Elsa was clearly distressed, but Nick was caught between smiling at her attempt to relate the Freudian slip or crying at Carly's use of her sister's name.
"It's OK, Elsa," he said. "I will tell the counselor when she goes for her session."
The housekeeper turned the towel in her hand. Nick looked back out into the light.
"Dad? I'm ready," his daughter called from her room.
"Can you make me some coffee, please, Elsa?" Nick said as he walked through the kitchen.
"You are going out again?"
"After she's asleep," he said. "I'll lock up before I go." Nick did not turn to see Elsa's reaction. He knew she would disapprove. He'd promised to give up the late-night forays into the streets for the sake of a story, both to his wife before and to Elsa afterward. Now he was again going back on that promise.
In his daughter's room, he knelt down in front of the bookcase, searching for a title. Carly was already in bed and had slid over against the wall to give him room to stretch out in his usual position. Nick had taken the second twin bed out of the room after two months. He'd replaced it with a desk and an additional case of the girls' favorite books, some that had been packed away in the garage.
"I've got the Harry Potter over here, Dad," Carly said.
"I'm looking for something else, C. One of my favorites."
Carly didn't complain, just pulled a stuffed tiger closer to her and waited for him to find a thin, worn volume from one of the lower shelves. He finally lay down on the outside edge of the bed and turned away from the nightstand, where he knew a family photo of the four of them looked out upon his back.
"We Were Tired of Living in a House, by Leisel Moak Skorpen," he announced and then peeked over from the side of the opened book to see his daughter's reaction. She rolled her eyes but still smiled.
"Alright, go ahead," she said, giving him permission.
Nick read the book aloud, pausing to give both of them a long look at the accompanying artwork on each double page. It was actually a long, lovely and mischievous poem about two brothers and two sisters who get scolded for misdoings at home and their adventures finding another place to live-a tree, a pond, a cave and the seashore-before finally returning home to their parents to live in a house.
When he finished, Nick closed the book and turned off the bedside lamp and waited in the silence. He could tell by her breathing that she was still awake. Before, he'd always read to the girls from a rocking chair set in between the beds and when he was done he'd continue to rock, the low creak of the runners sounding in a rhythm that would eventually put them to sleep. He found he could no longer stand the sound and had thrown the chair out.
"Was someone killed today?" his daughter's voice finally, quietly broke the silence.
Nick just closed his eyes. Unfortunately, it was not an unusual question from Carly. She was a bright girl.
"Yes, honey," he said.
"Did you write about it?"
"Yes."
"Will I read about it in the newspaper?"
"I'm not sure you should be reading the paper, honey, with all your schoolwork and stuff. You should really concentrate on that reading."
He had never encouraged his daughters to read his work, but Carly had taken more to it since the accident, and the counselors had suggested he let it go instead of trying to ban her from the practice.
"Did it make you sad, the killing?"
"No, Carly. Not really. I was just trying to find out how it happened. That's my job, to report what happened. You know?"
The girl stayed quiet for several moments.
"Why do you ask?" Nick finally said.
"'Cause you always read that book when you're sad, Daddy."
Jesus, Nick thought. He tried to look into his daughter's eyes but couldn't make them out in the dark room. The kids are too smart for you. You can't overestimate their perception. And you can't hide.
"I know, baby," he whispered. "It just makes me feel better."
He touched her hair and she whispered back, "Me too."
When her breathing went soft and rhythmic and she was finally asleep, Nick carefully rolled off the bed and left, closing the door gently behind him.
Chapter 8
Nick didn't call the medical examiner's office until he was in the parking lot.
"Would it help you to decide if I told you I was right outside?"
He had called Nasir Petish's cell phone. The doc's midnight autopsy was only just beginning and though the physician had known Nick for several years-they shared an appreciation for Jameson's whiskey and Cannonball Adderley's saxophone-the physician still fell back on administration rules against press access. At least for the first twenty seconds of each conversation.
"You are in my parking area?" Petish said, his East Indian accent flicking high at the end of every sentence.
"Yeah. I figured you'd be up late with this one," Nick said, leaving the assistant M.E.'s heads-up out of it.
"And what you listening to out there, Mr. Mullins?"
"The Adderleys and, uh, George Shearing at Newport," Nick said, quickly rummaging through his collection to see if he actually had the CD in his car.
"Is that the one during which Mr. Adderley comments on the influence of a young pianist named Ray Charles?" Petish said.
"Yeah," Nick said, coming up with the CD, "that's the one."
"Bring it in, if you will, Mr. Mullins."
Nick went around to the loading dock area where the M.E.'s vans and black Ford Explorers were parked. A light mounted above the double-door entrance bathed the raised deck in an orange-tinted glow. One of the doors opened and a small man with tea-colored skin and wire-rimmed glasses ushered him in.
"Thanks, Dr. Petish. I appreciate this," Nick said, shaking the man's offered hand.
"Ahhh. No thanks are necessary, Mr. Mullins, for nothing that has been given, yes?"
Nick grinned into the smiling face of the physician and nodded his understanding of the terms. He was never here. No comment. No attribution. He raised the CD and handed the plastic square to the M.E., who scanned the back intently. Petish carried a perpetually charmed look on his face despite his blunt speech and grim profession.
"Ahhh, yes," he said. "The one when Nathaniel still, as you say, had his lip. I like this recording very much."
The doctor read through the playlist as they passed through an area of wheeled gurneys and shelves of supplies and then down a wide corridor to his favorite examining room. Inside, the walls were concrete block and painted white with the kind of paint that was shiny and smooth and left an almost plastic texture, the better to wipe clean. The floor was done in gray with similar paint and Nick noted the drain located in the middle. There were two stainless steel tables in the room. Only one was occupied.
Ferris had been heavily built, with powerful arms and thin hips in the way of a farmer or factory worker. Nick remembered the yokelike shoulders and the way they'd slumped during his trial. His freshly shaved skull was now gone from the ears up. Petish had already started with the bone saw.
The M.E. slipped the CD into a portable player on a high shelf and set the music at a low volume and then snapped on a new pair of latex gloves. He almost always began his autopsies by sawing through the skull bone in a circular fashion and then lifting the top portion to reveal the brain inside. The sight did not bother Nick. He had attended autopsies before. The clinical atmosphere was actually a lot less disturbing than the open wounds and aftermaths he'd seen on the streets.
"As you can see, Mr. Mullins, the deceased has considerable damage to the brain from a single wound."
Nick moved with the doctor as he positioned himself at the head of the table and turned the dead man's face to the right. A small black hole appeared to be neatly bored into the exact line where his high-cut sideburn had once been.