Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

Her one concession to vanity was to pluck and peroxide her eyebrows; more long-term tactics were in the planning but so far none had been put into practice. If there was any imperfection it was her jaw, which, seen from straight on, was a bit crooked. Graham said it was charming and sexy. Brynn hated the flaw.

He now asked, “His arm-it’s not broken?”

“Nope. Just lost some skin. They bounce back, that age.” She glanced at the kettle. He made good pasta.

“That’s a relief.” The kitchen was hot and six-foot-three-inch Graham Boyd rolled his sleeves up, showing strong arms, and two small scars of his own. He wore a watch with much of the gold plate worn off. His only jewelry was his wedding band, scratched and dull. Much like Brynn’s, nestled beside the engagement ring she’d had on her finger for exactly one month longer than the band.

Graham opened cans of tomatoes. The Oxo’s sharp round blade split the lids decisively under his big hands. He turned down the flame. Onion was sizzling. “Tired?”

“Some.”

She’d left the house at five-thirty. That was well before the day tour started, but she’d wanted to follow up at a trailer park, the site of a domestic dispute the afternoon before. Nobody’d been arrested and the couple had ended up remorseful, tearful and hugging. But Brynn wanted to make sure the excessive makeup on the woman’s face wasn’t concealing a bruise she didn’t want the police to see.

Nope, Brynn had learned at 6 A.M.; she just wore a lot of Max Factor.

After the predawn start she was planning to be home early-well, for her, at five, but she’d gotten a call from an EMS medical tech, a friend of hers. The woman began: “Brynn, he’s all right.”

Ten minutes later she was in the emergency room with her son.

She now puffed out her tan Sheriff’s Department uniform blouse. “I’m stinky.”

Graham consulted the triple shelves of cookbooks, about four dozen of them altogether. They were mostly Anna’s, who’d brought them with her when she moved in after her medical treatments, but Graham had been browsing through them recently, as he’d taken over that household duty. His mother-in-law hadn’t been well enough to cook, and Brynn? Well, it wasn’t exactly one of her skills.

“Ouch. I forgot the cheese,” Graham said, rummaging futilely in the pantry. “Can’t believe it.” He turned back to the pot, and his thumb and forefinger ground oregano into dust.

“How was your day?” she asked.

He told her about an irrigation system gone mad, turned on prematurely April first then cracking in a dozen places in the freeze that surprised nobody but the owner, who’d returned home to find his backyard had done a Katrina.

“You’re making headway.” She nodded at the tile.

“It’s coming along. So. The punishment fit the crime?”

She frowned.

“Joey. The skateboard.”

“Oh, I told him he’s off it for three days.”

Graham said nothing, concentrated on the sauce. Did that mean he thought she was too lenient? She said, “Well, maybe more. I said we’ll see.”

“They oughta outlaw those things,” he said. “Going down railings? Jumping in the air. It’s crazy.”

“He was just in the school yard. Those stairs there. The three stairs going down to the parking lot. All the kids do it, he said.”

“He has to wear that helmet. I see it here all the time.”

“That’s true. He’s going to. I talked to him about that too.”

Graham’s eyes followed the boy’s route to his room. “Maybe I should have a word with him. Guy-to-guy thing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t want to overwhelm him. He got the message.”

Brynn got her own beer, drank half. Ate a handful of Wheat Thins. “So. You going to your poker game tonight?”

“Thought I might.”

She nodded as she watched him roll meatballs with his large hands.

“Honey,” a voice called. “How’s our boy?”

“Hey, Mom.”

Anna, seventy-four, stood in the doorway, dressed nice, as usual. Today the outfit was a black pantsuit and gold shell. Her short ’do had been put in place by the hairdresser just yesterday. Thursday was her day at Style Cuts.

“Just a few scrapes, a few bruises.”

Graham said, “He was skateboarding down stairs.”

“Oh, my.”

“Three steps. Not ‘stairs.’” Brynn sipped. “Everything’s fine. He won’t do it again. Nothing serious, really. We’ve all done things like that.”

Graham asked Anna, “What’d she do when she was a kid?” Nodding at his wife.

“Oh, I’ve got stories.” But she told none of them.

“I’ll take him paintballing or something,” Graham suggested. “Channel some of that energy.”

“That’d be a good idea.”

Graham ripped up lettuce with his hands. “Spaghetti okay, Anna?”

“Whatever you make’ll be lovely.” Anna took the glass of Chardonnay her son-in-law poured for her.

Brynn watched her husband take plates from the cupboard. “Think there’s some dust on them? From the tiling?”

“I sealed it off with plastic. Took it down after I was done.”

He hesitated then rinsed them anyway.

“Can somebody take me over to Rita’s tonight?” Anna asked. “Megan’s got to pick up her son. Just for an hour and a half or so. I promised to handle bathroom duty.”

“How’s she doing?” Brynn asked.

“Not good.” Anna and her dear friend had been diagnosed around the same time. Anna’s treatment had gone well, Rita’s had not.

“I’ll take you,” she told her mother. “Sure. What time?”

“Sevenish.” Anna turned back to the family room, the heart of Brynn’s small house on the outskirts of Humboldt. The nightly news was on. “Lookit. Another bomb. Those people.”

The phone rang. Graham answered. “Hi, Tom. How’s it going?”

Brynn set the beer down. Looked at her husband, holding the phone in his large hand. “Yeah, I saw it. Good game. You’re calling for Brynn, I’m guessing… Hold on. She’s here.”

“The boss,” he whispered, offering the handset then turning back to dinner.

“Tom?”

The sheriff asked about Joey. She thought he was going to lecture her about skateboards too but he didn’t. He was explaining about a situation up in Lake Mondac. She listened carefully, nodding.

“Need somebody to check it out. You’re closer than anybody else, Brynn.”

“Eric?”

Graham lit a burner on the Kenmore stove. Blue sparks ascended.

“I’d rather it wasn’t him. You know how he gets.”

Graham stirred the pot. It was mostly the contents of cans but he still stirred like he was blending hand-diced ingredients. In the family room a man’s voice was replaced by Katie Couric’s. Anna announced, “That’s more like it. What the news should be about.”

Brynn debated. Then she said, “You owe me a half day, Tom. Give me the address.”

Which turned Graham’s head.

Dahl put on another deputy, Todd Jackson, who gave directions. Brynn wrote.

She hung up. “Might be a problem up at Lake Mondac.” She looked at the beer. Didn’t drink any more.

“Aw, baby,” Graham said.

“I’m sorry. I feel obligated. I left work early because of Joey.”

“But Tom didn’t say that.”

She hesitated. “No, he didn’t. The thing is I’m closest.”

“I heard you mention Eric.”

“He’s a problem. I told you about him.”

Eric Munce read Soldier of Fortune magazine, wore a second gun on his ankle like he was in downtown Detroit and would go prowling around for meth labs when he should have been Breathalyzing DUIs and encouraging kids to get home by 10 P.M.

From the doorway, Anna said, “Should I call Rita?”