Little Girls(53)

And then there she was—Susan Leah Genarro. Laurie became a mother not in learned and practiced increments, but instantly and all at once. Maybe that was how it was done. And she found that she had been good at it, and that she loved her little girl, and maybe she wouldn’t turn out to be a failure as a mother after all. Maybe she could, in fact, keep her daughter safeguarded against the evils of the world....

As she watched Ted and Susan disappear over the fence into the Rosewoods’ yard, she felt that old familiar fear begin to tremble at the core of her being. It was no different than watching her daughter slip away into that crowd of children on the first day of preschool, just another face blending among the crowd. The fear had been gone so long its sudden presence now—albeit a faint presence—was nearly alien. Yet she recognized it, and the recognition chilled her.

Before she could turn from the window, she saw a dark brown sedan pull up the driveway. Its windshield was cracked and there was an ugly ding in the hood. When a tall man in a dark suit and necktie got out, she went to the front door and opened it.

“Hiya,” the man said amiably enough. His smile was genuine and pleasant—cheerful, almost—and he walked with the casual swagger reminiscent of John Wayne Westerns. He carried with him a nylon case that might have held a laptop computer.

Cop, Laurie thought.

The man climbed the porch steps and extended a smooth, clean palm. The smile never faltered. “Mrs. Genarro?”

“Yes.” Laurie shook his hand.

“I’m Detective Brian Freeling.” A badge and credentials made a brief appearance before disappearing back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Detective Freeling looked to be in his mid-forties, though the only reason Laurie estimated him that old was because his sensibly cut dark hair had started to gray at the temples. Otherwise, his features were youthful and there was a roguish handsomeness to him. He gave off a relaxed air that might have put most people at ease but only seemed to heighten Laurie’s apprehension. “This is completely embarrassing, but I feel I owe you an apology.”

“A—what?” She thought she had misheard him.

“There was some miscommunication at the office. I was under the impression that fingerprints had been taken when in fact they weren’t, and now I’m tasked with showing up here looking like a . . . well, a fool, Mrs. Genarro.” As if the mention of her name triggered some memory inside him, Detective Freeling’s cool, unperturbed countenance switched instantly to one of vexation. “Christ, how callous. I’m standing here blabbing and—” He cut himself off, then extended his hand to her again.

With a bit more trepidation than she had felt the first time, Laurie shook it once more.

“My condolences about your father,” he said. His voice had dropped nearly a full octave, rising up from deeper in his chest now.

“Thank you. Did you want to come inside?”

“If it’s no trouble, ma’am.”

She widened the door and he passed through it, the John Wayne swagger now somewhat diminished. A quick appraisal of the house was followed by a muted whistle.

“Nice place,” he said.

“I grew up here.”

“Did you? How nice.”

“What was it that you said you needed, detective? Something about fingerprints?”

He folded one arm beneath the other, and Laurie could see the bulge of his pistol beneath the fabric of his suit jacket. “The guys were supposed to get fingerprints of the room upstairs. I thought they’d done it, but they hadn’t. Now I’m late to the party.” The sigh he unleashed made him sound infernally bored. “It’s probably a moot point by now, but I should still see what’s there.”

“Fingerprints from the room upstairs? The room where my father . . .”

“Yes, ma’am. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all. I’ll take you up, but I need to get the key first.”

His smile widened. “Of course,” he said, as if he knew what the key was for. Perhaps he did.

She returned thirty seconds later and led him upstairs. While he knelt on the floor and opened his nylon case, Laurie slid the key into the padlock and turned it. The lock popped open.

“To be fair,” she told him, “you wouldn’t have had much luck had you come a day earlier. I just got the key from one of my father’s caretakers this afternoon.”

“That would be Ms. Lorton or Ms. Larosche?” he said as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

“Teresa Larosche. Do you know her?”

“I’ve spoken with both women. Routine questioning.”

“I didn’t realize they had a detective on the case. Do you suspect something happened to my father other than what’s in the police report?”

Detective Freeling shrugged disinterestedly and his lower lip protruded just a bit. “Nah, not really. Your father was sick, wasn’t he? Alzheimer’s?”

“Dementia.”

“I’ve seen stuff like it before.” He rose up off his knees.

“Have you really? Old people throwing themselves out of windows?”

“The elderly and confused hurting themselves,” he said. He went to the door, pushed it open with the toe of his shoe, and then addressed the doorknob on the inside with what looked like a makeup brush. He proceeded to brush powdered ink onto the doorknob. “Are you here alone?”