“You insist?” An incredulous look rearranged Samantha’s beautifully made-up face. “All her friends said she wanted to leave you, and you know it. If Kelly estranged herself from anyone, it was you.”
“I don’t know any such thing!” Chaz said, alarmingly red in the face.
“And you drove her away from me,” Samantha continued. “Every chance you had. You’re the last one who’s going to take her from me now by trying to turn the tables on me like this.” Walter still steadied her as if she were a fragile piece of Baccarat.
This was fast growing out of control, Mark thought. He glanced at Dan, who shrugged, rolled his eyes, and raised his hands as if to say, “See what I’ve been trying to deal with?”
Then Charles Braden III moved into the middle of the fray. “Chaz, please, we know you adored Kelly and are distraught, but, as I’ve said before, have a care for a mother’s feelings as well. Do sit down, Chaz.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder. “And let’s all try to remember that Kelly would have been dreadfully upset by this wrangling.”
Although Charles sounded reasonable, Mark thought, the guy was so smooth he reeked of hypocrisy. Time to take charge himself, and impose his own agenda. “Listen up, people,” he said, moving to position himself behind Dan. “I’m afraid neither side will get any satisfaction today. Her remains are evidence still, and I’m not releasing them to either party.” He knew that he couldn’t get anything more out of the bones from a forensic point of view, yet instinctively balked at letting them go.
Everyone looked surprised.
“I thought you’d have done everything necessary by now,” Chaz said, walking quickly around the end of Dan’s desk to where he could stand toe-to-toe with Mark. He exuded anger, but also seemed edgy, his fingers continually opening and closing as if he were practicing his grip. “What are you playing at?”
Not exactly a presence to back down from, Mark thought. In fact, why not probe a little. See how the man reacts to the prospect of his wife’s death being looked at locally. “You think I’m playing here, Chaz? This investigation is just beginning, and I’m bound to hold Kelly’s remains for as long as I need to do a proper inquiry.”
He got even more flushed. “You? But the NYPD told me as far as they were concerned it was a cold case. They’re not working on it.”
“They dumped it in Dan’s and my laps.”
“That was just for you to do their paperwork, for Christ’s sake. Any fool could see that. Surely you’re not going to drag this out?”
Mark caught the condescension, and an old enmity stirred. But he kept it in check.
Nevertheless, he saw Dan looking up at him apprehensively.
“Listen to me, Roper,” Chaz said. “You may think you’re some kind of big shot here, being coroner and all, but I can rally enough votes to fix that at the next election.”
Mark’s discipline in dealing with assholes nearly folded. He smiled, slowly, showing his teeth a few at a time. “Take your best shot.”
“This is not fitting for Kelly,” Braden Senior said. His tone had the quiet authority of someone who never raised his voice to get an order followed.
Mark had to admit Braden had spoken the truth. “I’ll say it’s not fitting.” He kept his gaze on Chaz.
“There can’t be much more you need to examine,” Braden Senior continued. “Besides, both the McShanes and my son and I probably will lawyer you to death if you persist. Now I’m no judge, but in a court of law you’ll be hard-pressed not to accord both families the closure of putting her in a grave.”
Again, Mark knew he was right.
“So for our Kelly’s sake, why not now?” Braden Senior pressed.
Mark looked over at him. “Can you people agree on arrangements so that Dan and I don’t have to decide between you? Neither of us is a Solomon, you know.”
He got no immediate response, except Chaz walked over to rejoin his father.
Mark forged on. “Mrs. McShane, you mentioned a funeral, right?”
She nodded slowly.
“What if you agreed to hold the funeral, which Chaz and his father may attend, and let the Bradens hold a memorial service a couple of weeks later, which you and your husband may attend?”
Samantha appeared to be taken aback, but to his right he could see that both the Bradens were smiling, albeit reluctantly.
“I think you are a Solomon after all, young man,” Braden Senior said. “A real peacemaker. Well done.”
Braden was complimenting him. Dan looked relieved, and the McShanes appeared to accept his compromise. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that even Chaz nodded slightly. Why, since he had put this potential fracas to rest, did he have such a bitter taste in his mouth?
4:00 P.M.
Mark started his run as usual, going down to the foot of his driveway and turning left. After this afternoon’s business, he figured it would take at least an hour on the road to work off the tension.
The air was cool, the light gray, and leaden clouds promised snow. He’d worn gloves and a hooded track suit, but initially he still felt cold. He also carried a small flashlight in his pocket since it would be dark before he finished.
By the first hundred paces, he started to feel the flush of his endorphins. Within fifteen minutes, his runner’s high kicked in like a shot of morphine, first vanquishing the pain of protesting muscles, then wiping the Bradens and McShanes off his radar. His world became the sound of his breathing, the thudding of his heart, and the soft slap of his running shoes on asphalt. When the first few flakes began to float down around him and fall on his cheeks, he even welcomed their sting against his skin as they melted, the sensation invigorating him. It was a mindless state, and he reveled in it.
Thirty minutes later, well along the uphill part of his trek, he trotted by a gated muddy road that led into a thickly forested property. Off to one side a rusted plaque pompously announced THE BRADEN FOUNDATION CLINIC.
At least they hadn’t hung a scarlet A in front of the place.
He had passed this place a hundred times, never giving it a thought. But now, the crumpled clipping about the place that his father had kept popped to mind, and on a whim, he slowed, walked over to where a wire fence abutted against the post at the right of the entrance. Ignoring a faded NO TRESPASSING sign, he climbed to the other side. The rickety barrier swayed under him, suggesting the whole thing might soon collapse, maintenance obviously no longer a priority.
He started along the center hump between two little-used ruts, resuming the same jogging pace as before. The falling snow disappeared as soon as it hit the bare earth, and in the brittle undergrowth of wild grasses that lined a shallow ditch on either side it collected around the roots like frizzy bits of fluff before melting. The sight made him feel slightly forlorn, not an unusual emotion at this time of year; he preferred it when everything finally turned white and Christmassy. Lately, though, as the change of season drove away the summer crowd and emptied the countryside, instead of enjoying the drop in his workload, he sometimes felt left behind. The sensation, when it occurred, puzzled him. He had nowhere else he wanted to live or work. No matter. Whatever it was that disquieted him, he figured it couldn’t be what he’d seen happen to Dan and others. He just wasn’t the type to get bushed.
Deeper into the woods the russet foliage of ancient giant oaks intertwined to form a thatched arch high above his head and cast a further layer of shadow over the thickening dusk, forcing him to watch his step.
In the far distance he heard the “Boom! Boom! Boom!” of rifle shots.
“God, I hate hunting season,” he said out loud. He’d not worn the prescribed orange vest or gaudy cap, so he began to whistle at full volume between breaths, figuring that making a lot of noise was his best protection against being mistaken for a deer. Every November he and Dan hauled out some poor Joe who had a stray bullet or crossbow arrow in him. He medevacked the living by helicopter to the nearest trauma center, usually Albany; but sometimes, when patient volume at local facilities made them too busy, he had to ride with the victim, fighting to keep him stable all the way to New York City and his old alma mater, NYCH. The dead they body-bagged and sent to Blair’s.