out too?”
“No, sir. Not that little girl of yours. She's too tough for that.”
“She says she knew nothing about it.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe … maybe not.”
“So you're saying you think Nicky's capable of getting involved in a deal to move product.”
The big man's face turned sad. “Under the right circumstances, she gets into a situation over her head … who isn't?”
“But what for? She wouldn't need the money.”
He said nothing.
“You think it might have something to do with Weems?”
“Hey, you the detective, partner. I is just a poor patrolee.” He struggled to extricate himself from the booth. “Listen, I got to get back to work. Why don't you and Jake come on by for lunch tomorrow? We got a private room in back and we can talk some more.”
“Sure.”
“Save your appetite. I'm pickin’ the menu … how's the oatmeal?”
I made a thumbs-up gesture. “First-rate.”
“Hard to mess up porridge.” He stood staring at me for a moment. “By the way, you still miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Bein’ a cop.”
“I don't know. I don't think about it too much anymore.”
“That makes me feel good, cause I do.”
“That reminds me, there was a message on my machine last night from Rashid Fuad.”
“Fuad?”
“You know, the ballistics guy Jake and I used to work with. From New York. The one who sent you the letter.”
“Oh yeah, yeah.”
“He said he's going to be in Charlottesville for a conference this week. He's got some new information. Maybe to do with that software of his or something.”
“Them machines is black magic, ain't they?”
“Jake and I are thinking of going over to have a drink with him. Want to ride along?”
“Nah. I got a restaurant to run. Besides …”
“What?”
“Old wounds, buddy. What's gone is gone … Old wounds.”
I nodded then swept the air with my spoon. “ ‘ ‘Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake that virtue must go through.’ ”
He shook his head as he lumbered back toward his kitchen. “Gotta ask Kerstin what she put in that oatmeal today,” he said.
11
The bright sunshine on the sidewalk outside the jail almost blinded me. A skinny man riding a lawn mower and chewing a cigar cut the public grass, and the smell of it made my nostrils twitch. A rare autumn haze draped the town. Jake was correct: it was going to be a warm one all right.
I didn't notice the young woman barreling down the walkway toward me until it was too late.
“Oh.” She stumbled to an abrupt halt. “I'm sorry, I didn't see you.”
“No, it was my fault.”
She was dark-skinned with a willowy figure and cocoa eyes. Perspiration dotted her forehead, though she looked anything but disheveled—in fact, she smelled faintly of perfume. Her straight hair was pulled into a headband with a few strands falling to either side. A navy-colored suit clung to her as if it were tailor-made, and a big pile of manila folders with one of those lawyerly briefcases occupied her arms.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
“No. No thank you. I'm late for an appointment.”
“Okay.”
She stared at me for a moment. “You're not Nicole Pavlicek's father, are you?”
“I am.”
“She told me you would be coming.” She reached out a hand from beneath the pile of folders. It felt cool despite the heat. “I'm Priscilla Thomasen, Commonwealth's attorney.”
That a black woman her age had been elected to such a position from Affalachia County spoke volumes, not only about changes in the county, but about the kind of person who had just shaken my hand.
“She mentioned you, Miss Thomasen. You sure I can't help you with some of those?”
“I'm sure … but thanks.” She turned back toward the building.
“Wait. I mean, can you give me some idea about your case against Nicole?”
She stared at me. Then she asked: “How long have you and her mother been divorced?”
“Quite some time.”
“Do you see Nicole
“No, sir. Not that little girl of yours. She's too tough for that.”
“She says she knew nothing about it.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe … maybe not.”
“So you're saying you think Nicky's capable of getting involved in a deal to move product.”
The big man's face turned sad. “Under the right circumstances, she gets into a situation over her head … who isn't?”
“But what for? She wouldn't need the money.”
He said nothing.
“You think it might have something to do with Weems?”
“Hey, you the detective, partner. I is just a poor patrolee.” He struggled to extricate himself from the booth. “Listen, I got to get back to work. Why don't you and Jake come on by for lunch tomorrow? We got a private room in back and we can talk some more.”
“Sure.”
“Save your appetite. I'm pickin’ the menu … how's the oatmeal?”
I made a thumbs-up gesture. “First-rate.”
“Hard to mess up porridge.” He stood staring at me for a moment. “By the way, you still miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Bein’ a cop.”
“I don't know. I don't think about it too much anymore.”
“That makes me feel good, cause I do.”
“That reminds me, there was a message on my machine last night from Rashid Fuad.”
“Fuad?”
“You know, the ballistics guy Jake and I used to work with. From New York. The one who sent you the letter.”
“Oh yeah, yeah.”
“He said he's going to be in Charlottesville for a conference this week. He's got some new information. Maybe to do with that software of his or something.”
“Them machines is black magic, ain't they?”
“Jake and I are thinking of going over to have a drink with him. Want to ride along?”
“Nah. I got a restaurant to run. Besides …”
“What?”
“Old wounds, buddy. What's gone is gone … Old wounds.”
I nodded then swept the air with my spoon. “ ‘ ‘Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake that virtue must go through.’ ”
He shook his head as he lumbered back toward his kitchen. “Gotta ask Kerstin what she put in that oatmeal today,” he said.
11
The bright sunshine on the sidewalk outside the jail almost blinded me. A skinny man riding a lawn mower and chewing a cigar cut the public grass, and the smell of it made my nostrils twitch. A rare autumn haze draped the town. Jake was correct: it was going to be a warm one all right.
I didn't notice the young woman barreling down the walkway toward me until it was too late.
“Oh.” She stumbled to an abrupt halt. “I'm sorry, I didn't see you.”
“No, it was my fault.”
She was dark-skinned with a willowy figure and cocoa eyes. Perspiration dotted her forehead, though she looked anything but disheveled—in fact, she smelled faintly of perfume. Her straight hair was pulled into a headband with a few strands falling to either side. A navy-colored suit clung to her as if it were tailor-made, and a big pile of manila folders with one of those lawyerly briefcases occupied her arms.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
“No. No thank you. I'm late for an appointment.”
“Okay.”
She stared at me for a moment. “You're not Nicole Pavlicek's father, are you?”
“I am.”
“She told me you would be coming.” She reached out a hand from beneath the pile of folders. It felt cool despite the heat. “I'm Priscilla Thomasen, Commonwealth's attorney.”
That a black woman her age had been elected to such a position from Affalachia County spoke volumes, not only about changes in the county, but about the kind of person who had just shaken my hand.
“She mentioned you, Miss Thomasen. You sure I can't help you with some of those?”
“I'm sure … but thanks.” She turned back toward the building.
“Wait. I mean, can you give me some idea about your case against Nicole?”
She stared at me. Then she asked: “How long have you and her mother been divorced?”
“Quite some time.”
“Do you see Nicole
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