Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(5)

“Did I invite you to read that?”

“You didn’t invite me not to.”

“Don’t read it. It’s for Jenny, not you.”

“Info request,” DeMarco read. “T. Huston. Writer.” He lowered the paper and looked at Bowen. “What kind of info is he looking for?”

“The kind Jenny provides.”

“Is this his home number or the university?”

“You are not public relations. You got nothing to do, go grab a radar gun.”

DeMarco folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I need a break from the criminals. You ever read this guy? Or are you still working your way through the Hardy Boys?”

“Let Jenny do her job, would you, please? And you do yours.”

“This guy writes dark stuff. Seriously dark. Jenny’s all puppies and roses. I’ll take this one.”

Bowen sat back straight in his chair, put both hands on the edge of his desk. “You know, I don’t mind the coffee pranks and the other abuse, but don’t you think you should maybe just once do what I ask you to do?”

DeMarco rubbed his cheek. “You familiar with an old song by Johnny Cash? ‘A Boy Named Sue’? You’re my Sue.”

“So you’re trying to toughen me up, is that it?”

“You can thank me when you make lieutenant.”

Bowen leaned forward and brought his hands together, rubbed a thumb across the palm of his other hand. “Is it because of my dad?”

“Hey, your dad’s a good man. He did what he had to do. And he made the right decision. How is the old goat anyway? Still shuffleboard champ of Tampa–Saint Pete?”

“He says when you were my age, you were ramrod straight. Eye of the tiger and all that. But afterward…it was almost like you wanted to get demoted.”

DeMarco gazed at the ceiling and made a popping sound with his lips. Then he looked down at Bowen again. “Are we done reminiscing here?” He patted his jacket pocket. “Some of us adults have work to do.”

“Go,” Bowen told him and waved him away. “Just go.”

DeMarco reached for the cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”





Five


DeMarco first met Huston at a place called Dino’s, a small, narrow brick building shaped like a diner, its six booths all lined up against the long window overlooking busy State Street. “I don’t often get down this way,” Huston told him. “It’s closer for us to go to Erie for everything. But I like it here. I like the feel of it.”

DeMarco nodded, smiled, sipped his sweet tea. He had recognized Huston from the photos on his book jackets. None showed the writer in a coat and tie, yet DeMarco was still pleasantly surprised by the day’s growth of stubble on Huston’s cheeks, the washed-out jeans and dark blue T-shirt. Except for his six-foot height, he reminded DeMarco of a young Jack Kerouac.

Huston took off his navy-blue baseball cap and laid it on the seat, then finger combed his hair while he considered the sandwich board behind the counter. “What’s good here?” he asked.

“When I come, it’s for the eggplant parm or the junkyard dogs.”

“So how about we split the twelve-inch eggplant parm and an order of four dogs? They have iced coffee here?”

“I’m sure they can pour some of yesterday’s over ice for you, no problem.”

“That’s how I make it at home,” Huston said.

DeMarco leaned back against the booth and allowed himself to relax. He had dealt with academics before and had found most of them either socially dysfunctional or condescending. But here was a respected professor from a private, very expensive college, a critically acclaimed novelist, big-screen handsome, still young—DeMarco felt both envy and a sudden, unexpected fondness for the man.

“So who are the Tigers?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“The baseball cap. Those aren’t Detroit’s colors.”

“My boy’s Little League team last year. I was an assistant coach.”

“Was?”

“They moved him up to PONY League this year. I could’ve helped out again, but Claire, my wife, she thought it was time I take a step back, you know? Time to let him be his own man for a change.”

DeMarco read the look on Huston’s face. “Not easy to do, huh?”

“Fathers and sons, you know? It’s hard to be a spectator.”

This time, it was Huston’s turn to read the subtle change in the other man’s eyes. “You have children, Officer? Is that the proper way to address you, by the way? Or do you prefer ‘Trooper’? ‘Sergeant’?”

“Ryan will do. And no, no children.”

“Ryan is my baby’s middle name. David Ryan Huston.”

“Good name,” DeMarco said.

Huston nodded toward the gold band on DeMarco’s left hand. “You’re married, though.”

“Separated.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Hey. Life,” DeMarco said. He looked down at the table, squared up the paper place mat.

Huston did not allow the awkward moment to linger. “So what’s it like being an officer of the law?”

“It’s great. You get to see humanity at its worst day in and day out. What’s it like being a professor?”