Robert Parker - Family Honor

“I feel like all of a sudden I’m a mother,” I said to Julie. “It’s so exciting to be out by myself without Millicent.”

“Is she with Spike?”

“No, Richie. Spike’s working and Richie was coming by anyway to visit Rosie.”

Julie nodded.

“Out and about,” she said.

“You have real kids of your own,” I said. “But you must feel that way sometimes.”

“God yes,” Julie said. “Anytime I’m away from them. Except of course when I’m feeling that way I’m also feeling guilty that I’m feeling that way.”

“I know.”

“I wonder if fathers feel that way?”

“Well,” I said. “They have more of a tradition of being away from the kids, supporting them and all that.”

“I know,” Julie said. “But I swear Michael is a better mother than I am.”

“Maybe he’s just a good father,” I said.

“He seems to want to be with them all the time. He likes to take them with us when we go places.”

“Which makes you feel selfish and unloving,” I said.

“You bet.”

Julie finished her wine and gestured at the bartender for another glass.”

“You love the kids,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And Michael loves them.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all each of you can do,” I said. “Love them the way you can.”

“Sometimes I think it’s easier if you don’t love them.”

“It’s not,” I said.

The bartender brought Julie her wine. Julie studied me for a moment before she picked up her glass and drank.

“This thing with Millicent is riding you, isn’t it?” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“Want to talk about it?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I’m trying to save her and the only way I can is to solve the crime she’s a part of, and I can’t solve it if I’m taking care of her all the time. And I can’t take the risks I would normally be willing to take, because all of a sudden I have to worry about her.”

“You’ve always had to worry about Rosie,” Julie said.

“Yes, but if something happened to me, Richie would take her and in a little while she’d be fine.”

“Dogs are good that way.”

“But who would take Millicent?” I said.

“She does have a mother and father,” Julie said.

“She can’t be with them,” I said.

Julie stared at her wine. The bar was crowded. The two bartenders were busy.

“And Richie can’t take her.”

“No. Why would he? He barely knows her.”

“That was true of you when you took her.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Wasn’t it?” Julie said.

“There was no one else to do it,” I said. “And it had to be done.”

I had a second glass of wine. Julie had a third.

“Too bad you and Richie can’t work it out,” Julie said.

“Maybe we will,” I said.

“Tell me again why you’re not together?”

“Well for one thing he won’t give up the family business.”

“And neither will you,” Julie said.

“Me?”

“How many people in your family have been cops?”

“Besides my father?”

“Un huh.”

“Two uncles, and my grandfather.”

“Un huh.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Sure.”

“Always a damned therapist,” I said.

Julie was quiet.

“So maybe there’s some fault on both sides,” I said. “It still means that one of us needs to change to be with the other one.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

I shook my head.

“I can’t think about that now,” I said. “I have to figure out what to do with Millicent.”

“How about private school?”

“Private school costs a lot of money.”

“Maybe you can get money from the parents.”

“I can’t send her away now. She’s in too much danger.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I think when those men came to my door, they weren’t trying to take her back to her parents. I think they were going to kill her.”

“Because?”

“Because of what she saw,” I said.

“The man with her mother?”

“Yes. There are some big-league players involved.”

“And Richie can’t help you?”

“I don’t know if he can or can’t. But I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t.”

“Because you’re separated?”

“Yes. I won’t live with him, won’t sleep with him. But I can ask him to take care of me, help with anything I can’t handle myself?”

“You talk as if sleeping with someone were a tradeoff for something else,” Julie said.

“It just isn’t right for me to have it both ways.”

“What’s Richie think?” Julie said.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should ask him,” she said.

I was sitting with Bob Anderson in a frosted-glass cubicle in the detective unit in the Framingham Police Station.

“Humphries,” Anderson was saying, “the plumber got killed on Route 9.”

“Yes,” I said.

“He had a mailbox at one of those private mail services, wife didn’t know anything about it, except the bill came this month. And since he’s not around to pay it, the wife gets it. Well, she says she’s got no use for a private mailbox and she wants to cancel it and the service says fine, but you need to clean the box out. So she does and all she finds is this big fat envelope. And when she opens it she figures she better bring it to us, which she did, and I thought you might want to take a gander.”

“I do,” I said.

Anderson slid the envelope toward me. It was a big one, whatever the next bigger size is to 8½ by 11. It was addressed to Kevin Humphries, care of the private mailbox service. It was full of pictures and the pictures were of Betty Patton and a man having sex. Having sex doesn’t really do them justice. They were having every variety of sex mammals were capable of having. I looked at the pictures for a time, turned a couple of them upside down, or maybe right side up, I couldn’t be sure.

“This is, I take it, the late Kevin Humphries,” I said.

“Yep.”

“You know the woman?” I said.

“Nope. You?”

I shook my head.

“Doesn’t look anything like your client, does it?”

I shook my head again. Anderson shrugged.

“Who’s seen these pictures,” I said.

“Mrs. Humphries,” Anderson said.

“And maybe a few guys in the station,” I said.

“Maybe all the guys in the station,” Anderson said.

“And nobody knows the woman?”

“That’s what they say,” Anderson said. “Just like you.”

“Well,” I said, “she gets credit for inventive, whoever she is.”

“Yeah. The picture of them in the rocking chair, I’m not exactly sure what they’re doing... you?”

“Well, not specifically,” I said, “though I recognize the general, ah, thrust.”

Anderson smiled.

“You know what I’m betting, Sunny?” he said.

“What?”

“I’m betting that you do know who that woman is, and sooner or later, when it suits with whatever you’re working on, that you’ll tell me.”

“Really?” I said. “Could I have a copy of these pictures?”

“Sunny,” Anderson said, “there’s forty-one pictures there. Evidence in a murder case. You know I can’t give you any.”

“I only need one,” I said.

Anderson nodded.

“I got to go wash my hands, Sunny. You better not even think of taking any of those pictures while I’m gone. ‘Cause I got them counted.”

“Okay,” I said.

Anderson got up and walked out of his cubicle. I looked at the stack of photographs. They weren’t Polaroids. They were good-quality color photographs. I counted them. There were forty-two. I selected one that showed Betty Patton clearly and full face in a completely compromising pose. I put that picture in my purse and put the other forty-one back in the envelope, and crossed my legs and folded my hands in my lap. In a couple of minutes Anderson came back. He walked to his desk, picked up the envelope and counted the pictures.