Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“Sometimes I think he is.”

“Since Laura’s death.”

Nick nodded.

“How’d that happen?”

Nick shook his head. “I don’t want to get into that, you mind?”

“Hey, fine. What do I care?”

Nick looked at her. “Come on, don’t get offended. It’s just a sort of heavy topic for a Sunday morning, okay?” He took a breath. “We were driving to a swim meet and we hit an icy path and skidded.” He studied the tabletop. “And blah blah blah.”

“You were driving,” she said softly.

“Laura was, actually.”

“So you don’t blame yourself for it?”

“Oh, I do. I totally do.”

“But you know it’s not rational.”

“Who’s talking rational?”

“Whose swim meet?”

“Luke’s. Can we talk about something else, please?”

“So he gets to blame you and also share in the guilt, right?”

“You got it. It’s a mess.”

“He’s a good kid, deep down. Lot of attitude, like most sixteen-year-old boys. Hard shell, but soft nougat center.”

“How come I never get to see the nougat center?”

“Because you’re his dad, and you’re safe.”

“Well, maybe you can talk to him about the evils of smoking.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, chuckling. She took a pack of Marlboros from her jeans jacket and tapped one out. “I think I’m not the best person to do that. Kinda like your Sid Vicious giving ‘Just Say No’ lectures on heroin.” She took out her orange plastic Bic lighter and lit the cigarette, pulling the saucer toward her to use as an ashtray.

“I thought people who do yoga don’t smoke,” Nick said.

She flicked him a glare.

“Isn’t yoga all about breath?”

“Come on,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said offhandedly.

“Sure.”

“Julia told me about your dog.” Nick felt his guts constrict, but he said nothing. “God,” she went on. “That’s so incredible. I mean, how did you feel when that happened?”

“How did I feel?” He didn’t know how to respond. How would anyone feel? He shook his head, faltered for a bit. “I was frightened for my kids, I guess, most of all. I was terrified they might be next.”

“But you must have been furious too. I mean, God, someone who’d do something like that to your family!” She tilted her head as she peered at him, her eyes keen. “I’d want to kill him.”

Why was she asking this?

He felt a wave of cold wash over him. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t anger so much as — as this protective instinct. That’s what I felt most of all.”

She nodded. “Sure. That’s right. The normal dad reaction. Gotta protect the kids.”

“Right. Got a new alarm system, told all the kids to be extra careful. But there’s only so much you can do.” His cell phone rang.

He apologized, and picked it up. “Nick Conover,” he said.

“Mr. Conover, this is Detective Rhimes?”

He paused for a few seconds. “Oh, yes. Hi—”

He wondered whether Cassie could hear the police detective’s voice.

Cassie smoked, idly studying a hand-lettered “THIS IS A SMOKE-FREE ZONE!” sign on a little chalkboard, pink Day-Glo chalk.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but if there’s any way you could spare a little time, I’d like to come by and talk for a little bit.”

“Well, sure, I suppose. What’s up?”

“There’s a couple of little details I’m confused about, I thought you might be able to clear up for me. I know Sunday is family time, but if you wouldn’t mind...”

“Sure,” Nick said. “What time do you have in mind?”

“Is half an hour from now convenient for you?”

Nick hesitated. “I think that would be okay,” he said.

When he ended the call, he said, “Cassie, listen — I’m sorry, but—”

“Family calls,” she said.

He nodded. “Afraid so. I’ll make it up to you.”

She put a hand on his forearm. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Family’s always number one.”

As soon as he’d dropped her off, he dialed Eddie’s cell.

Driving up to the fancy iron gate with the brass plaque that said FENWICKE ESTATES, Audrey was distinctly aware that she was entering another world. She had changed out of her church clothes into something more casual, and now she felt underdressed. Her Honda Accord was definitely underdressed. The guard at the gatehouse looked her over with disapproval as he took her name and picked up his phone to call Conover. She doubted it was the color of her skin. More likely the color of the rust on her front left quarter panel.

She noticed all the security cameras. One, mounted to the gatehouse, took her picture. Another was positioned to capture her license plate at the rear of her car. There was a proximity-card reader by the guard’s window too: people who lived in Fenwicke Estates probably had to wave a card at the sensor to be admitted. The security was impressive. But what must it be like to live like this? she wondered. In a place like Fenwick, where the crimes were mostly localized in the bad part of town, why would you want to live this way? Then she remembered what Conover had said about his wife’s concern that the family might be threatened by employees laid off from Stratton.

When she drove up to the house, she drew breath.

This was a mansion, there was no other word for it. The place was immense, made of stone and brick, beautiful. She’d never seen a house like this in real life. It sat in the middle of a huge green field of a lawn, with specimen trees and flowers everywhere. As she walked up the stone path to the house, she glanced again at the lawn and noticed that the blades of grass were small and slender and sparse. Up close she could see that the lawn had recently been seeded.

The lawn.

She pretended to trip on one of the paving stones, fell to her knees, breaking her fall with one hand. When she got back on her feet, she slipped a good healthy pinch of soil into her purse just as the front door opened and Nicholas Conover came out.

“You okay?” he said, walking down the front steps toward her.

“Just clumsy. My husband’s always saying to me, ‘Walk much?’”

“Well, you’re not the first to trip on those stones. Gotta do something about that path.”

He was wearing faded jeans, a navy blue polo shirt, white running shoes. She hadn’t noticed before how tall he was and trim and powerful looking. He looked like an athlete, or a former athlete. She remembered reading that he’d been a hockey star at the high school.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at home on a Sunday.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Conover said. “It’s probably just as well. My schedule during the week’s pretty jammed. Plus, anything I can do to help you out, I want to do. You’re doing important work.”

“I appreciate it. This is such a beautiful home.”

“Thanks. Come on in. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Lemonade? My daughter makes the best lemonade.”

“That right?”

“Right from frozen concentrate. Yep.”

“That sounds tempting, but I’ll pass.” Before they got to the front steps, she turned around and said, “That really has to be the most beautiful lawn I’ve ever seen.”

“Now, that’s what a guy likes to hear.”

“Oh, right. Men and their lawns. But seriously, it looks like a putting green.”

“And I don’t even golf. My greatest failing as a CEO.”

“Is it — do you mind if I ask, because my husband, Leon, is always complaining about the state of our lawn — did you put down sod?”

“No, just seed.”

“Regular grass seed, or, what’s that stuff called — where you spray it?”