Collateral Damage by Michael Bowen Page B

Marjorie thought. She knows Demarest is dead.
    Catherine might have figured this out in the front yard, the same way Marjorie had. But Catherine hadn’t looked like she was in any condition for even that modest level of cogitation at the time.
    The other possibility was that Cindy had found a way to break the news to her. And if so, it seemed to Marjorie that that was one of the sanest and kindest things Cindy could have done—exactly the way Marjorie would want to be treated when (not if, she acknowledged to herself, given their age difference) the time came for her to get bad news about Michaelson.
    On reflection, in fact, it struck Marjorie that the only significant word in her conversation with Catherine had been “Cindy.” Not just Cindy taking care of Catherine in her immediate distress, but Cindy doing all those un-Cindy-like things that would mean something to Catherine: thinking to take her sister’s shoes off, digging the comforter out of some forgotten drawer or closet, making the compress, brewing the tea, using a cozy to keep the pot warm, serving the tea in an elegant cup and saucer instead of a utilitarian mug, freshening the tea in the cup as it cooled. Things that were striking not because they were large but precisely because they were small. Small things done well. The kinds of things you wouldn’t think your way to in the stress of a crisis. Things that had to emerge from habits of mind and heart deliberately bred and carefully ripened over years of lives shared. Marjorie was still mulling over this unfamiliar image of Cindy as she withdrew from the den and headed for the nearest downstairs bathroom. She didn’t have the slightest notion of eavesdropping. It was just that when she found the door closed she thought it best to find out if someone else was inside. She raised her hand for a discreet knock when she heard C-Sharp’s voice.
    â€œAll right, all right. She’s strung out to hell and back. I just thought a little happy dust later on might help, that’s all.”
    â€œDon’t think, it’s not your strong suit.” Cindy’s voice.
    â€œYou don’t have to get pissy about it.”
    â€œDon’t whine until I’m through chewing your ass out,” Cindy said. “Just listen. Get this straight. You do not ever offer drugs to Catherine. Not crack, not ’ludes, not Ecstasy, not pot, not Jack Daniels, not Miller Lite. You do not make jokes about it. You do not talk about it. You do not think about it.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I—”
    â€œShut up. You do not even begin to think about it. If you find yourself thinking about it, you get a hammer and hit yourself in the balls until you stop thinking about it. You got that?”
    â€œYes—OOF! Jesus , Cindy!”
    â€œGood. Because if you don’t, I will.”
    There might have been more, but Marjorie figured she had the gist. She decided to go in search of other facilities.

Chapter Twelve
    Colonel Mustard in the bedroom with the fireplace. What a precious little cliché this is turning into. Michaelson had the satisfaction of seeing Avery Phillips give the front room of Demarest’s flat a deer-in-the-headlights look as Michaelson offered this comment from the corner armchair. Phillips had just come in and the disposable surgical gloves on his hands suggested that he had been expecting solitude.
    â€œAren’t you glad to see me, A.P.?” Michaelson asked. “You look as jumpy as a gambler holding aces and eights with his back to the door. And where are Willie and Project, by the way?”
    â€œKeeping their eyes open nearby in case the police get ambitious enough to take a look at this place before tomorrow morning. There’s another jurisdiction involved, so I don’t really expect that kind of company tonight, but you can’t be too careful.”
    â€œQuite right,” Michaelson said with a diffident smile.
    â€œAnd as long