Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(99)
Why would it surprise anyone that a family would do the same?
From the time he was young, my uncle Aldrich committed bad acts and never paid a price. He never got help, though to be fair, you can’t really help someone like that.
You can only put them down.
“So what next, Win?”
How did I put it before? There is no bond like blood, but there is no compound as volatile either. I think about that common blood coursing through both of us. Do I have some of what Uncle Aldrich had? Is that what makes me prone to violence? Does Patricia? Is it genetic? Did Uncle Aldrich just have a damaged chromosome or chemical imbalance or could some kind of major therapy have helped?
I don’t know and I don’t much care.
I have all the answers now. I’m just not sure what to do with them.
CHAPTER 36
Life is lived in the grays.
That is a problem for most people. It is so much easier to see the world in black and white. Someone is all good or all bad. I try sometimes to glance online, at Twitter or social media—at the outrage real, imagined, and faux. Extremism and outrage are simple, relentless, attention-seeking. Rationality and prudence are difficult, exhausting, mundane.
Occam’s razor works in reverse when it comes to answers: If the answer is easy, it is wrong.
I warn you now. You’ll disagree with some of the choices I make. Don’t fret about it. I don’t know whether I made the right ones either. If I was certain, per my personal axiom, I would probably be wrong.
*
When I arrive back at the Dakota, PT is waiting for me. I bring him up to my apartment. I pour us both cognac in snifters.
“Arlo Sugarman is dead,” I tell him.
PT is my friend. I don’t really believe in mentors, but if I did, PT would be one. He has been good to me. He has been fair.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“I had my people call the crematorium that works with St. Timothy’s to look into their records for on and around June 15, 2011. They also looked into death certificates for the Greater St. Louis area for that date.”
PT sits back in the leather wing chair. “Damn.”
I wait.
He shakes his head. “I wanted him, Win. I wanted to bring him to justice.”
“I know.”
PT raises the cognac. “To Patrick O’Malley.”
“To Patrick,” I say.
We clink glasses. PT collapses back into the chair.
“I really wanted to right that wrong,” he says.
With the glass near my lips, I add, “If you did anything wrong.”
PT makes a face. “What does that mean?”
“You were the junior agent,” I say.
“So?”
“So those were his calls, weren’t they?”
PT carefully puts down his glass on the coaster. He watches me. “What calls?”
“To not wait for backup,” I say. “To go in through the back door on his own.”
“What are you trying to say, Win?”
“You blame yourself. You’ve blamed yourself for almost fifty years.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I shrug. “Who called that tip in?” I ask him.
“It was anonymous.”
“Who told you that?” I ask. “Never mind, it’s not important. You both drove to the house, but when you got there, Special Agent O’Malley made the decision not to wait for backup.”
PT looks at me over his snifter. “He thought time was of the essence.”
“Still,” I say, “he broke protocol.”
“Well, technically, yes.”
“He kicked in the back door on his own. Who fired the first shot, PT?”
“What difference does it make?”
“You didn’t mention it to me. Who fired first?”
“We don’t know for sure.”
“But Special Agent O’Malley did discharge his weapon, correct?”
PT stares at me hard for a few long seconds. Then he tilts his head back on the leather and closes his eyes. I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. He just sits with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. PT looks old and tired. I stay silent. I’ve said enough. Perhaps Special Agent Patrick O’Malley was just overzealous. Perhaps he wanted to catch Arlo Sugarman and make himself the hero, even if it meant shattering standard FBI procedure. Or perhaps O’Malley, a father financially stretched with six kids, had heard that Nero Staunch had put a bounty on the Jane Street Six, and really, they were killers anyway and so what if one of them got shot trying to escape?
I don’t know the answer.
I don’t want to push it.
Life is lived in the grays.
“Win?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t say another word, okay?”
I don’t. I just sit there with my drink and my friend and let the night close in around us.
*
The next morning, I drive out to Bernardsville, New Jersey, and I visit Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan again.
This for me is the grayest of the gray.
They made me promise to tell them what I learned about their children.
So do I? Do I tell these two elderly parents that their children are dead—or do I let them go on believing that maybe Billy and Edie survived and have children and possibly grandchildren? What good will knowing the truth at their age do for them? Should I let them live with their harmless fantasy? Will the truth cause too much stress at their age? Do I have the right to make that call?