Thirty-One
T. C. COOK SAT in his office, several files open before him. The victims of the Palindrome Murders each had their own. He had compiled a fairly complete record of their lives, including photos, both of the family variety and individual and group shots from school. He knew that there were those in the force, especially during his last months of service, who thought he had crossed the border from diligence to obsession. But someone had to be on it.
Cook had stayed directly connected to the case for a couple of years. By the third killing, anger in the Southeast community had focused on the police force, the presumption being that the case was not being prioritized because the victims were black. Cook eventually earned the residents’ trust. He had advised a neighborhood citizen task force with tips on how to keep their kids safe. Then concerns about drug murders began to supersede those related to the child killings, which had seemingly stopped, and the talk at the meetings turned to matters regarding gangs, dealers, and crack cocaine. As for the relatives of the victims, they formed a group called Palindrome Parents and met twice a month, more for therapy than anything else. Cook attended these meetings as well.
But after a year or so he lost touch with them. One couple, the mother and father of Ava Simmons, was separated from the start. Another got divorced soon after the murder of their son, Otto Williams. The father of Eve Drake committed suicide on the second anniversary of the discovery of his daughter’s body. The mother had become close to catatonic and was committed to a mental institution the following winter.
Cook studied the photographs. Otto Williams, a smart young man who liked to build things, wore eyeglasses, and, despite his nerdy appearance, was popular with his peers. Ava Simmons, thirteen when she was murdered, with the body of a girl in her late teens, funny, sassy by all accounts, not much of a student but street smart, and devoted to her grandmother, who lived in the family’s house. And Eve Drake, the double-Dutch girl who had traveled to tournaments and won awards that she proudly displayed in her immaculate room.
Cook felt their presence in the room.
The doorbell rang out. Cook went to the front of the house and let Holiday inside. Holiday was wearing his black suit.
“Why didn’t you call me?” said Holiday.
“I c-couldn’t get the number right. You need to program it into my speed dial. Might as well do that now.”
“Did you talk to your lieutenant friend?”
“I got it. Come on in.”
They went into the kitchen. Cook poured Holiday a cup of coffee while Holiday programmed Cook’s cell.
“Thanks,” said Holiday, as Cook put the cup of coffee before him. “What do you got?”
“The officer’s name is Grady Dunne,” said Cook. “Six-year veteran. White dude, like you said.”
“Is he working tonight?”
“He’s on the eight-to-four today. We can catch him clocking out.”
“Beautiful,” said Holiday. “I’ve got an airport run that should take me a couple of hours. I can be at the station by four, no problem.”
“We just gonna follow him?”
“A double should do it. It’s harder to burn a tail like that.”
“We’ll see what he’s about,” said Cook.
Holiday reached into each of his jacket side pockets and pulled out two Motorola professional-grade walkie-talkies. He put them on the table.
“I bring these when I’m working a team with my security business,” said Holiday. “Six-mile capability. The beauty is, they’re voice activated. You can drive and use them at the same time.”
“And no numbers for me to mess up.”
“We’ll be golden.”
“I’ve got some good binoculars in the trunk of my Marquis. Maybe you better take ’em. You can ID him as he comes out of the station.”
“Right.” Holiday looked at the clock on the wall, its hands off by hours. He got up out of his chair, took the clock down, flipped it over, and reset the time. He matched the hole on the back of it to the nail coming out of the wall and straightened it. “There you go.”
It had made Holiday sad to look at the clock as it was. He had reset it for himself, not the old man.
“Makes no difference to me,” said Cook. “But thanks.”
“So your El Salvador lady knows the correct time.”
“All right, friend.”
“T.C.…”
“What?”
“I talked to Ramone.”
“You told me. He wouldn’t make the call and find the identity of the patrol car’s driver. I wouldn’t have done it for you, either, you want the truth.”
“It’s not that. It’s just, I sensed from his voice, the urgency in it, I mean, that he was getting close on the Asa Johnson murder.”
“You don’t think Asa Johnson’s connected to the Palindrome killings, do you?”
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“I won’t be,” said Cook. “It’s going to sound callous, I know, but I’ve had fun these past few days. No, fun’s not the right word. I’ve had purpose. When I’ve woken up these last couple of mornings, my eyes came wide open; do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s just see where this leads us. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And knock off that ‘sir’ bullshit, too. I never made it past sergeant, young man.”
“Right.” Holiday took a long swig of his coffee and placed the mug back on the table. “I’ve got to take off.”
“See you at four,” said Cook.
He stayed in the kitchen and listened as Holiday closed the front door behind him. Cook could hear the thin voices of the police Internet site, dispatcher to patrolman, coming from his computer. And something else: the faint sound of children laughing. Knowing that it was not possible, knowing, too, that he was not alone.