than anyone’s made me aware of yet.”
Recognizing a thinly disguised question when she heard one, McCreary said, “As far as I know, Mr. Gunner, Tommy’s life in St. Louis was just as innocuous as it appeared to be. Tommy liked it that way.”
Gunner nodded, reviving the headache he’d been presented with down in Jack Frerotte’s basement. Watching him rub the back of his head with one hand, wincing, McCreary asked if he’d like her to go get him some ice.
“No thanks. I’m on my way out.” He stood up.
“What are you going to do?” McCreary asked, getting to her own feet.
“Go home and get out of these clothes, for one thing. Shower and get some sleep, for another. After that, I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
McCreary walked him to the door, held it open for him as he stepped out into the hall. “If you want, I can call Lydia and Irene, ask if either of them knows who this DOB could be,” she said.
“That would be helpful, thanks,” Gunner said.
“You said you couldn’t see the face in the photograph. The one you said you found in this man’s house—Frerotte, was it?—before it burned down.” She paused. “Should I take that to mean there’s still a chance my brother’s alive?”
Gunner had hoped she wouldn’t ask the question, disliking the answer he knew he would have to give her. “You want my professional opinion, or a more optimistic one?”
“I’d prefer the professional one, of course. But I think I just heard it, didn’t I?”
Gunner nodded, grateful that nothing more needed to be said. He was hurting and needed sleep, and the anger he had come here with was all used up, leaving him drained and listless.
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Gunner. Good night,” McCreary said.
Gunner watched her close the door on him, then quickly walked away.
On the long ride home, he thought about her terry cloth robe, and the smooth, well-rounded body it enveloped.
It was a small pleasure, and one that he could only now enjoy. Lusting after his client while breaking the news of her brother’s death would have been inexcusable, the conduct of a boor. And had he allowed himself to contemplate what she looked like in such a partial state of dress, how badly he was starting to want her, while she was still within reach …
Better that he go to bed tonight with the mere hope of someday being with her, than the knowledge that he never would.
Proud, then, to have proven himself yet again a man of tremendous moral character, he drove straight home, went directly to his lonely bedroom, and found two messages waiting for him on his answering machine there. The first one was from Mickey, informing him that Sly Cribbs had been looking for him, and that Mickey had given the kid Gunner’s number at home—he hoped that was okay. The second message, predictably, was from Sly himself.
“Yo, Mr. Gunner. I got ’em. I got the pictures.” Sly laughed. “Wait ’til you check this shit out. You’re not gonna believe it. Man, it is wack! I’m havin’ the prints developed now. I’ll bring ’em by your office first thing in the mornin’. Peace.”
Gunner wasn’t sure he could wait until morning to hear the details, but the clock on his nightstand said it was well after midnight, no time to be calling the kid’s household and raising his mother out of bed. Sly was probably in enough trouble for disappearing on his mom earlier as it was.
So Gunner just showered and went to bed as planned, unaware that neither Sly nor his mother would have been available to take his call, even if he had chosen to make it.
seven
M ICKEY SAID , “T ELL ME WHAT I HEARD THIS MORNIN ’ AIN ’ T true. Tell me Jack Frerotte’s house didn’t burn down last night.”
“We’ll talk about it later, Mickey. I’m busy right now.”
“I’m the one got you the keys to the man’s house, Gunner. If I’m about to go to jail for that—”
“Nobody’s going to go to jail, Mickey. Now,
Recognizing a thinly disguised question when she heard one, McCreary said, “As far as I know, Mr. Gunner, Tommy’s life in St. Louis was just as innocuous as it appeared to be. Tommy liked it that way.”
Gunner nodded, reviving the headache he’d been presented with down in Jack Frerotte’s basement. Watching him rub the back of his head with one hand, wincing, McCreary asked if he’d like her to go get him some ice.
“No thanks. I’m on my way out.” He stood up.
“What are you going to do?” McCreary asked, getting to her own feet.
“Go home and get out of these clothes, for one thing. Shower and get some sleep, for another. After that, I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
McCreary walked him to the door, held it open for him as he stepped out into the hall. “If you want, I can call Lydia and Irene, ask if either of them knows who this DOB could be,” she said.
“That would be helpful, thanks,” Gunner said.
“You said you couldn’t see the face in the photograph. The one you said you found in this man’s house—Frerotte, was it?—before it burned down.” She paused. “Should I take that to mean there’s still a chance my brother’s alive?”
Gunner had hoped she wouldn’t ask the question, disliking the answer he knew he would have to give her. “You want my professional opinion, or a more optimistic one?”
“I’d prefer the professional one, of course. But I think I just heard it, didn’t I?”
Gunner nodded, grateful that nothing more needed to be said. He was hurting and needed sleep, and the anger he had come here with was all used up, leaving him drained and listless.
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Gunner. Good night,” McCreary said.
Gunner watched her close the door on him, then quickly walked away.
On the long ride home, he thought about her terry cloth robe, and the smooth, well-rounded body it enveloped.
It was a small pleasure, and one that he could only now enjoy. Lusting after his client while breaking the news of her brother’s death would have been inexcusable, the conduct of a boor. And had he allowed himself to contemplate what she looked like in such a partial state of dress, how badly he was starting to want her, while she was still within reach …
Better that he go to bed tonight with the mere hope of someday being with her, than the knowledge that he never would.
Proud, then, to have proven himself yet again a man of tremendous moral character, he drove straight home, went directly to his lonely bedroom, and found two messages waiting for him on his answering machine there. The first one was from Mickey, informing him that Sly Cribbs had been looking for him, and that Mickey had given the kid Gunner’s number at home—he hoped that was okay. The second message, predictably, was from Sly himself.
“Yo, Mr. Gunner. I got ’em. I got the pictures.” Sly laughed. “Wait ’til you check this shit out. You’re not gonna believe it. Man, it is wack! I’m havin’ the prints developed now. I’ll bring ’em by your office first thing in the mornin’. Peace.”
Gunner wasn’t sure he could wait until morning to hear the details, but the clock on his nightstand said it was well after midnight, no time to be calling the kid’s household and raising his mother out of bed. Sly was probably in enough trouble for disappearing on his mom earlier as it was.
So Gunner just showered and went to bed as planned, unaware that neither Sly nor his mother would have been available to take his call, even if he had chosen to make it.
seven
M ICKEY SAID , “T ELL ME WHAT I HEARD THIS MORNIN ’ AIN ’ T true. Tell me Jack Frerotte’s house didn’t burn down last night.”
“We’ll talk about it later, Mickey. I’m busy right now.”
“I’m the one got you the keys to the man’s house, Gunner. If I’m about to go to jail for that—”
“Nobody’s going to go to jail, Mickey. Now,
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