He leaned back in his chair and propped his right ankle on his left knee, which was the most relaxed she’d ever seen him. And she wasn’t going to check out his socks. No way. “Please don’t misunderstand, because we’re all grateful you took an interest when Kline retired. And you’re here on your own time—you could have been home a couple of hours ago—which is above and beyond and that isn’t a criticism at all. I think—we think you’re great to do this. But . . . why? There must be thousands of old cases. And you probably have a dozen open files at any given time.”*
He laughed. “Only on my days off. On my days on, I have more.”
“Right. So . . .” She spread her hands, palms up. “Why us?”
He answered at once, with zero hesitation. “Because your uncle could have been me. I was the druggie lowlife and my brother was the golden boy. Pure good luck that I’m not behind bars, and don’t have an arrest record. Pure bad luck that my brother’s in the ground.”
I can’t believe he told me that. I love that he told me that. What to say to that? That one, at least, she could answer. The Drakes tried, whenever possible, to ascribe to the K.I.S.S.* theory. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. To finish answering your question, my chart-obsessed captain likes challenged and productive detectives, and your family’s history resonated. We had to share a floor with CCD when one of our detectives was accidentally exposed to—”
“Scabies!” she cried. Ack. Don’t sound so enthusiastic. “I, uh, heard. It was the talk of the courthouse for a while. And it definitely wasn’t funny.”*
“No,” he replied soberly. “It wasn’t. They had to fumigate the entire floor as well as the booking area.”
“Awful.”
“The officer had to seek medical treatment.”
“These kids today.”
“It certainly wasn’t funny.” Maybe not, but he was smiling broadly at her. So broadly, in fact . . . Gah, dimple alert!
“No,” she managed, then gave up and laughed so hard she was dizzy with it.
When they both calmed down a bit, he continued, “While we were sharing space, Detective Kline would com—comment. He would comment on the case. Frequently. Over time, I was intrigued. And I saw you once. When you came to express your dismay at Detective Kline’s, ah, priorities.”
She remembered. She had expressed a great deal of dismay. So much dismay that she’d almost been arrested. So much dismay she hadn’t noticed the gorgeous Detective Chambers, doubtless a subtle and mature presence in the background. “Bad day,” she said shortly. “And Kline and I didn’t have a warm working relationship. Or even a cordial one. Or an effective one. Mostly because he didn’t think we were working together.”
“His error.”
“Thank you.”
“Your father’s case intrigued me and my captain didn’t mind me taking a look. But I’m sorry to say that, even with your help, I’m deadlocked.”
She nodded. “So my dad’s case goes back into the freezer, so to speak.”
“Yes.”
“I understand. I’m not thrilled,” she warned, “but I get it. And it was above and beyond for you to come by in person to tell me.” Agh. Presumptive much? “Tell us, I mean. Keep us all in the loop. That’s really all I wanted from Kline—to be in the loop, y’know?” To not be forgotten, the way my father’s been forgotten. The way my mother’s been forgotten, even by herself.
He nodded. “Understandable.”
“My mom, she’ll be relieved.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She’s been after me to let Dad lie, so to speak. She hates all the time I’ve put into it. She mourns him, of course. But I think sometimes it’s more because she felt cheated of the chance to verbally smack him around some more. They had passion, but they weren’t a love match and also, why am I telling you this?”
“Because I like to listen?”
She snorted. “Good thing you’re a cop, then.” She realized she was leaning forward, almost hovering over him, and forced herself to ease off. “I’m not entirely delusional—I didn’t think we were in a seventies detective show, working together to defeat some nameless villain, evil is punished, roll credits, and cue the terrible soundtrack.”
“Something like ‘For What It’s Worth’ by Buffalo Springfield. Or Steppenwolf’s ‘Born to Be Wild.’”
She could feel herself light up. “Yes! Perfect.”
“Your doorbell. I like it.”
“Oh, God.” She hid her eyes with one hand. “Blame my brothers.”
“Or thank them,” he teased.
“They’re huge Tarantino fans. That song plays over the end credits of—”
“Death Proof. ”
She dropped her hand. “Tarantino fan?”
“Not really. He’s loud, and not subtle. But he thinks he is, which gets old.”
“You’ve described almost all of my blood relatives.”
He laughed again. “To be honest, his movies remind me of my job. So they aren’t escapist for me. But I love his soundtracks. They’re eclectic and, unlike virtually everything else he does, subtle.”
All I had to do was invite him over and let him lean on our doorbell and I could have seen a dimple! Argh, so many missed opportunities. And the dimple.
“But we’re getting off track,” he reminded her. “As I was saying, I’ve got nothing new for the file.”
“I know. It was beyond decent of you to come here and tell us yourself.”
“But.” He leaned forward, his blue-eyed gaze never wavering. “I would imagine you’ll keep working it.”
Angela could feel herself flush with pleasure. Kline had never, not once, referred to her assistance as “working the case.” Unless “Jesus Christ, I don’t need a civilian getting in my way!” was code for “working the case.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Commendable.”
She took a page out of his book and deadpanned, “No.”
He laughed. Again! “Had that one coming. But listen, if anything comes up or I think of anything, I’ll get in touch right away.”
“Thank you so much!” Why am I excited? It’s not like he asked me out. “And could I call you if I have a question or run across something new? Or should I pester CCD?”
“Please pester me. If it’s beyond my scope, I’ll be glad to hand you off to one of their detectives.”
Again: Why am I so psyched? It’s not like I asked him out, either.
She knew why. It was an excuse to see him again, however slim. My dad’s killer might not ever be found which makes me happy because I can occasionally call Jason Chambers. That’s fucked up.
“Aw, you two are cute.” Jack bustled over with armfuls of plates. “Soup’s on. Not literally.”
Jason inhaled. “Something smells wonderful.”
Her little brother beamed. “That’d be my cologne, also known as Dawn Ultra dishwashing liquid. Or Angela’s perfume, Eau de Office Max.”
“Angela wears Dune.” Jason paused. “Sorry. I think that might be one of those things I shouldn’t have picked up on. Or, having deduced it, shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Not a problem,” Angela managed, because all the spit in her mouth had dried up. Drinks chocolate milk. Great socks. Wonderful smile. Hard worker. Atoning for adolescent bad behavior. Notices my perfume. I might die. I might die right here in the kitchen at the turtle table. I’m coming, Dad! Soon we’ll be together!
“Or maybe you’re smelling . . .” Jack presented their meals with a graceful flourish. “Steak Diane with mushroom risotto. Those’re reheated from last night but the endive and watercress salad I just made.” He turned and shrieked, “Any of you useless fuckwads want to stuff your mouth holes, get your asses to the turtle table!”
Angela started to turn back to Jason to apologize, and almost missed his chuckle. He was already sawing into his steak.
“Thanks, Jacky.” Angela managed—barely—to not clap her hands. “Oh, looks wonderful.”
“Well, you liked it well enough last night, so.” But he was pleased. Whew! Because there was a careful balance to complimenting Jack: too far in the take-him-for-granted category and your next three meals would taste like bacon mixed with paper towels and tears. Go too far in the other direction, he was too embarrassed to go near the kitchen for a day.
“Oh. God.” Jason looked up, chewing furiously. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure. “Outstanding.”
Jacky jabbed her in the ribs and muttered, “Marry this man.”
Don’t tease, Jack.
Paul chose that moment to breeze in. “Can I have extra meat? Instead of the salad? Or the risotto? I’d also like meat for dessert. Two desserts.”