Джозеф Файндер - Company Man

“I know we have a case here,” she said.

“You know what you are? You’re an optimist, down deep.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Anyone who loves God the way you do’s got to be an optimist. But you see, here’s the sad truth. The longer you stay in this job, the harder it is to stay an optimist. Witnesses recant and the guilty go free and cases don’t get solved. Pessimism, cynicism — that’s the natural order. Audrey, did I ever tell you about the case I had when I was just starting out? Woman shot in the head standing in her front parlor, shifty cheating husband, we kept catching him lying about his alibis, which kept changing. The more we looked at him, the more we were convinced he was the shooter.”

“He wasn’t,” she said, impatient.

“You know why he kept lying about his alibi? Turned out he was in the sack with his sister-in-law at the time. This guy wouldn’t own up to the fact that he was cheating on his wife even when he was faced with a first-degree murder charge. He didn’t crack until just before the trial was scheduled, the bastard. And you know what it was killed the wife? Just a random, stray bullet through her open window, a street shooting gone bad. Wasn’t her lucky day. Or maybe that’s what you get for living in a bad neighborhood. What seemed so obvious to us turned out not to be true when we really dug into it.”

“I get it, Jack,” she said, watching him scrape the boat clean, pleased to see that his last spoonful contained equal portions of ice cream and strawberry. “But we’ve dug into it.”

“A crazy guy’s found in a Dumpster in the dog pound, with fake crack on him — I’m sorry, but you’ve got to go with a crack murder as your central hypothesis. Not some white-collar CEO with so much to lose. You know the old saying — in Texas, when you hear approaching hoofbeats, you don’t think zebra. You gotta think horses. And I think you’re going after a zebra here.”

“That’s not—”

“Oh, I know it would be a hell of a lot more intriguing to spot a zebra than a horse, but you’ve always got to consider the likelihoods. Because ultimately your time is limited. Who’s that woman who calls you every week?”

“Ethel Dorsey?”

“Tyrone’s her son, probably killed in a drug deal, right? How much time have you been putting in on that case?”

“I haven’t really had much time recently.”

“No, you haven’t. And if I know you, I’ll bet you feel that you’re letting Ethel Dorsey down.”

“I—” she faltered.

“You’re good, and you have the potential to be great. You can make a real difference. But think of how many other cases are clamoring for your attention. There’s only so many hours in the day, right?”

“I understand.” She was shaken; what he said made sense.

“There’s another case I want you to get involved in. Not instead of this one, but in addition to it. One that will really, I think, give you an opportunity to shine. Instead of just getting bogged down in this dog-pound murder. Now, Jensen’s got the Hernandez robbery trial on Monday, but he’s going on vacation, so I’d like you to handle it.”

“Isn’t Phelps the secondary on that? I only did one follow-up interview.”

“Phelps is on personal leave. I need you on this. And the prosecutor wants a pretrial conference on Friday.”

“Friday? That’s — that’s in two days!”

“You can do it. I know you can.”

She was befuddled and most of all depressed now. “You know,” she said in a small voice, “that looks good, what you had. What do I ask for?”

Marta came to the front hall, holding a dish towel in wet hands. No doubt she’d heard the little double beep of the alarm system when he opened the door. Somewhere in the background were peals of girlish laughter.

“Something wrong?” Nick asked her.

Marta shook her head. “Everything’s fine,” she said huffily, her tone implying the exact opposite.

“Is it Luke?”

Marta stiffened. “Miss Stadler invited herself over.”

“Oh,” Nick said. “That’s fine.”

Marta shrugged unhappily. It wasn’t fine with her .

“Is there a problem, then?” Nick asked. What was with this Mrs. Danvers act, anyway?

“It’s just getting hard to keep track of who’s in the family and who isn’t, these days.”

It was an invitation to a heavy conversation; Nick silently declined.

In the family room he found Cassie, in an oversized Stratton T-shirt and black jeans, sitting with Julia, who was wearing an outfit Nick hadn’t seen before, a turquoise velour tracksuit. Very J. Lo. The word “Juicy” ran across her butt.

He stood at the threshold and watched, unnoticed.

“There’s nothing dirty about it,” Cassie was saying.

“Dirty pillows!” Julia said, in silly mode. “Dirty pillows!”

“You get older, your body changes. Boys seem less yucky. You start to feel more private about your body. Everyone goes through it. It’s as natural as granola.”

Julia giggled at that, somehow anxious and pleased at the same time. “I hate granola,” she said.

“The main thing is, don’t feel it’s something you can’t talk about. Don’t feel it’s some weird, shameful thing, okay? Tits aren’t the end of the world. Zits, on the other hand...”

Another burst of giggles, less nervous and more high-spirited.

They were having The Talk. Relief washed over him, mixed with a little jealousy over the intimacy Cassie and Julia seemed to have developed. He’d mentioned to Cassie how much he was dreading the prospect of having the girl-stuff talk with his daughter: in his hands, it would probably have ended in some grisly level of mutual embarrassment. Marta, despite her tight jeans, was prim and embarrassed about talking about sex and had let Nick know that she most emphatically didn’t consider it her place to tell Julia about things like periods.

Cassie, though, was talking about it as if it were no big deal, and somehow making it no big deal. Something about her low, commonsensical voice was keeping everything real, down-to-earth, and comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as it could be for a giddy, giggly ten-year-old.

“Lot of things change, lot of things don’t,” Cassie told Julia. “Just remember, whatever happens to you, you’re always going to be your daddy’s little girl.”

Nick cleared his throat, then said to Julia, “Hey, baby.”

“Daddy!” She got up and received his hug.

“Where’s your brother?”

“He’s upstairs working.”

“Good to hear. And where’d you get this outfit?”

“Cassie bought it for me.”

“She did, huh?” A velour tracksuit? It even exposed her tummy. She was ten years old, for Christ’s sake.

Cassie looked up, shrugged sheepishly. “ All the fifth-graders consider me their fashion guru,” she said.

When Julia had left to go to her room, Nick looked at Cassie and shrugged. “Thanks, by the way. I gather you were talking about girl stuff with her. Not easy for her old man to do.”

“She’s a sweet pea, Nick. The main thing is that she knows you’re always going to be her daddy, and you’re always going to love her.”

“Stay for dinner?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Plans?”

“No. I just — you know, what’s that they say about guests and fish? They start stinking after — I forget how many days.”

“You think Julia considers you a guest? Or Luke?”

She couldn’t hide her smile. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Stay. Plus, I could use your take on what’s going on at work.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” she said. “The wisdom tooth of Fenwick, Michigan.”