Channing’s mother answered the door. “Detective Beckett.” She was in an expensive dress, and obviously impaired.
“Mrs. Shore.” She was petite and pretty, a slightly weathered version of her daughter. “I’m sorry to bother you this late.”
“Is it late?”
“I was hoping to speak with your daughter.”
She blinked and swayed. Beckett thought she might fall, but she caught herself with a hand on the wall.
“Who is it, Margaret?” The voice came from stairs in the main hall.
The woman gestured vaguely. “My husband.” Channing’s father appeared in workout clothes and a full sweat. He wore boxing shoes and wraps on his hands. “He wants to talk to Channing.”
The words slurred that time. Mr. Shore touched his wife’s shoulder. “Go on upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll handle it.” Both men watched her unsteady exit. When they were alone, Mr. Shore showed his palms. “We grieve in our own ways, Detective. Come in.”
Beckett followed the man through the grand foyer and into a study lined with bookshelves and what Beckett assumed to be expensive art. Mr. Shore went to a sidebar and poured mineral water in a tall glass with ice. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks. You box?”
“In my youth. I keep a gym in the basement.”
It was hard to not be impressed. Alsace Shore was midfifties, with thick, muscled legs and heavy shoulders. If there was fat on him, Beckett couldn’t see it. What he did see were two large adhesive bandages, one protruding from the sleeve of his shirt, the second high on his right leg. Beckett gestured. “Have you been injured?”
“Burned, actually.” Shore swirled water in the glass and gestured toward the back of the house. “An accident with the grill. Stupid, really.”
Beckett thought that was a lie. The way he said it. The play of his eyes. Looking more closely, he saw singed fingertips and patches on both arms where hair had been cooked away. “You said people grieve in different ways. What, exactly, are you grieving?”
“Do you have children, Detective?”
“Two girls and a boy.”
“Girls.” Shore leaned against a heavy desk and smiled ruefully. “Girls are a special blessing for a father. The way they look at you, the trust that there’s no problem you can’t handle, no threat in the world from which you can’t protect them. I hope you never see that look of trust disappear from your own daughters’ eyes, Detective.”
“I won’t.”
“So certain.”
“Yes.”
Another difficult smile bent Shore’s face. “How old are they now, your daughters?”
“Seven and five.”
“Let me tell you how it happens.” Shore put down the glass and stood on the broad base of his trunklike legs. “You build your life and your redundancies, and you think you have it covered, that you know best and that you’ve built the defenses necessary to protect the ones you love. Your wife. Your child. You go to bed believing yourself untouchable, then wake one day to the realization you haven’t done enough, that the walls aren’t as strong as you think, or that the people you trust aren’t trustworthy, after all. Whatever the mistake, you realize it too late to make a difference.” Shore nodded as if seeing Channing at those same, young ages—seven and five, and full of faith. “Bringing a daughter home alive is not the same as bringing her home unchanged. Much of the child we knew is gone. That’s been difficult for us, and for Channing’s mother, in particular. You ask why we grieve. I’d say that’s reason enough.”
The message seemed heartfelt and sincere, yet Beckett wasn’t sure he believed the performance. It felt a little practiced and a little pat. The sternness and disapproval. The jaw tilted just so. What he’d said was true, though. People grieved in different ways. “I’m very sorry for what happened.”
Shore dipped his large head. “Perhaps, you could tell me why you’re here.”
Beckett nodded as if he would do just that. Instead, he walked along a wall of books, then stopped and leaned in. “You shoot?” He pointed at a row of crackled spines. The books were old and well thumbed. Tactical Marksmanship. Surgical Speed Shooting. USMC Pistol Marksmanship. There were others, maybe a dozen.
“I also skydive, kitesurf, and race my Porsche. I like adrenaline. You were getting to the point of your visit.”
But Beckett didn’t like being rushed. It was the cop in him. Situational management, he called it, though Liz claimed it was alpha-male bullshit. Button pushing, she’d say. Pure and simple. Maybe, there was some of that, too. Beckett tried not to go too deep. The job and his family, old regrets and thoughts of retirement. Usually, that was enough. But he didn’t much care for lies or liars. “What it comes down to, Mr. Shore”—Beckett pulled a few of the marksmanship books and started flipping pages—“is that I’d like to speak to Channing.”