He’s James Morrison.”
She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “He’s Jim Morrison.”
Ham chuckled.
About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.
“Are you working now?” Grace asked her.
The woman nodded. “For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.” She smiled sadly. “Or make the attempt. It’s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.” She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.
“Tell Kendra Burke that,” Ham muttered.
Jamal’s image blossomed in Grace’s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’d make a donation to Get Out Now.
Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.
“If you think of anything, please call,” Grace said.
“If you get my sign back, please let me know,” she replied. “It’s very … unnerving to think that someone committed a crime with my sign on their door.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing you’re out of the business,” Grace replied.
When they left, Ham turned to Grace. “She was nervous around us. White cops, man.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. Wind blasted around her,flapping at her olive-green jacket. “White cops. Jim Morrison.”
It was almost ten by the time they drove past OKC Home Realtors. Big building of genteel brick, closer to downtown than Syndee Barlett’s residence, the whole thing leased to James Alan Morrison III. The lights were off and nobody was home.
“We can check the land sale through the Public Access System, get the title report,” Grace said. “Talk to him next week. No sense waving a red flag.”
“Yeah,” Ham replied. “No sense.”
It was Sunday at three in the afternoon, and rocket club was almost over. As Grace drove to the launch site on the prairie by the North Canadian River, she checked her phone for word from Ham. He had returned to battle over their warrant. No news yet.
She had volunteered to pick up Clay; Doug had taken his car in for a tune-up after Mass and it looked like he needed some brake work.
Pulling Connie over, she got out, admiring the brilliance of the sky against some distant green hills. It was as if the wind had blown all the gray away, leaving a vast field of cornflower blue hanging overhead like the dome of a basilica. Malcolm would never see another day like this.
There were two groups shooting off rockets today, Clay’s school club and the local branch of the big Tripoli organization. The parish kids had come in a big van; the Tripoli guys had SUVs and shop trucks. There were a couple of ATVs—all-terrain vehicles—used for retrieving the rockets, as she recalled. The groups were situated close together, probably so they could share tools and advice, all very civic and fun.
She walked over gravel and dirt, giving a wave atyoung Father Alan, who was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, his clerical collar, and a baseball cap. He had hairy arms. A group of young boys thronged a two-foot-tall cylinder painted red, white, and blue. Grace didn’t spot Clay among them.
Fingers in her belt loops, she ambled on over to the rocketeers. The cute young priest smiled at her. Father Alan had invited her to Mass every single time she’d picked up Clay at some function or other. She had absolutely no doubt that he was praying for her to come back to the church. Probably had Clay doing that, too. Maybe Clay worried about her soul at night, fretted that if she died he wouldn’t see her up in heaven, like he was gonna see his mom.
“Hi, Father,” she said. “Where’s Clay?”
Father Alan frowned and looked around. “He and Forrest went to retrieve a rocket.” He glanced at his watch. “But they should have been back by now.”
Tough times
.
She got a little scared.
“Where?”
She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “He’s Jim Morrison.”
Ham chuckled.
About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.
“Are you working now?” Grace asked her.
The woman nodded. “For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.” She smiled sadly. “Or make the attempt. It’s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.” She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.
“Tell Kendra Burke that,” Ham muttered.
Jamal’s image blossomed in Grace’s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’d make a donation to Get Out Now.
Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.
“If you think of anything, please call,” Grace said.
“If you get my sign back, please let me know,” she replied. “It’s very … unnerving to think that someone committed a crime with my sign on their door.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing you’re out of the business,” Grace replied.
When they left, Ham turned to Grace. “She was nervous around us. White cops, man.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. Wind blasted around her,flapping at her olive-green jacket. “White cops. Jim Morrison.”
It was almost ten by the time they drove past OKC Home Realtors. Big building of genteel brick, closer to downtown than Syndee Barlett’s residence, the whole thing leased to James Alan Morrison III. The lights were off and nobody was home.
“We can check the land sale through the Public Access System, get the title report,” Grace said. “Talk to him next week. No sense waving a red flag.”
“Yeah,” Ham replied. “No sense.”
It was Sunday at three in the afternoon, and rocket club was almost over. As Grace drove to the launch site on the prairie by the North Canadian River, she checked her phone for word from Ham. He had returned to battle over their warrant. No news yet.
She had volunteered to pick up Clay; Doug had taken his car in for a tune-up after Mass and it looked like he needed some brake work.
Pulling Connie over, she got out, admiring the brilliance of the sky against some distant green hills. It was as if the wind had blown all the gray away, leaving a vast field of cornflower blue hanging overhead like the dome of a basilica. Malcolm would never see another day like this.
There were two groups shooting off rockets today, Clay’s school club and the local branch of the big Tripoli organization. The parish kids had come in a big van; the Tripoli guys had SUVs and shop trucks. There were a couple of ATVs—all-terrain vehicles—used for retrieving the rockets, as she recalled. The groups were situated close together, probably so they could share tools and advice, all very civic and fun.
She walked over gravel and dirt, giving a wave atyoung Father Alan, who was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, his clerical collar, and a baseball cap. He had hairy arms. A group of young boys thronged a two-foot-tall cylinder painted red, white, and blue. Grace didn’t spot Clay among them.
Fingers in her belt loops, she ambled on over to the rocketeers. The cute young priest smiled at her. Father Alan had invited her to Mass every single time she’d picked up Clay at some function or other. She had absolutely no doubt that he was praying for her to come back to the church. Probably had Clay doing that, too. Maybe Clay worried about her soul at night, fretted that if she died he wouldn’t see her up in heaven, like he was gonna see his mom.
“Hi, Father,” she said. “Where’s Clay?”
Father Alan frowned and looked around. “He and Forrest went to retrieve a rocket.” He glanced at his watch. “But they should have been back by now.”
Tough times
.
She got a little scared.
“Where?”
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