Дэвид Балдаччи - Redemption

And painfully so.

He retraced his steps and got to the hotel where he and Jamison were staying in time to see her exit the elevator and walk into the lobby.

“Christ, Decker, are you just getting in?” she said, eyeing his grungy, wet clothes.

“Good morning to you too. Would you like to get some breakfast?”

She followed him into the dining area off the lobby. They sat, ordered some food, and sipped their coffees.

“So?” said Jamison. “Was Susan Richards any help?”

“She didn’t cop to the murder if that’s what you’re asking. She doesn’t have a solid alibi. She was home asleep, she says.”

“Well, considering the hour, that makes sense.”

“We may be able to tighten the parameters on that by talking to her neighbors. But I don’t think she’s good for it. She says she didn’t even know he was back in town. And that seems perfectly logical.”

“Unless she saw him on the street.”

“ I saw him and didn’t recognize him,” said Decker. “And I spent a lot of time with the guy all those years ago.”

“Have you called Bogart and gotten his permission to work on this?”

He said quietly, “We’ve, uh, talked. I’m surprised he hasn’t called you.”

“No, he didn’t. So what did he say?”

At that moment their food arrived.

Decker said, “I’ll fill you in later.”

“Thank you for ordering a veggie omelet, by the way,” said Jamison. “And avoiding the bacon.”

“You must be growing on me.”

“Well, I’m just happy that you’re not growing anymore. You look good, Decker.”

“That’s a stretch, but thanks.”

He put his knife and fork down and finished his coffee.

“What are you thinking?” asked Jamison.

“I’m thinking that there’s a killer walking around town this morning thinking he or she got away with murder, and it’s really pissing me off.”

“Is that all?”

He looked at her curiously. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I mean, do you feel guilty about what happened to Meryl Hawkins?”

“I didn’t pull the trigger on the guy. I didn’t ask him to come here and ignite this case again.”

“But you think that the fact that someone killed him is evidence that he might have been innocent? I mean, you basically said that earlier.”

“Meaning that I made a mistake?” said Decker slowly.

“I wouldn’t look at it that way. You investigated the case and all the evidence pointed to that guy. I would have seen it the same way.”

“Regardless, if he was innocent, I have to make it right.”

Jamison hiked her eyebrows. “Because the weight of the world’s problems always falls on your admittedly broad shoulders?”

“Not the weight of the world. The weight of one case that I handled. Responsibility comes with the territory. My actions took a guy’s freedom away.”

“No, I’d say his actions took his freedom away.”

“Only if he did it,” countered Decker. “If he didn’t commit the crimes, it’s a whole other ball game.”

Jamison fingered her coffee cup. “If he was set up, whoever did it knew what they were doing. Who would have a beef against the guy that badly?”

Decker nodded. “Good point. And I have no idea. Hawkins was a skilled machinist but lost his job when the factory he worked at had layoffs. Then he went on the odd-job road. Doing what he could to make ends meet.”

“Sounds like a lot of people these days.”

He eyed the FBI badge that was clipped to her lapel. “How does it feel?”

She looked down at the badge and smiled. “Pretty damn good, actually. Did you ever think of taking the plunge?”

“I’m too old now. Age thirty-seven is the cutoff and I’m not a military veteran, so I can’t seek that waiver. And even if I could still apply, I doubt I’d pass the physical.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself. And since you know the requirements, I take it you looked into it?”

Decker shrugged. “I can do my job without the federal badge. I’m still a sworn police officer. I can arrest people.” He paused and added, “And you always have my back.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I went by my old house early this morning.”

She looked startled by this admission. “Why?”

“I don’t know. My feet pointed that way and suddenly I was there. Met the dad who lives there and saw his little girl. Lancaster had told me about them. I spooked them a little showing up like that, but the dad had heard about what had happened... there. It turned out okay.”

Jamison leaned forward. “I know that you don’t want to hear this, Decker, but I’m going to say it anyway.” She paused, seeming to choose her words with great care. “At some point, you’re going to have to let this go. I mean, I get coming back here to visit their graves and all. But you have your life left to live. That means you have to move forward and stop dwelling in the past so much. Cassie and Molly wouldn’t want you to do that, you know that.”

“Do I?” said Decker abruptly.

She sat back, looking saddened by this comment.

“They shouldn’t be dead, Alex. If anyone should be dead, it should be me.”

“But you’re not. You’re alive and you have to spend every day living for them and yourself. Otherwise, it’s all wasted.”

Decker rose. “I’m going to take a shower and change my clothes. And then we’re going to go catch a killer. I’ll meet you back down here in half an hour.”

“Decker, you need to get some sleep!”

“No, that would just be wasting time, wouldn’t it?”

As he walked off, Jamison just stared after him, the look on her face one of heartbreak.

Decker let the hot water run off his head for a full minute before soaping up. The next moment he had a brief panic attack because he couldn’t recall Cassie’s favorite color. Then his memory righted itself and the proper shade kicked out of his brain.

He rested his head against the shower tile. Shit, more hiccups. No, more malfunctions because I’m a machine, after all. Right?

Was his memory going to keep misfiring? Right when he needed it to work precisely? Or would there be a time when it simply stopped functioning altogether? Then a dreaded thought sprouted up: Was he developing complications from his brain injury all those years ago? Like CTE?

He finished in the shower, dried off, and put on fresh clothes. Mentally he still felt like crap, and physically he was tired, but at least he was clean.

Jamison was waiting for him in the lobby. They got into the car and from the driver’s seat Jamison said, “Where to?”

“Our only viable suspect right now, Susan Richards.”

On the way he phoned Lancaster and told her what they were going to do. He had to leave a message because the call went to voicemail. She was probably still sleeping, surmised Decker.

Richards’s home on Primrose Avenue was a small single-story brick bungalow with old-fashioned green-and-white-striped metal awnings over the windows. The patch of yard was neatly laid out, with mature trees and well-shaped bushes and planting beds. An abundance of colorful fall flowers was displayed in pots on the covered front stoop.

“Nice landscaping,” commented Jamison.

“She was a florist for years,” explained Decker. “Into gardening. Runs the floral shop she sold to new owners a while back.”

“Do you actually think she could have murdered Hawkins last night?”

“She could have. But I don’t know if she did. That’s what we have to find out.”

They got out, but Decker didn’t head up to the front door. He instead walked over to the house across the street.