Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

Lucas buried his face in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice sounded as if it were coming from a long way off. “Why do you hate me so much? Is it ’cause I look like her, and you can’t deal with that?”

“Lucas,” Nick said. He was determined to hold it together. “I want you to listen to me. I need you to hear this.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “There is nothing in my life more precious to me than you are.” His voice was hoarse, and he got the words out with difficulty, but he got them out. “I love you more than my life.”

He put his arms around his son, who at first stiffened and squirmed, and then, suddenly, put his own arms around Nick and clasped him tightly, the way he did when Lucas was a little boy.

Nick felt the rhythmic convulsions of grief, the staccato expulsions of breath, and it took him a moment before he realized that Lucas wasn’t the only one who was weeping.

The phone rang, and Audrey picked it up without thinking.

“Is this Detective Rhimes?” A sweet, female voice, the words slow and careful.

Her heart sank. “Yes it is,” Audrey said, although she was sorely tempted to say, No, I’m afraid Detective Rhimes is on vacation.

“Detective, this is Ethel Dorsey.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dorsey,” she said, softening her voice. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing as well as could be expected with my Tyrone gone and all. But I thank the good Lord I still have my three wonderful sons.”

“There’s so much we can’t understand, Mrs. Dorsey,” Audrey said. “But the Scriptures tell us that those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.”

“I know he records our tears and collects them all in his bottle.”

“He does. That he does.”

“God is good.”

“All the time,” Audrey said, her response a reflex.

“Detective, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you’ve made any progress on my Tyrone’s case.”

“No, I’m sorry. Nothing yet. We keep plugging away, though.” The lie made her ashamed.

“Please don’t give up, Detective.”

“Of course not, Mrs. Dorsey.” She hadn’t given the case more than a fleeting thought in the last several weeks. She was thankful that Mrs. Dorsey worshipped in another church, the next town over.

“I know you’re doing your best.”

“Yes, I am.”

“May the Lord keep you strong, Detective.”

“You too, Mrs. Dorsey. You too.”

She hung up filled with sorrow, ashamed beyond ashamed, and the phone rang again immediately.

It was Susan Calloway, the bland-voiced woman from the state police lab in Grand Rapids. The firearms examiner in charge of the IBIS database. She sounded a little different, and Audrey realized that what she was hearing was excitement, in the woman’s tamped-down, squelched way.

“Well, I do think we have something for you,” the woman said.

“You have a match.”

“I’m sorry this has taken so long—”

“Oh, not at all—”

“But the Grand Rapids PD certainly took their time. I mean, all I was asking them to do was to check the bullets out of Property and drive them all of seventeen blocks over to Fuller. You’d think I’d asked for a human sacrifice or something.”

Audrey chuckled politely. “But you got a match,” she prompted. The technician sounded positively giddy.

“Of course, the real problem was that it wasn’t anyone’s case anymore. I mean, it was from six years ago, and both detectives are gone, they tell me. There’s always an excuse.”

“Tell me about it,” Audrey laughed.

“In any case, the bullets they brought over matched the ones in your case. They’re copper-jacketed Rainiers, so the ammunition is different. But the striation markings are identical.”

“So it’s a positive match.”

“It’s a positive match, yes.”

“The weapon—?”

“I can’t tell you that for absolute certain. But I’d say it’s a safe guess it’s a Smith and Wesson .380. That’s not legally admissible, though.” The woman read off the Grand Rapids PD report number for the bullet.

“So Grand Rapids should have all the information I need,” Audrey said.

“Well, I don’t know how much more they’ll have than I already told you. Both detectives on the case are off the force, as I say.”

“Even so, those names would be a help.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all you want, I have that . The submitting detective, anyway. Right here in the comments box.” The technician went silent, and Audrey was about to prompt her for the name, when the woman spoke again, and Audrey went cold.

“Says here it was submitted by a Detective Edward J. Rinaldi,” the technician said. “But they say he’s retired from the force, so that’s probably not going to be much use to you. Sorry about that.”

Mulligans — never an apostrophe — was a diner on Bainbridge Road in Fenwick famous for its Bolognese sauce, the subject of a yellowed framed article from the Fenwick Free Press on the wall as you entered. The headline was typical of the paper’s dopey, punning style: “A Meaty Subject.” This was the place Nick used to go at three in the morning, after the junior and senior proms. Frank Mulligan was long gone. It was now owned by a guy who’d been a few years ahead of Nick and Eddie in high school, Johnny Frechette, who’d done three years in Ionia for drug trafficking.

Nick hadn’t been here in years, and he noticed that the place had a staleness to it. The Formica tables had a faint cloth pattern, faded to white in the areas where mugs and plates had banged and scraped against it. They were serving breakfast now, and the place smelled of coffee and maple syrup and bacon, all blended into a single aroma: Eau du Diner.

Eddie seemed to know the waitresses here. Probably he came here for breakfast a lot. They were seated in a corner, away from the window. Aside from a few people eating at the counter, the place was empty.

“You look like shit,” Eddie said.

“Thanks,” Nick said irritably. “You too.”

“Well, you’re not going to want to hear this.”

Nick held his breath. “What is it?”

“They ID’d the gun.”

The blood drained from Nick’s face. “You said you tossed it.”

“I did.”

“Then how could that be?”

The two fell silent as an overperfumed waitress arrived with a Silex carafe, and sloshed coffee into their thick white mugs.

“They got all kinds of tricky ballistics shit these days,” Eddie said.

“I don’t get what you’re telling me.” Nick took a hurried sip of his black coffee, scalding his tongue. Maybe he didn’t want to understand what Eddie seemed to be getting at.

“They matched the bullets with the gun.”

“They matched the bullets with what? ” Nick was aware that his voice was a bit too loud, and he lowered it at once. “There’s no gun, right? You said it’s gone! ”

“Yeah, well, apparently they don’t need a gun anymore.” Eddie popped open a couple of little half-and-half containers and tipped them into his mug, stirring until it turned an unappealing gray. “All’s they need is bullets, ’cause of the big new computer database, I forget what it’s called. They must have matched up the bullets in Stadler’s body with the ones from the scene years ago where I got the piece — how the hell do I know? My source didn’t get into details.”

“Who’s your source?”

Eddie ducked his head to the side. “Forget it.”

“You know this for a fact? You’re one-hundred-percent certain?”