Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“How many possible Smith and Wesson models are we talking about?”

“Well, Smith and Wesson doesn’t make any .380s anymore. The only one they ever made was the baby Sigma.”

“Baby Sigma? That’s the name of the gun?”

“No, ma’am. I mean, you know, they have a product line called the Sigma, and for a couple of years — like the mid-to late nineties — the bottom end of the Sigma line was a .380 pocket pistol that people sometimes called the ‘baby’ Sigma.”

She wrote down “S&W Sigma .380.”

“Okay, good,” she said, “so we’re looking for a Smith and Wesson Sigma .380.”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t say that. No suspect weapons should be overlooked.”

“Of course, Trooper Halverson.” The troops were super-careful about what they told you, because they knew that everything had to stand up in a court of law, everything had to be carefully documented, and there couldn’t be any guesswork. “When do you think you might know more?”

“Well, after our IBIS technician enters it.”

She didn’t want to ask how long that would take. “Well, anything you can do to put wings on this, Trooper, would be much appreciated.”

The brand-new Fenwick Elementary School auditorium was fancier than a lot of college theaters: plush stadium seating, great acoustics, professional sound system and lighting. It was called the Devries Theater, a gift from Dorothy Stratton Devries, in honor of her late husband.

When Nick had gone to Fenwick Elementary, there hadn’t even been an auditorium. School assemblies had been held in the gym, all the kids sitting on the splintery wooden bleachers. Now it seemed like the fourth-grade class was doing its annual play in a Broadway theater.

Looking around, Nick was glad he’d come. All the parents were here, grandparents too. Even parents who rarely came to any of their kids’ school events, like Emily Renfro’s plastic-surgeon dad, Jim. Jacqueline Renfro was a class mom or something, but her husband was usually too busy doing face-lifts or screwing his receptionist to show up. A number of the parents had mini videocams, ready to film the production on compact digital tape that no one would ever bother to watch.

He was late as usual. Everywhere he went, he seemed to arrive late these days. Marta had dropped Julia off an hour ago so she and the rest of the fourth-graders could get into their handmade costumes, which they’d been working on in art class for months. Julia was excited about tonight because she got to play the Wicked Witch of the West — her choice, a role she’d auditioned for and then pleaded for. Not for her Dorothy, which all the other girls wanted. Nick’s little tomboy had no interest in playing a wimpy character wearing a braided wig and a gingham dress. She knew that the witch part was the scene-stealer. He liked that about her.

She didn’t expect him to be here. He’d already told her a couple of times that he had a work dinner he had to go to and couldn’t get out of. She was disappointed, but resigned. So she’d be all the more excited when she saw her daddy here. In truth, of course, Nick considered sitting through the school play one of those unpleasant parental obligations like changing a poopy diaper, or going to “The Lion King On Ice” (or anything on ice, for that matter), or watching the Teletubbies or The Wiggles and not letting on how creepy they were.

The back sections of the theater had been cordoned off, and there didn’t seem to be any available seats in the front. He peered around, saw a few spaces here and there, a sea of averted glances, a few unfriendly faces. Maybe he was being a little paranoid. Guilt burned on his face as visibly as a scarlet letter. He was convinced people knew what he’d done just by looking at him.

But that wasn’t it, of course. They hated him for other reasons, for being Slasher Nick, for being the local hero who’d turned on them. He saw the Renfros, caught their icy glares before they looked away. Finally he saw one friendly face, a buddy of his from high school days whose son was in Julia’s class.

“Hey, Bobby,” he said, sitting down in the seat Bob Casey had freed up by moving his jacket. Casey, a bald, red-faced guy with an enormous beer gut, was a stockbroker who’d tried to hit Nick up for business several times. He was a wisenheimer whose chief claim to fame since high school was his ability to memorize long stretches of dialogue from Monty Python or any of the National Lampoon or Airplane movies.

“There he is,” Casey said heartily. “Big night, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. How’s Gracie?”

“Doin’ good. Doin’ good.”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Then Bob Casey said, “Ever see anything like this theater? We never had anything like this.”

“We were lucky to use the gym.”

“Luxury!” Casey said in his Monty Python voice. “Luxury! We had to walk thirty miles to school every morning in a blizzard — uphill, both ways. And we loved it!”

Nick smiled, amused but unable to laugh.

Casey noticed Nick’s subdued response and said, “So, you’ve had a hard year, huh?”

“Not as hard as a lot of people here.”

“Hey, come on, Nick. You lost your wife.”

“Yeah, well.”

“How’s the house?”

“Almost done.”

“It’s been almost done for a year, right?” he gibed. “Kids okay? Julia seems to be doing good.”

“She’s great.”

“I hear Luke’s having a hard time of it.”

Nick wondered how much Bob Casey knew about Luke’s troubles — probably more than Nick did himself. “Well, you know. Sixteen, right?”

“Tough age. Plus, only one parent and all that.”

The production was about what you’d expect for a fourth-grade play — an Emerald City set they’d all painted themselves, the talking apple tree made out of painted corrugated cardboard. The music teacher playing sloppily on the Yamaha digital piano. Julia, as the Witch, froze up, kept forgetting her lines. You could almost hear the parents in the audience thinking them out loud for her — “Poppies!” and “I’ll get you, my pretty!”

When it was over, Jacqueline Renfro seemed to go out of her way to find Nick and say, “Poor Julia.” She shook her head. “It can’t be easy for her.”

Nick furrowed his brow.

“Well, only one parent, and you hardly ever there.”

“I’m there as much as I can,” he replied.

Jacqueline shrugged, having made her point, and moved on. But her husband, Jim, lagged behind. He wore a brown tweed jacket and a blue button-down shirt, looking like he was still a Princeton undergrad. He pointed a finger at Nick and winked. “Can’t imagine how I’d get by without Jackie,” he said in a confiding tone. “I don’t know how you get by. Still, Julia’s a great kid — you’re very lucky.”

“Thanks.”

Jim Renfro was smiling too hard. “Of course, the thing about family is, when they get to be too much, you can’t exactly downsize them.” A cheery, self-satisfied wink. “Am I right?”

Any number of responses occurred to Nick — too many. None of them nonviolent. He had this strange feeling of a lid coming off, the bleed valves blowing.

At that point, Julia came running up, still wearing her pointed black construction-paper hat and her green face makeup. “You came!” she said.

He threw his arms around her. “I couldn’t miss this.”

“How was I?” she asked. There wasn’t a drop of concern in her voice, no awareness that she’d messed up. She was bursting with pride. He loved this little girl.

“You were great,” he said.

In the car on the way home, Nick’s cell phone went off, a weird synthesized, symphonic fanfare that he’d never bothered to reprogram.