Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

Oren set down his beer can. "I don't care about a perp's motivation or how he was affected by early potty training. I just collect the evidence, and then I catch him. So simple."

"But you seem to favor abusive husbands. Maybe a jealous husband? You think our killer might've mistaken Josh for you? We could narrow down the suspects if you gave me a list of all the married women you slept with-just the bleach blondes. According to my sources, the female victim was identified as a-"

"We're not partners," said Oren. "You give. I take. It's like that." And now he could rule out any tie to Evelyn, whose hair had been tawny brown, the color of a lion's mane.

"Dr. Brasco said you loved your work. Hard for him to believe you'd ever leave it. He also said you were a moral man. What happened? Were you asked to do immoral things? Is that why you left? Did your shining military code fall apart on you?"

Oren wiped his hands of bread crumbs. "I'm still looking for those missing prints from Josh's last roll. Hannah says she doesn't have them, and I know they weren't left at the drugstore. So that leaves you."

"Unless she lied… But I would never believe any bad thing of Miss Rice, even if I knew it to be true." He looked down at the cartons, the papers and pictures that covered the rug. "You've seen everything I have. If those photographs aren't here-"

"Maybe you missed something. I'll just take a look around upstairs." Oren moved toward the open doors that led to the foyer and the staircase. He glanced back to see Swahn reach for his cane and rise to a listing stand.

Oren slowed his steps near the foot of the staircase, where he listened to the closing of the elevator door in the room behind him-and now the whirr of the slow-rising cage. This was an odd race of dragging feet. He heard the cage door open on the floor above. He climbed upward and paused near the landing to watch William Swahn hobble into a room at the top of the stairs.

Oren gave the man enough time to find the thing he most wanted to hide. Then he opened the door to a room of filing cabinets and other furnishings of a private office. Swahn was not holding papers or pictures. He was secreting a pair of binoculars in the top drawer of a desk.

Interesting choice.

Obviously, the cleaning woman had never ventured into this room. Only one windowpane had been washed, and there were repeated patterns of twin circles in the dust on the sill. Oren took the binoculars from the open drawer and turned to the one clean window, training the lenses on the only thing in sight that was not a cloud or a tree. The binoculars were already focused for the tower of the Winston lodge. Below the roof of bright copper shingles, half the wall was made of glass-a voyeur's dream. He watched Mrs. Winston pacing back and forth like a captive in a giant's jewel box.

"You were right about one thing," said Oren. "I never wanted to work on my brother's murder. Personal involvement screws with judgment." He returned the binoculars to the desk drawer-and slammed it. "That's what blindsided you." He stared at the ruined side of Swahn's face. "You still think you got that scar because the other cops in your precinct thought you were queer?"

Swahn looked wary, but curious, too.

Oren walked toward him. "That A carved into your skin doesn't stand for AIDS. Nobody heard that rumor until after you were attacked." He stood toe-to-toe with Swahn. "I think you believe that now. You're not even gay, are you? Even that was a scam. Back in LA when you were a cop, how many married women were you screwing? Was Mrs. Winston one of them?"

Swahn's gaze was fixed upon the window, the view of Sarah Winston in her tower. He closed his eyes.

Isabelle Winston reached over the paddock fence to feed a slice of apple to the horse, Nickel Number Two.

In her early childhood, Number Two had been her name for Addison. Legally, he was her father, the only one she had ever known. But once there had been another father, a natural one. What was his name? She had carelessly forgotten. Beyond a tie of blood, her sole connection to that other man had been an old photograph in her mother's wallet. After a time, the wallet had been lost, and the photograph had not been missed.

If only Daddy Number Two could fade away so easily

Addison stood beside her, making a great show of looking around in all directions to be certain that they were not overheard. His lips close to her ear, he spoke in a stagy whisper. "Don't you have any curiosity? You never asked me about the day your mother buried Josh in the woods."

"I don't believe you."

"Sarah buried something else. Evidence of murder. I could show you where to dig."

Alerted by the cowbells on the judge's bedroom doorknob, Oren took the stairs two and three at a time, bare-chested, barefooted and zipping his jeans on the run. His father stood before the front door, shod in sandals and wearing a sweatshirt pulled over pajama pants. Frustrated by three dead-bolt locks, he scratched on the wood with a clawed hand. The sleepwalker's imaginary box was cradled in one arm.

Oren gently turned him around and held him by the shoulders. There was anguish in the old man's eyes when he said, "I need another miracle."

"You and me both." Oren embraced him and held him close. Out came the words he could only say when the old man was asleep. "I missed you. God, how I missed you." He breathed in the tobacco scent trapped in his father's beard. This moment was the homecoming he had ached for, and he did not want it to end.

The judge began to cry.

Hannah appeared in her purple bathrobe. "This is my fault. I forgot to drug his whiskey."

"Get the key," said Oren. "Unlock the door."

The housekeeper shuffled off in fuzzy purple slippers to return minutes later, wearing sensible shoes and holding the key, two jackets, Oren's cowboy boots and a whiskey bottle. "First aid," she said, by way of explaining the bottle. She wrapped one jacket around the judge's shoulders.

After pulling on his boots, Oren unlocked the door and placed his father's hand on the knob so the old man could open it by himself.

Once outside, Hannah pulled two small flashlights from the deep pockets of her robe. Guided by these beams, she and Oren followed the sleepwalker down the porch steps. They woke the yellow stray in passing, and now they were four. The dog made no sound as he trotted along at the judge's side, only lifting his snout, sniffing for a scent of change in the air, something odd and maybe dangerous.

Inside the garage, his father became anxious again. The Mercedes was locked.

The housekeeper folded her arms. "I'm not giving up that key."

The judge let go of the door handle. Two by two, Oren and Hannah followed the old man and the dog. They left the garage and walked down the driveway to the road. After a hike of ten minutes, the small parade turned onto a dead-end street with only one address. The graveyard gate was open, no locks to thwart Henry Hobbs on his mission, but there were many obstacles, small marble stones to trip over and large monuments to collide with.

"Don't worry," said Hannah, reading Oren's mind again, annoying habit. "This part of the cemetery hasn't changed at all. Whatever year the judge is walking through, he'll do just fine. It's probably daylight in his dreams."

The judge neatly skirted every headstone along his path and came to rest before the Hobbs family plot, which held a hundred years of generations. He unlatched the small iron gate and stepped inside to sit down by the grave of Oren's mother. The yellow stray sprawled on the grass beside him.