Little Deaths

There was a pause, and then: “Three years. A little over. Since I made detective.”

Pete nodded. “He reminds me of a guy I used to work for. One time, he gave me a report to proof. Five thousand words, at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon. Told me it had to be done by Monday morning. And I had a camping trip planned that weekend with my buddy.”

He sipped his coffee. Shook his head. Waited.

And Quinn said, “So what did you do?”

“Went on the trip. Got back Sunday night with the worst goddamn hangover of my life. Went straight to bed and the next morning, I told him the report was perfect and he was a genius.”

That got him a grin and a nod. Pete put down his mug.

“Listen, Detective, I need to ask you a favor.”

“I told you, I can’t talk about the case.”

“I know, I know. What I need is just a few facts. Information I could get from anyone. Most of it I already know—you can just confirm what I have.”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

“You won’t be mentioned by name.”

“Facts? Like what?”

“Like how long the kids have been missing. And the father’s job—where does he work?”

“He’s a mechanic over at the airport.”

“Fixing engines, that kind of thing?”

“I guess.”

“Okay—listen, you mind if I take a few notes? Just to remind me. My memory ain’t so good sometimes.”

Quinn shrugged.

“So does he work shifts? The father?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he at work when the kids went missing?”

“No, but he don’t live with them. He and the mother are separated.”

“Tough on him. Not being with his family.”

“Guess so.”

Pete shook his head. Exhaled loudly. Then—trying to appear casual—“Say, you want another cup of coffee? Slice of pie? Bet you’ve been working damn hard recently.”

“We’ve been doing door-to-door interviews for two days straight. We got ’bout three hundred cops searching for that boy. Helicopters, too.”

Pete shook his head. “And in this heat.”

He ordered more coffee. Two slices of pecan pie with ice cream.

“All those interviews get you anywhere?”

“Well, I can’t . . .”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean specifics. I just meant . . . you know, generally. Is it going well?”

Quinn shook his head. “Just the usual. A few suspicious wives, couple of stories about the creepy guy in the next building. There’s always a lot of that kinda thing. But still, everything’s got to be checked, cross-checked, eliminated.”

“How are the parents holding up? Got to be real tough for them.”

“The father’s in pieces. It’s hard to see a man like that.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a nice guy. Just . . . normal, you know? Ain’t too bright. He wants to believe they just climbed out of the window and ran off. That the girl was . . . that it was an accident. I don’t think he gets it. Maybe it’s the shock. Or he’s a little slow.”

Pete thought about the photograph he’d taken of the stroller beneath the kids’ window. Even if someone else had pushed the large baby carriage across the grass with the box on top, two small children couldn’t have opened the window and taken the screen off.

Their desserts arrived and they chewed in silence for a few moments. Then Quinn said, “Yeah, the father’s a nice guy. But the mother, well, she’s something else.”

“She was there? That night?”

“Yeah. Says she checked on the kids at midnight, went to sleep at three-thirty, four. Found they were missing in the morning. And there ain’t no one to contradict that since she separated from the father.”

“How long they been separated?”

“Almost a year and a half. Since last spring. And believe me, she’s making the best of it. Makeup, clothes, all that. She don’t look how a woman should look when her kids go missing. She works nights. Two little kids and she’s a waitress in some goddamn bar.”

He shook his head, scooped up another spoonful of ice cream and rolled it around his mouth.

“And the apartment was a mess—a ton of empty liquor bottles in the trash. There was brandy on her breath at eleven in the morning. Turns out she’s got a record as well. We’ve had guys from the station at that address a few times. Noise, drinking, all that.”

Pete exhaled slowly. “Jeez. That’s not right.”

“That ain’t all. She had a suitcase in her bedroom full of letters. From men. Not just her husband—lots of men. And they weren’t talking about the weather, if you get my drift.”

Quinn stared ahead for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table.

“My boss”—he nodded toward the door—“he took her to see her daughter’s body yesterday. Wanted to get a straight-up reaction from her, he said. And there was nothing. Nothing till she saw the goddamn reporters. And even then—no tears. She fainted for the cameras but she never cried, not when she saw the girl, and not afterward.”

He took a gulp of coffee.

“The sergeant wants us to keep an eye on the mother. Dig down some. He thinks there’s something there, and if we keep digging, we’ll find it.”

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