it.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“And what’s happening tonight?” she asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“We’re discussing a case,” said Wingate. “I wonder if the criminals in your day were anything like the people we deal with now.”
“Criminals are always angry,” said Emily. “Whenever Evan noticed something missing in the store, he’d say, ‘Better he took a shirt than punched someone in the mouth.’ ” She settled in one of the two free chairs, not noticing how Hazel was watching her. “That man knew the price of salt, but he’d let a person walk all over him if he thought it would make a better world. Is there more of that?” she asked, nodding at the coffee. “It feels like six a.m., but it’s not, is it?”
Hazel poured her a cup and made her a sandwich out of a Kraft Single on whole-grain bread with mayonnaise and a crispy rib of romaine lettuce. This had been herown favourite lunch when she was a kid. Every family had its standby. She’d learned early on that a certain look in Andrew’s eye could be wiped away with careful application of homemade meatloaf. She’d learned the recipe – beef, pork, veal, prunes, and bacon – from Andrew’s mother.
“You two chat,” Emily said, accepting the sandwich. Hazel had cut it in two diagonally.
“Time to get some rest, James,” Hazel said.
Wingate got up and tipped his cap. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mrs. Micallef.”
“I am not feeling better, James. I am sucking wind and that is about it.”
When he’d gone, Hazel asked, “Do you even remember this morning, Mom?”
“Yes,” said Emily, taking a chunk out of her sandwich. “I was going on like a fool.”
“You thought it was 1957.”
“I smoked a cigarette. I can still taste it.”
Hazel shook her head in wonder. “Did you at least enjoy it?”
“Not at all.” She looked up at her daughter and smiled wanly, although there was a wisp of wickedness in it. “I don’t much think about that time anymore, but there was a lot going on in our lives. Before everything happened.” She picked up the other half of the sandwich. “Here we go,” she said. “Down the long slide to happiness, endlessly.”
She ate with gusto.
] 10 [
Friday evening
Instead of going home, Detective Sergeant James Wingate drove back to Tournament Acres. He had not slept in thirty-six hours.
There was still a team at the Fremonts’, and many of the homes on the western side of the development were fully lit. When Wingate found him, Givens was watching the SOCOs go in and out of the Fremont house on his close-circuit feed from Fuzzy Zoeller. Cameras ringed the development at intervals of five hundred metres. The various feeds displayed across the fifty-inch flat screen in his office. A couple of the feeds were busy with people flowing back and forth under lights.
He sat in a huge, padded chair, his injured leg up on a rolling drinks cart. A half-empty glass decanter was at hiselbow. “This is bad,” he said. Wingate thought he meant his knee, but the man shook his remote at the screen. “Look at all that.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Givens? Say, after eleven o’clock?”
“I was monkeyfucking drunk. In my suite.”
“Were you with anyone?”
He sneered. “Sure. I was with my harem.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask. You knew the Fremonts, surely.”
“Lovely people. They had me over for canapés after they moved in.”
Wingate’s head went
canned apes
. “Do you think anyone would have had a reason to harm them?”
“Oh, gosh no.” Givens reached for a shot glass from the cart, filled it from the decanter, and drank it down. “They kept to themselves.”
“Were they on any of the homeowners’ committees? Did they have problems with their property, for instance?”
“How many years do you think separates them? I bet you can’t guess.”
“Fourteen.”
“How did you know?”
“They’re dead. I know how old they were.” Givens
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“And what’s happening tonight?” she asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“We’re discussing a case,” said Wingate. “I wonder if the criminals in your day were anything like the people we deal with now.”
“Criminals are always angry,” said Emily. “Whenever Evan noticed something missing in the store, he’d say, ‘Better he took a shirt than punched someone in the mouth.’ ” She settled in one of the two free chairs, not noticing how Hazel was watching her. “That man knew the price of salt, but he’d let a person walk all over him if he thought it would make a better world. Is there more of that?” she asked, nodding at the coffee. “It feels like six a.m., but it’s not, is it?”
Hazel poured her a cup and made her a sandwich out of a Kraft Single on whole-grain bread with mayonnaise and a crispy rib of romaine lettuce. This had been herown favourite lunch when she was a kid. Every family had its standby. She’d learned early on that a certain look in Andrew’s eye could be wiped away with careful application of homemade meatloaf. She’d learned the recipe – beef, pork, veal, prunes, and bacon – from Andrew’s mother.
“You two chat,” Emily said, accepting the sandwich. Hazel had cut it in two diagonally.
“Time to get some rest, James,” Hazel said.
Wingate got up and tipped his cap. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mrs. Micallef.”
“I am not feeling better, James. I am sucking wind and that is about it.”
When he’d gone, Hazel asked, “Do you even remember this morning, Mom?”
“Yes,” said Emily, taking a chunk out of her sandwich. “I was going on like a fool.”
“You thought it was 1957.”
“I smoked a cigarette. I can still taste it.”
Hazel shook her head in wonder. “Did you at least enjoy it?”
“Not at all.” She looked up at her daughter and smiled wanly, although there was a wisp of wickedness in it. “I don’t much think about that time anymore, but there was a lot going on in our lives. Before everything happened.” She picked up the other half of the sandwich. “Here we go,” she said. “Down the long slide to happiness, endlessly.”
She ate with gusto.
] 10 [
Friday evening
Instead of going home, Detective Sergeant James Wingate drove back to Tournament Acres. He had not slept in thirty-six hours.
There was still a team at the Fremonts’, and many of the homes on the western side of the development were fully lit. When Wingate found him, Givens was watching the SOCOs go in and out of the Fremont house on his close-circuit feed from Fuzzy Zoeller. Cameras ringed the development at intervals of five hundred metres. The various feeds displayed across the fifty-inch flat screen in his office. A couple of the feeds were busy with people flowing back and forth under lights.
He sat in a huge, padded chair, his injured leg up on a rolling drinks cart. A half-empty glass decanter was at hiselbow. “This is bad,” he said. Wingate thought he meant his knee, but the man shook his remote at the screen. “Look at all that.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Givens? Say, after eleven o’clock?”
“I was monkeyfucking drunk. In my suite.”
“Were you with anyone?”
He sneered. “Sure. I was with my harem.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask. You knew the Fremonts, surely.”
“Lovely people. They had me over for canapés after they moved in.”
Wingate’s head went
canned apes
. “Do you think anyone would have had a reason to harm them?”
“Oh, gosh no.” Givens reached for a shot glass from the cart, filled it from the decanter, and drank it down. “They kept to themselves.”
“Were they on any of the homeowners’ committees? Did they have problems with their property, for instance?”
“How many years do you think separates them? I bet you can’t guess.”
“Fourteen.”
“How did you know?”
“They’re dead. I know how old they were.” Givens
Similar Books
