The Red Hunter(43)



“Did they take anything?” Mr. Rodriquez walked around the room, started picking up books and putting them back on the shelves. He righted the couch, the chair, the table, and I moved over to help him. The furniture was cheap, insubstantial. It didn’t take much to put things back the way they were. The pillows were ruined, though, slashed and oozing stuffing.

“He didn’t have anything,” I said. “What were they looking for?”

“Cash, jewelry,” he said with a shrug, a lifelong New Yorker resigned to crimes like these. “Anything they could sell. But how did they get in?”

He looked back at the door.

“The door was open,” I said. “I must have forgotten it when we left.”

He shook his head. “I came up,” he said. “I’m sure I locked it.”

He must have been mistaken. There were only three keys to this place. I had one, Paul did, and Mr. Rodriquez. I was sure of that.

“Let me help you finish cleaning up,” he said.

“It’s okay. I’ll handle the rest.”

I wanted him to leave, and he must have sensed that because he started moving toward the door. I had to think, figure this out.

“Call me?” He kept his eyes on me, wary, concerned. “Keep in touch about Paul, and let me know what you need, okay? I’ll go see him tonight. We been friends a long time, Miss Zoey.”

It’s a term of endearment, not a way of indicating status. All I could do was nod, not trusting my voice. And then he was gone. I turned back to the apartment and moved into the mess. I had to figure out what they were looking for. Whoever they were.





fourteen


Chad Drake pulled his car into the lot, tires crunching on the gravel, and came to a stop under the oak tree in the north corner, far from the other vehicles. Most people parked as close as possible to their destination, but not him. He killed the engine and sat in the dark, letting the quiet wash over him. The days—how did they get so hectic, a rush, a mash of work and family and this demand and that worry? He was so tired all the time. Was it normal to be so tired?

The door to Burgers and Brew opened, and an arc of amber light and laughter and the sound of footfalls spilled out.

Please don’t be drunk, he thought. Please don’t make me get out and ask if you’ve been drinking.

He squinted into the dark and saw that it was Dr. Sherman and his wife, Lainey—walking steady, holding hands. He watched them make their way to their older but well-maintained Volvo. He got the door for her—nice. And then he climbed in the driver’s side. The Shermans were good people, two boys in school with Zoey—one a year ahead of her and one a year behind. There were a couple of other pediatricians in town, but everyone said he was the best—careful, honest, slow to prescribe. Zoey had been his patient since she was a few hours old.

The Volvo’s engine came to life after a couple of minutes, then the headlights. Then they pulled slowly from the lot and onto the main road.

Thank you, he said silently.

If only decent people—the ones that didn’t have to be taught how to live without hurting others—knew how much cops appreciated them.

He rubbed his eyes, waiting. Paul was late, which was not like him. Chad got out of the car and stretched long. Too much sitting—slouching in the prowler or hunched over the desk doing paperwork. There were two hard knots of pain between his spine and each shoulder blade. Only his wife, Heather, could work them out. She’d straddle his lower back and use the hard knobs of her elbows and get in deep, deeper while he howled.

“Big baby,” she’d say. “Try to breathe into it. Release it.”

“Stop, Heather,” Chad would beg. “Please.”

“What are you so worried about?” she’d ask. “What are you carrying around?”

Some of it she knew. Some of it she didn’t. Some of it she’d never know, not if he had anything to do with it.

The twin beams of Paul’s headlights caused him to raise a hand, shielding his eyes from the brightness. The beat-up old Suburban pulled to a stop beside him, and the man he thought of as a brother climbed out. They were brothers, closer than brothers because there was none of the sibling baggage.

“I stopped by to see Heather and Zoey,” Paul said.

It was a cool night, but not cold. Halloween a few days away. Jack-o’-lanterns sat on every porch of their picture postcard of a town, leaves turning orange, red, gold. At the precinct, Mr. Bones, the old plastic skeleton had been pulled out of the supply closet and taken his place in the chair outside the evidence locker. There was a bucket beside him where folks dropped in their spare change and more to help fund the holiday party they’d throw for area “at-risk” kids at the Y.

“You didn’t tell them I was coming,” said Paul. “They were surprised to see me.”

“It might have slipped my mind to mention it,” he said.

“Nothing slips your mind, brother,” Paul said. The older man pulled him into a powerful hug, slapped him on the back.

“Zoey is getting too grown up, man,” Paul said with a shake of his head.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Good thing her uncle Paul taught her how to fight,” he said. “I feel bad for the mope who messes with your girl.”

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