My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(54)

“Shit, I’m sorry, Kins.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll still work the edges, but Nolasco’s right. We’ve exhausted our leads. Unless something comes up there’s no place else to go.”

Tracy felt a twinge of remorse. She knew from experience that, until the killer was found and convicted, Hansen’s family would have no closure.

“You do what you need to do,” Kins said. “The work will be here when you get back, unfortunately. Death and taxes, my father used to say. Those are the two things you can count on. Death and taxes. Keep me posted on what happens.”

“Likewise.” Tracy disconnected and took a moment before stepping from the car. The sun was bright enough that she donned sunglasses, though the temperature remained cool enough that each breath marked the air as she approached the gate in the picket fence. She had not detected any reaction from DeAngelo when she’d parked or when she closed the car door and detected none now.

“Mr. Finn?”

The gloves bunched around Finn’s fingertips as he struggled to grip another weed.

She raised her voice. “Mr. Finn?”

He turned his head and she saw the hearing aid attached to the arm of his glasses. Finn hesitated before removing his gloves and setting them on the ground. He adjusted his glasses and reached for a cane at his side, unsteady as he got to his feet and approached the fence. He was bundled in a knit Mariners ski cap and a matching team jacket that hung from his shoulders like a hand-me-down from an older brother. Twenty years ago, Finn had been on the heavy side. Now he looked rail thin. Thick lenses magnified his eyes and made them appear watery.

“It’s Tracy Crosswhite,” she said, removing her sunglasses.

Finn gave no initial indication that he recognized her or her name. Then, slowly, he smiled and pushed open the gate. “Tracy,” he said. “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t see too well anymore. I have cataracts, you know.”

“Getting the garden ready for winter?” she said, stepping into the yard. “I remember my father doing the same thing every fall—pulling the weeds, adding fertilizer to the soil, and covering the beds with black plastic.”

“If you don’t get the weeds in the winter they go to seed,” he said. “Surest way to ruin a spring garden.”

“I remember my father saying something similar.”

Finn gave her an envious smile and reached out to touch her arm, leaning in to speak conspiratorially. “No one could compete with your father’s tomatoes. He had that greenhouse, you know.”

“I remember.”

“I told him it was cheating, but he said I was welcome to bring my plants over anytime. He was a prince of a man, your father.”

She looked about the tiny plot of soil. “What do you grow?”

“A little of this and a little of that. I give most of it to the neighbors. It’s just me now. Millie died, you know.”

She didn’t know, but she assumed that had been the case. Finn’s wife had already had health issues twenty years ago, when Tracy’s father had cared for her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “How are you doing?”

“Come on inside and visit,” he said. Finn had trouble lifting his legs to climb the three concrete steps to the back door, a task that left him winded and flushed. Tracy also noticed a tremor in his hands when he unzipped his jacket and hung it on a hook inside the mudroom. Vance Clark’s motion to quash Dan’s subpoena to have Finn testify at the hearing had been accompanied by a doctor’s report. According to the report, Finn had a heart condition, emphysema, and a host of other physical ailments that made the stress of testifying injurious to his already precarious health.

Finn led her into a kitchen that time had not touched. Dark wood cabinets made a contrast to the bright floral wallpaper and pumpkin-colored Formica. Finn moved a stack of newspapers and a bundle of mail from a chair to make a place for Tracy to sit at the table, then filled a kettle at the faucet and set it on a Wedgewood stove. She noticed a portable oxygen machine in the corner and felt heat blasting from the floor vents. The room held the odor of fried meat. A greasy cast-iron skillet sat on the front burner.

“Can I help with something?” she said.

He waved her off, pulled two mugs from a cabinet and dropped in tea bags, making small talk. When he opened the refrigerator door, she saw mostly empty shelves inside. “I don’t keep much in the house. I don’t get many visitors.”

“I should have called,” she said.

“But you were afraid I might not wish to speak to you.” He peered at her over the top of his mottled lenses. “I’m old, Tracy. I don’t see or hear too well anymore, but I still read the newspaper every morning. I don’t imagine you came by to ask about my garden.”

“No,” she said. “I came by to talk to you about the hearing.”

“You came by to see if I really was too sick to testify.”

“You look like you’re getting around all right.”

“You have good days and bad days when you get to be my age,” Finn said. “And you never can predict which it’s going to be.”

“How old are you, Mr. Finn?”

“Please, Tracy, I feel like I’ve known you since you were born. Call me DeAngelo. And to answer your question, I’ll be eighty-eight in the spring.” He rapped knuckles on the counter. “God willing.” He fixed his eyes on her. “And if not, I’ll get to see my Millie, and that’s not a bad thing, you know.”