“That was nice of him.”
There were dark circles under Jamella’s eyes, which had a haunted look in them. “Things got so crazy that night that I forgot to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Trying to help my sister.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“And I wasn’t. I was supposed to be looking out for her. I let her down. Popsy was doing those horrible things to her all that time and I didn’t know. I should have known.” She looked at Des accusingly. “Did you know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Is that for real?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jamella. That’s not how I roll. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t feel anything. I’m just about keeping busy. Tyrone’s lawyer rented us a big apartment near Lincoln Center. We’re going to try the City for a while. I want to hook Kinitra up with Julliard. If not enrolled there, then at least taking private piano lessons from somebody who’s on the faculty. She has to get back into her music. And she has an appointment tomorrow morning with a therapist who has an office on Central Park West. I’m meeting with my new obstetrician tomorrow, too. I’ll be having my baby in the City.”
“Is Kinitra planning to have her baby?”
“We’ll talk about her options when she’s ready to have the conversation. She… isn’t ready yet. She’s just so filled with guilt. Blames herself for every single thing that happened.” Jamella glanced at Des hesitantly. “I’m kind of beating myself up, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“Tyrone swore to me that night-swore to all of us-that he didn’t do it. I-I didn’t believe him. And he knows that. He saw it in my eyes. I don’t know if we’ll survive this. I can’t hardly blame him if he doesn’t want me anymore. I don’t deserve his love. And I sure don’t like myself very much right now.”
“I’m not real proud of myself either. I was standing right there when Rondell drew his Glock on your father and I didn’t react in time to stop him. None of us did. We’re all pretty down on ourselves.”
Especially Yolie. It was her case. And the Internal Affairs fallout for Calvin’s murder, if there was to be any, would land on her. But the sad truth was that not one of them, not even the Deacon himself, had considered the possibility that little Rondell might be armed and dangerous. Yolie had attempted to determine if there were any weapons in the home. Clarence had coughed one up. True, she hadn’t asked Rondell if he owned one. But if she had, he would have lied and said no. True, in an ideal, perfect world, he should have been patted down. But it wasn’t an ideal, perfect world. Real world? Not one law enforcement person in the entire state would have patted Rondell down for a weapon that night. You could replay it a million times and it would always turn out the same way.
It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.
Des had been drawing like crazy ever since it happened, working off of the grisly crime scene photos. Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin dead in the front seat of her Mercedes. Calvin Jameson lying on Tyrone’s living room floor with his head blown open. If there’d been any photographic evidence of Rondell’s remains, she’d have been all over that, too. It was the only way she knew how to cope with her overwhelming sense of powerlessness with a chain of events that had outpaced her ability to grasp them and act upon them. In that ideal, perfect world, Rondell wouldn’t be in smithereens at the bottom of the Connecticut River right now. He’d be holding Kinitra’s hand and telling her in a soft, reassuring voice what a terrific person she was. Instead, he was gone.
It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.
And so Des drew, deconstructing the horror one stroke at a time, knowing that this one would stay inside of her for keeps.
“My sister’s anxious to talk to you,” Jamella said. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Kinitra was stretched out in a lounge chair on the patio by the pool. She wore a chunky wool turtleneck, fleece pants and UGG boots. She was staring out at the river. Upriver, actually, at the blackened but structurally sound railroad bridge. Amtrak service between New York and Boston had been restored that morning.
Des showed her a smile and said, “Hey.”
Kinitra turned and looked at her, but her mind was somewhere else. A place far away. She seemed to have aged five years in the past seventy-two hours. She’d lost that doe-eyed, childlike quality of hers. She was a young woman now. “Thanks for coming, Trooper Des.” Her voice wasn’t sing-songy anymore either. It sounded flat and tired. “I wanted to apologize for lying to you and being such a total brat.”
“Not a problem. I understand where you were coming from.”
“I also wanted to thank Mitch and his parents for saving my life. I don’t think I ever did.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve got my dress all picked out.”
Kinitra frowned at her. “What dress?”
“The one I’m going to wear when you play Carnegie Hall. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll write you a song. Would a love song be okay?”
“A love song would do just fine.”
She smiled at Des faintly, then gazed back at the railway bridge and was someplace else again. Someplace where no one should ever, ever have to go.
They tried doing brunch this time. Scrambled eggs, bacon and biscuits for those who could eat such things. Irish oatmeal for those who couldn’t. There was fresh-squeezed orange juice. There was piping hot coffee. It was a brisk, beautiful autumn morning. Mitch had a big fire going in his fireplace.
“I’ve got some news to impart,” the Deacon announced between spoonfuls of oatmeal. “I’m returning to work next week on a part-time basis. And I’m moving back into my own place. Giving my girl her life back. I’ve imposed on her long enough. I’ve got you to thank for this, Chet. You inspired me.”
Mitch’s dad looked at him surprise. “I did?”
“You did. You made me realize that I’m not ready to be put out to pasture yet. I’m just like you-if I’m not helping someone, or at least trying, then they may as well dig a hole and cover me over.”
“Here’s to you, Buck,” Chet said, raising his coffee cup to him.
“I’m going to miss you, Daddy,” Des confessed.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve gotten used to you prowling around the house in the middle of the night.”
“I could move in with you for a while if you’d like,” Mitch offered. “I’m a consummate night prowler. Mind you, that’s not all I know how to do in the dark.”
“Behave, Boo-Boo,” she chided him.
“Des, I’m still not totally comfortable with you-”
“Tough,” she said, feeling Ruth Berger’s eyes on her. The little lady had been staring at her all through the meal.
After they finished eating, Ruth insisted on helping her clear the table, her jaw clenched with determination. The Talk. Des had been waiting for this. Dreading it. Because there was no avoiding the reality of their situation. Mitch was a Jewish widower. Des was a divorced woman of color. She wasn’t sure exactly how Ruth’s words would go. But she was fairly certain what her message would be:
You’ve had your fun-now stay away from my son.
Des piled their plates in the sink, steeling herself as Ruth set the serving bowls down on the kitchen counter.
When the words came they weren’t what Des was expecting at all.
Ruth Berger said, “Thank you, Desiree.”
“For what, Ruth?”
“Saving my boy. We thought we were going to lose him after Maisie died. He didn’t smile for two whole years. Now he can’t stop smiling. He loves life again. And it’s all because of you.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Nonsense. You’ve made him whole again.”
Des heard hearty male laughter from the other room. The men enjoying each other’s company.
Ruth glanced at the doorway, lowering her voice. “After Maisie’s funeral, he just sat in their apartment for months watching old movies and stuffing his face. When we tried to visit him he wouldn’t let us in. He wouldn’t even speak to us on the phone. His editor, Lacy, was planning to put him on medical leave. She phoned me, you know.”