Eyes Wide Open by Andrew Gross Page B

glasses and folded them on his desk. Then he blew out a long breath, friendlier now. “Look, why not go back home, doc? You’re wasting your time trying to rake things up here. You’re a sensible guy . . . You deal in facts, right? And I know you can see how your nephew may have done your brother and his wife kind of a cockeyed favor. We both know—next month, next year—the next time he went unhinged, we’d be cleaning up a whole different level of mess here. You understanding what I’m saying, doc?”
    “There are other police, you know. Homicide. Someone would be interested in this.”
    “Oh, yeah.” Sherwood’s grin radiated with amusement. “And after yesterday, they’re all just dying to team up with you, doc. You be sure and give ’em my best.”
    “I’m not leaving,” I said. I got up. “Not now. Not until I find out what Zorn may have wanted with Evan.”
    Sherwood sighed. He picked up his phone, the friendliness melting into resignation. I watched him punch in a number, and I was about to say something I’d regret when he suddenly raised his eyes back up to me, as if to say, You’re still here?
    “Did your brother know this detective? This guy who was killed?”
    “He said no. He’d never heard of him before.”
    The person Sherwood was calling came on the line, but he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, only the tiniest softening of his gaze, his irritation morphing into something that, if you knew him better, might have almost looked like a smile.
    “Don’t wait by the phone.”

Chapter Twenty-One
    C harlie sat at the kitchen table in his T-shirt and shorts, sipping his morning coffee.
    He didn’t know how the detective who’d been killed might’ve figured in with Evan. Only that, with the sneaker he had found, it gave him the slightest spark of hope that what he knew in his heart was true: that his son hadn’t jumped off that rock on his own. He would never have hurt them in that way.
    To him, this was just another rung on the long ladder of how he’d been screwed over in his life. Beginning with his father. To the doctors Charlie had seen, who never truly understood him. Who had put him on brain-numbing meds for thirty years. To the state—how they barely gave him and Gabby enough to squeeze by. How they had placed Evan with all his young promise in that crap hole of a school, filled with future meth heads and gang members. Who chewed his son up and spit him out, and started him on his decline.
    “You see, Gabby, you see!” Charlie said, his pulse pounding. If it wasn’t clear to that stupid detective what had happened, it was clear to him. “He didn’t kill himself after all. I know the truth. Evan’s sneaker. They never even made an attempt to find it. You know what that means, don’t you? His sneaker, Gabby, I’m telling you, that’s the key.”
    “You have to calm down, Charlie,” Gabby said. “You’re in a rant. Jay will handle it for us. Here . . .”
    She doled out his pills—trazodone to calm him down, felodipine and Caduet for his blood pressure, Quapro for the kidneys, Klonopin to calm his shakes. Six or seven others. She laid them out in a long line on the counter. The blue one was lithium. He’d taken it for thirty years, and now his kidneys were starting to break down.
    “Here, Charlie,” she said, shuffling up in her robe, putting them into a small dish, and giving him a glass of orange juice.
    He swallowed them in one gulp.
    “Good boy, my husband,” she said, petting him on his shoulder. Then she sat down in the chair next to him, strain etched in her face. And grief—grief no one should have to bear. Today was no different than it would be every day. Every day for the rest of their lives. He could see she was an inch from tears.
    “Jay says they’ll have to reopen the investigation,” he said, upbeat, trying to make her happy. He squeezed her hand.
    “I always thought my boy was crazy,” Gabby said. “Talking to that thing over