk for a few seconds and tell me what you knew about him.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Not much. Only that I didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.”
“Why was that?”
Carl ran his eyes down Hatcher’s shirt and then back up, a disgusted grimace contorting his mouth and brow. “Because he reminded me too much of you.”
Hatcher’s mother came out of the kitchen and announced that dinner was ready. She was only a few steps past the dining area when she paused and tilted her head, lips quavering, hands on her hips, eyes on her new figurine.
“It’s beautiful!” she said, rushing to give Carl a hug. “Where would I be without you?”
CHAPTER 4
THE AIR INSIDE THE THIRTEENTH PRECINCT WAS LIKE A body of stagnant water, smelly and unmoving. There was something institutional about the odor, the subtle, faded layers of collected fumes, the chemical scent of paints and cleaning solvents that combined with the stale reek of accumulated perspiration and the captured breaths of the taxed and the governed. It almost made Hatcher feel at home.
A clock on the wall in a painted wire cage showed just shy of twenty past ten. Mid-morning, and the station house was active but languid, a steady current of people coming and going, announcing their presence for appointments, holding up citations and asking questions through bulletproof glass. Uniformed and plainclothed escorts periodically emerged to lead individuals past security doors with metal detectors. A few minutes earlier, a man with wild, matted hair and a long beard in a camouflage military jacket was marched through the waiting area in cuffs and vomited near the wall as they reached one of the doors. The rank stink of bile was soon masked by another layer of chemical smell, this one perfumed with pine.
Hatcher had been waiting for over thirty minutes in a cracked plastic chair that dug into his back when he slouched. The chair was attached to a metal frame bolted to a concrete wall. There was an identical row across from him, plastic over tubular chrome set in concrete with seats on both sides. There was another set of seats beyond it, both populated with a similar assortment of the beleaguered. It was hard not to look at the people in front of him, a tired black man scanning the floor, occasionally nodding in response to his girlfriend or wife, a woman who was twice his size giving the guy a shrill ass-chewing in a mercifully low voice. Two seats over, a Latino with tattooed knuckles in an oily wife-beater and baggy jeans bounced his knees and rubbed the top of his thighs. An older couple, the man short and the woman pear-shaped, huddled at the end of the row with the quiet demeanor of the foreign-born. Hatcher was accustomed to being made to wait, but this was different. After more than a week of Tyler Culp, it seemed strange to sit somewhere for so long without craving sleep, alone in a crowd with his thoughts and nothing to do with his hands. But he’d already slept more than he had in longer than he could remember, and his brain was humming with the buzz of morning coffee. He was starting to feel antsy.
The discomfort in his back finally made him stand, and he debated whether to come back later. He told himself he was merely stalling anyway, using the police as an excuse to delay going to the hospital, but he realized he really did want some answers. His conversation with his mother had only raised more questions, questions that had followed him into his dreams, burrowing around his mind while he slept. He couldn’t remember what he dreamt, but that didn’t stop whatever it was from shadowing him into the waking world, nagging and tugging at his thoughts.
A woman in a charcoal gray business skirt and ivory blouse with a badge hanging by a lanyard around her neck caught his eye as he stretched. Slender but shapely, blonde, leaning into the room from behind a sturdy door near the bulletproof windows. Her scan of the area quickly narrowed as she seemed to home in on him, singling him out among the two black youths, a Latina woman, and a guy with multitoned hair that shared his row of seats. She was looking right at him when she called out his name, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Hatcher crossed the room toward her. “I’m Jacob Hatcher, yes.”
She held out a hand for him to take, fingers straight, like a karate chop, and gave him a firm, terse shake. “I’m Detective Wright. This way please.”
Hatcher followed her back into the station where a uniformed officer behind the glass buzzed the door open for them. On the other side of it she stopped at a counter where another cop in uniform asked him for his driver’s license through a hole in a window.
Hatcher pulled out his wallet, removed his license.
“This is expired,” the cop said.
“That’s all I have. I haven’t driven in a while.”
“Then I’ll need some other form of ID.”
“I don’t have any on me.” It was a lie, but the way he saw it, the truth didn’t exactly work for him. He doubted he’d get much cooperation if he pulled out what they’d given him at the RCF. “It’s not like I turned into someone else.”
The cop glanced at the detective. She squeezed her lips tight, gave a sideways look at Hatcher. “It’s okay. He’s r
elated to a homicide victim. I’m taking him back.”
The officer squirmed a bit, then slid a clipboard over. The detective filled out a few of the blocks, passed it to Hatcher for his signature. The cop behind the counter typed out his name into a keyboard, then printed out a visitor’s sticker with the NYPD logo and a blank for his name and the date on it to wear on his shirt.
“Thanks,” Hatcher said as she escorted him away from the counter.
“That’s okay. I know you had to wait a long time. Things are kinda crazy right now.”
“Why’s that?”
She gave a quick shake to her head. “Nothing I can really comment about.”
Hatcher noted she had a distinctive voice. Raspy and melodic. A bit breathy. The kind of voice that could make the most innocent comment sound suggestive. He’d noticed it on the phone, but assumed it was the ten months he’d just spent in prison that made it sound so sexy. Now he was starting to think he could have spent ten months in a brothel and it would still sound good.
“This way,” she said.
Hatcher followed her across an artificial hall created by six-foot partitions of more bulletproof Plexiglas, uniformed officers manning stations and radio equipment in fortified see-through cubicles. The glass ended where the hall intersected another corridor, and as they crossed it they stopped to allow a threesome to pass. Two were obviously plainclothes cops in rolled-up shirtsleeves. Bulky builds, thinning locks, loosened ties. They were shadowing a short, bookish man in a dark suit with limp hair combed flat and gold-rimmed glasses. All three had just emerged from behind a closed door. The cops did not look happy. Hatcher could hear the man with the glasses explaining how he had no choice regarding some matter, managing to sound both apologetic and irritated at the same time. Another man stepped out of the room a few steps behind them. He was tall with meticulously coiffed salt-and-pepper hair and wore a much more expensive suit than the man with the glasses. It hung perfectly off his shoulders, ventless and smooth, the cuffs of his pants resting gently on the tassels of his cordovan loafers. Custom-made, Hatcher supposed. He was carrying a chocolate brown briefcase that looked like it cost more than the two cops probably made in a week. The man’s presence seemed disruptive in the hall, his appearance causing a few other cops to stop or slow down, everyone paying sudden attention to the goings-on. Hatcher figured there had to be more to it than the man’s flash.
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