September had helped unravel what had truly gone down among the three of them along with Wes, Gretchen, and George who, true to form, had spent most of his time in the squad room rather than doing legwork. She and Gretchen had helped be Wes’s “partner” while George rode his swivel chair. Lieutenant D’Annibal had seen what was happening, but so far nothing had changed, and because no big cases had come along, the relationships within the squad room were status quo ... except that Wes’s feelings about his partner had taken a slide down the scale. He’d moved from mildly annoyed to pissed off to out and out angry with George.
They were all on edge, actually. Talk of cutbacks had reached the department, and being the newbie, September knew her job would be axed first. She honestly didn’t know what she would do, if that were to happen. She was as attached to her job as if she were already a lifer. And she knew, even though she’d been a media darling for a while, that it wouldn’t cut any ice if and when jobs were cut.
So, Gretchen was with Wes, interviewing several eyewitnesses to a knifing outside a sports club in downtown Laurelton, while George was working the phones and following up on the background of the prime suspect. September hadn’t been needed on the case, so she’d gone back to the list of Aurora Lane residents she’d compiled, anyone who’d lived in the houses over the last thirty years. It was discouraging how little people remembered or knew about the Singletons and/or the eighteen-year-old male whose bones had been found in their basement. She’d worked the phones and walked Aurora Lane and generally bothered people to the point where none of them wanted to talk to her or anyone from the Laurelton PD any longer. Gretchen had tried her own brand of bullying with even less productive results. More interviews with Fairy and Craig had seemed to only confuse them, so for all intents and purposes, she was back at square one.
Today, after another unproductive conversation with the Lius’ daughter, Anna, whose Chinese, non-English-speaking parents had lived across the street from the Singletons and whose patience with September was paper thin, she’d decided to make another run at Grace Myles. She’d been to see the older woman twice and had been rebuffed by the administrator who ran the facility both times with what September now thought might be excuses. She’d sensed that Tynan, for all his expansive talk about allowing his mother to be interviewed, had asked that she be left alone, and the place had complied. September had been nice about it. She truly didn’t believe Grace had any information for her. But she was at loose ends and pissed off and cranky, and so today she’d thought, to hell with it and had headed out to take a final stab at it. Gretchen was busy, so she didn’t have her partner with her, and maybe that was a saving grace as well; subtlety wasn’t Gretchen’s strong suit.
Maple Grove Assisted Living was a two-story, aluminum-sided building painted a pinkish beige. The second floor boasted green shutters on the windows, though the color had faded and showed patches of white, and several hinges were loose or broken, making them lopsided. The effect wasn’t exactly in keeping with their motto, The Closest Thing to Home. If September had been asked to move in she would have run the other way.
This time she passed through and, noticing the sign-in sheet wasn’t being closely manned at the moment, sailed down one of the corridors, checking the nameplates on the doors. Several older women were deliberately pushing walkers down the hallways and one gent followed her with his eyes and finally called out, “Hey, good-lookin’. Come back here.”
Grace Myles’s residence was on the second floor and toward the end of a corridor, which suited September just fine. The room wasn’t on the way to anywhere else, so therefore might be less traffic outside her door. Good. September didn’t want to talk to the battle-ax of an administrator if she didn’t have to. She gave a soft, perfunctory knock, then tried the handle, which opened beneath her palm.
September peeked into the bedroom. No sign of Grace, but the bathroom door was closed. Stymied, she waited a few minutes, then knocked on that door, too. “Grace? Do you need any help?”
“Go ’way!” was the feisty reply.
“I’m not with the staff here,” September said, shooting a look over her shoulder. She’d closed the door to the room behind her, but that was no guarantee someone might not enter behind her.
“I’d like to talk to you,” September called loudly.
“Sit down, then. Don’t take my chair.”
That was as good an invitation as she was going to get. September looked around and settled herself on the small love seat that was hugged up against a La-Z-Boy with a green and gold afghan draped over the back. It took another ten minutes before Grace appeared, and when she did, she walked without the aid of a wheelchair or walker and chose the La-Z-Boy. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m September Rafferty. I’m a police officer. I came to visit you before and—”
“Braden Rafferty?” she interrupted sharply.
September gave her a long look. The two times she’d interviewed Grace before, she hadn’t made that connection. “My father’s name is Braden Rafferty. I’m one of his daughters.”