“Something like that.” She didn’t mention the rest: that she’d bought the car two weeks after Adrian Wall stopped her from jumping to her death in the cold, black waters of the quarry; that she would drive it for hours on end; that for more years than she cared to count, it was the only good thing in her life. “What’s with all the questions, Charlie?”
“There was this rookie, once.” The transition was seamless, as if they’d been speaking of rookies all along. “This would be twenty-five years ago, before your time. He was a nice enough guy, but all elbows and apologies. Follow? Not cop. Not street. Anyway, this poor bastard went through the wrong door on the wrong side of town and ended up with a couple junkies on his chest and the business end of a broken bottle against his neck. They were going to cut his throat, kill him right there.”
“Then you came through the door and saved his life. It was your first shoot. I’ve heard the story.”
“Give the lady a gold star. Do you remember the name of the rookie I saved?”
“Yeah. It was Matthew…” She looked down. “Shit.”
“Finish it.”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Come on, Liz. I gave you the gold star. Matthew what?”
“Matthew Matheny.”
“The moral of the story is that a man like Matheny feels more loyalty to the man who saved his life than to the fifty-year-old version of some dumb-ass kid who got peppered in the leg with bird shot. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Does Dyer know?”
“Hell, no. He’d burn this place to the ground and take you with it. The only thing between here and there is me.”
“Then why are you beating me up about this?”
“Because bright and early tomorrow this street will be elbow deep in news crews from as far away as DC and Atlanta. By sunset, it’s headline news from coast to coast. We’ve got dead women draped in linen, a murderer ex-cop, a shot-up kid, and a tumbledown church straight out of some goddamn gothic masterpiece. The visuals alone will take it national. You want to get sucked into that story? Now, when the AG already wants you for double homicide?”
“Who put Adrian in lockdown?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“He’s claustrophobic. Was it Dyer?”
“Goddamn, Liz. What is it with you and stray dogs?”
“He’s not a dog.”
“Dog. Convict. Lonely ass kid. You can’t save every little thing.”
It was an old argument that felt deeper than usual. “What if someone set him up?”
“Is that what this is? Seriously? I told you, Liz. He’s a convict. Convicts are players.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“It’s just that he’s wounded and alone, right? You don’t think he knows that’s your weakness?” Beckett looked suddenly resigned, the frustration draining away. “Give me your hand.” He took it without waiting, then used his teeth to pull the cap off a pen. “I want you to call this number.” He wrote a number on the back of her hand. “I’ll call him first. Tell him to expect you.”
“Who?”
“The warden. Call him in the morning, first thing.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re lost in the wasteland, Liz. Because you need a way out, and because you won’t believe the things he’ll tell you.”
11
Elizabeth left her partner on the street and drove west until the road crested a high ridge, and the sun flattened like a disk against the earth. Adrian was either lying or not, and Elizabeth could think of only one place to find the answer she needed. So she followed a two-lane out of town and ten minutes later turned onto the long, dark drive of a five-hundred-acre estate that bordered the river where it ran fast and white at the bottom of a tall bluff. Box bushes scraped paint as she pushed into the property. Branches hung low above the drive, and when it dead-ended, she climbed from the car. The house loomed beneath a dimming sky, and she felt the history of it as she stepped onto the porch. George Washington slept here, once. So did Daniel Boone, a half dozen governors. The current resident—though once equally impressive—came to the door in a poplin suit that looked slept in. He was unshaven, his face drawn beneath a cloud of thin, white hair that stirred as the door opened. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, seemed shorter, frailer, ancient.
“Elizabeth Black?” He was confused, at first; then smiled. “My God, it’s been a thousand years.” He squeezed her, took her hand. “Come have a drink. Have two.” The bright eyes twinkled. “Elizabeth Black.”
“Crybaby Jones.”
“Come in, come in.”
He turned into the house, muttering apologies as he cleared newspapers and law books from different pieces of grand, old furniture. Glass clinked as empty bottles and cut-crystal glasses disappeared into the kitchen. Elizabeth wandered the room, her gaze on walking sticks, oil paintings, and dusty guns. When the old man returned, his shirt was buttoned to the collar, his hair perfectly smooth and damp enough to stay put as he moved. “Now, then.” He opened a double-door closet that concealed a wet bar and a wall of bottles. “You don’t care for bourbon, as I recall.”
“Vodka rocks, please.”
“Vodka rocks.” His hands hovered by a row of bottles. “Belvedere?”