The Bellingham was Maclean’s suggestion. Verraday had never been there before, but the pub had a warm, low-key ambience that immediately made him feel relaxed and at home. The bar was stained walnut. It stretched half the length of the room and matched the wainscoting as well as the booths on the opposite wall. Frosted-glass pendant lamps hung from the ceiling above the aisle, bathing the room in soft, indirect light. The music was turned up loud enough to ensure that they couldn’t be overheard, but not so much that they’d have to raise their voices above a normal conversational level.
As usual, Maclean was already there. Verraday was grateful to see that she’d taken up a position in one of two wingback chairs by the fireplace, in an alcove that would give them some privacy. She wore a close-fitting gray sweater, a denim skirt hemmed just above her knees, and black boots. Her hair was down. It was longer than he’d imagined it to be. He experienced a pang of regret. He was sorry that their trust in each other had hit such a big bump. He didn’t want to be angry with her. He liked this woman, didn’t want to feel estranged from her. But regardless, as he greeted her and sat down in the wingchair, he couldn’t help feeling some distance between them, on his own side if not from hers.
The waiter, a bearded young man with an affable manner and an easy smile, came by. Maclean ordered a vodka and soda. Verraday asked for a recommendation on a dark ale and chose what the waiter suggested, a local brew from the Willamette Valley. After the waiter left, Verraday sank back into his comfortable wingback chair. He loved the light and warmth from the fireplace and, under other circumstances, could have dozed off. But the situation he found himself in was far from conducive to sleep.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Maclean checked to make sure that no one had come within earshot, then leaned forward in her wingback chair.
“There’s been another murder.”
Verraday felt a leaden anticipation in his chest. “Who is it?”
Maclean pursed her lips. “The girl from the screengrab. Destiny. The one you sent me the message about.”
“Oh fuck.”
“A construction worker found her body this afternoon in a vacant lot behind a demolition site.”
“How was she killed?”
“The MO is the same as with Alana Carmichael and Rachel Friesen. Heavy beating with a leather belt, then strangulation, first with hand pressure, then with a garrote. Not a single defensive wound anywhere.”
Verraday felt a crushing sense of failure. “I tried to warn her. I texted her twice. First last night, then again this morning. She finally responded with a message telling me to fuck off.”
“I don’t think you—or anyone—could have saved her. According to the coroner, she’d been dead for about twenty-four hours.”
Maclean saw the dejection on Verraday’s face. “There’s nothing you could have done,” she said decisively. “It was probably the killer who texted you, trying to buy himself some time.”
Verraday felt revolted to realize he had unwittingly been trading text messages with a murderer. A murderer who could now potentially identify him from his phone number.
“I can’t believe I got sucked in,” said Verraday.
“James, you had no way of knowing. He fooled all of us. So far. But we will get him. I can find out where the text originated by having Destiny’s phone signal triangulated, but my guess is that it won’t be from the kill site or the dump site.”
“No,” agreed Verraday. “This guy’s much too clever to do that. Wouldn’t surprise me if he purposely sent it from near her home address, if he knew it.”
“We haven’t found her purse, phone, or any ID for that matter,” said Maclean. “He probably knew where she lived from her driver’s license.”
“How did you know who she was?”
“The screenshots you sent over.”
They stopped speaking for a moment as the waiter returned with the drinks. Verraday noticed that like the waitress at the Trabant, this waiter seemed to be aware that his arrival at their table caused a lull in the conversation. But unlike the young woman at the Trabant, their waiter just gave them a friendly, confident smile and told them to enjoy their drinks. Then he returned to the bar to polish the pint glasses with a cloth, humming contentedly. Why did some people react so differently to identical stimuli, wondered Verraday? How much was nature and how much was nurture? It was the eternal question that vexed psychologists. It certainly vexed him.
He took a sip of his dark ale. It was deep and rich, with just enough bitterness from the hops to balance the sweetness of the malt. He savored it and felt himself relaxing slightly. Maclean took a healthy sip of her vodka and soda.
“Are you willing to come back to the case?” she asked.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” responded Verraday. He was still smarting though. “But are you going to trust me from now on?”
Maclean took another sip of her drink before replying.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she said, shifting slightly in the wingback chair.
Verraday was surprised by how uncomfortable Maclean suddenly looked. It was the first time he’d seen anything other than self-assurance in her manner. He hadn’t intended to rake her over the coals for being wrong about Whitney. It wouldn’t serve either of them, so he moved the conversation back to the case.
“Was there any escalation in the level of violence?”
Maclean nodded her head slowly. “Yes.”
She toyed with the ice in her glass for a moment before looking up.
“This son of a bitch really went to town on her. She’s got marks on her back that might be burns. Take a look.”
Maclean took a folder out of her briefcase and handed it across to Verraday. He slipped the eight-by-ten crime scene photo out and held it so that the fireplace light allowed him to get a better view of it.
“Christ almighty.”
Verraday had seen a lot in the course of his work, but the pairs of dotted burn marks down the spine and up the inner thighs of the girl known only as “Destiny” were new to him. It was a level of sadism he’d only read about from political death squads or inquisitional torturers. The pain must have been prolonged and excruciating.
“I haven’t seen anything like this before,” said Maclean. “We’re waiting for forensics, but I’m guessing it was done with a cattle prod.”
“What about Whitney? What did you find out?” asked Verraday.
“You were right about him. At least it looks like it so far. He claims he only hired Alana Carmichael and Rachel Friesen as booth bunnies for The Victorian Closet at fetish nights where he was promoting the store.”
“Strange that neither one of them appear in any of his Facebook albums.”
“He says he was afraid it would be bad for his business if it got out that two of his models had been murdered. So he deleted every image of them from the store’s site and his personal page before the press could get hold of them. I’m still having forensics check out his shop and backroom, but he’s got an airtight alibi on this latest murder: he was in a holding cell down at the station when it happened.”
“Do you have any idea who Destiny really is?”
“Not yet. There are no recent missing persons reports that match. That cell phone you texted was prepaid and unregistered. Whoever Destiny really is, she was probably afraid of being stalked. For good reason. So she made sure her phone was untraceable. As for the body, our killer didn’t miss a beat there either. The coroner says the corpse had been washed with great care. No trace of anything on it, not even soap residue.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“We caught one break. That escort service site you found her on is based in Seattle. I’ll pay a visit to their office tomorrow morning. You want to come along?”
“Yeah.”
Verraday still had more than half a pint of ale left in his glass, and Maclean had slowed down on her vodka and soda too. He began to wonder why she had asked him out for a drink instead of just giving him the information when she had called him. She gazed down contemplatively, then turned to look directly at him.
“Listen, there’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“That cop that you say ran the red light and hit your family’s car when you were a kid.”
“Robson, yeah.”
“I overheard two of the old timers talking today. Uniform cops from the traffic division. He’s dead.”
Verraday felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a hammer. “Dead? How?”
“The story is that he had an accident cleaning his revolver.”
Verraday sat stunned for a moment. He barely knew where to start.
“What else do you know about him?” Verraday asked.
“He retired from the Seattle PD eight years ago. Lived alone in a four-season cottage not far from Everett.”
“When did it happen?”
“A week ago. I looked into it a little for you. They did a blood test on Robson. He had a blood alcohol level of point-one-one. That’s well over the line for legally impaired. You probably won’t find that surprising.”
Verraday nodded agreement.
“Apparently he had Ativan in his system too,” said Maclean.
“That part does surprise me,” said Verraday. “Robson never struck me as the type who’d suffer from anxiety disorders. More the kind of person who would cause them.”
“Robson’s doctor never prescribed Ativan to him, but obviously anyone who drinks that heavily is doing a lot of self-medicating.”
Verraday had a momentary flash of self-consciousness, wondering what Maclean would think if she’d had any idea of his own daily alcohol intake. And he’d only recently tossed out his stock of Ativan after his pharmacist, a soft-spoken young woman from Hong Kong, warned him in her mild and diplomatic way that many doctors were unaware that the drug was highly addictive and that if he had anxiety issues, there were safer ways of dealing with it.
“He probably bought his Ativan online without a prescription,” Maclean continued. “In any case, the coroner in Everett has ruled it an accidental death. End of story. But I thought you’d want to know.”
Verraday nodded. “Thanks.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Verraday distractedly ran a hand through his hair.
“I almost can’t believe this has happened,” he said at last. “I always thought I’d feel thrilled when I heard that he’d died.”
“And now?”
“And now I feel sort of cheated.”
“How so?” asked Maclean.
Verraday no longer felt distant from Maclean. He liked this woman, had an urge to share secrets with her, and for a moment, considered telling her the truth: that he felt cheated because he wasn’t the one who had gotten to pull the trigger. But he decided it might be impolitic to tell an officer of the law that he had homicidal impulses toward someone who had just blown his brains out under mysterious circumstances.
So instead he answered, “Because now there’s no chance that he will ever be brought to justice.”
“Maybe it’s karma catching up to him,” replied Maclean.
“My sister believes in that kind of stuff. Do you?” asked Verraday.
“Unfortunately, after eight years as a cop, I haven’t seen anything to convince me of its existence. I just said it because I saw that Buddha in your office. Thought maybe that’s what you believed. But I hope there is such a thing. Because I see way too many people getting away with hurting other people. That’s the part of this job that bothers me the most.” Maclean took another sip of her drink. Then she leaned toward Verraday and spoke softly. “Can I ask you something? About the car crash?”
“Sure,” replied Verraday. “I’m not precious about it. Been over it way too many times for that.”
“Are you one hundred percent certain that it happened the way you said it did in your police file? That Robson was at fault?”
“I’m positive,” replied Verraday. “Penny remembered it the same way as me, right up to when Robson hit us. Then she blacked out. I was in the rear seat on the passenger’s side, farthest from the point of impact, so I got the least of it. I was conscious the whole time. And I remember everything like it was this morning.”
“You remember it through personal experience. But that can be subjective, can’t it? Speaking as a psychologist, how do you know that’s what happened?”
“Science. It’s called flashbulb memory. And it has been tested and proven. It’s a moment in time that’s so vivid, so emotionally arousing that the episode part of your memory takes a snapshot of it, and you remember key details vividly and forever. The cops that interviewed me afterward tried to get me to change my story to say my mother ran the red light. That’s how false memory syndrome happens. But not in my case. I knew she hadn’t. And I still know that. Because I can still picture the green traffic light in front of our car in the intersection. ‘Deck the Halls’ was playing on the radio. I remember the peppermint smell of the candy cane that my sister Penny had in her mouth. I might have only been eight, but unlike Robson, I wasn’t drunk. I remember him coming to the window and shining a flashlight in on us. I could smell the booze on his breath. Whiskey. I knew what it was because I used to smell the same thing on my old man’s breath once in a while, like at New Year’s and Christmas Eve, when he was giving me a goodnight kiss and tucking me into bed. My dad wasn’t much of a drinker though. At least not before the accident.”
“You really remember all that?”
“Let me ask you something. What were you doing when you first found out about the 9/11 attacks?”
Maclean gazed off into the middle distance, then turned back to Verraday.
“I was in my senior year of high school. It was a quarter after seven in the morning. I’d just gotten up. I had this biology assignment with a question about pathogens that I was having trouble with. Since my mom’s a nurse, I knew she’d know that answer, so I was planning to ask her about it. But when I came out of my room, I looked down the hall and saw that her eyes were shiny, like she’d been crying. She was watching CNN, which I remember thinking was unusual, because my mother never watched television in the morning. When she saw me, she said, ‘Somebody flew two jets into the World Trade Center. And one of the towers just came down.’ She was wearing her green scrubs, getting ready to start her shift at the hospital. She told me that we should both go to the Red Cross later that day and donate blood because they were going to need it. I remember seeing the second tower coming down. I’ll never forget that feeling.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” said Verraday. “An event like that is so momentous that our mind freezes everything in time around it. Just like you remember that your mom was wearing her green scrubs and that you had a biology assignment. That’s how I know I saw what I saw when my mom died. Especially because the police pressured me so hard to change my story. Even at that age, it struck me as strange that they kept badgering me, so it kind of made me work it through in my mind.”
“Is that when you became interested in memory?”
“I never thought about it before. But I guess so. Memory and the truth. And fairness. Or all of it. I mean, it’s not like I had any idea what a psychologist was when I was eight. But I do know that it was the first time in my life that I’d felt outrage about being treated unfairly and being browbeaten. Up until then, I was like most boys. I idolized cops. They were the heroes from movies and TV shows, keeping us safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, right? Even after Robson hit our car, I didn’t think of it at first as anything but a tragic accident. Not until he ran away and left us there to die, even when I called after him to help. Is that mentioned anywhere in the official files? That I called to him for help and that he ignored me?”
“No. Not exactly, at least. In the internal affairs report, he stated that he left the scene because he was in shock. He lived just a few blocks from the intersection. He said he ran home in a state of mental confusion. Claimed that it was only after he got to his house that it started to sink in what had happened. He said he poured himself a few stiff shots of whiskey to steady his nerves. Then he called nine-one-one to report the accident.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe that Robson’s description of his own actions after the collision fits the pattern of one of the oldest DUI dodges in the book. Leaving the scene of an accident because you’re confused and in shock isn’t nearly as serious as impaired driving causing death. That one gets you jail time. So if there’s nobody around to stop them, a drunk driver can flee the scene, go home, say they had nothing before the accident and half a dozen when they got home. It means that any Breathalyzer test we give them is worthless in court. People do it all the time when they think they can get away with it.”
“So you believe me?”
“Look, I was two years old when it happened. But from what I could find out, he didn’t exactly have a stellar history on the force even before that night. Whatever anybody told you at the time, the truth is that after the accident, the department took him off the street, out of cars, and transferred him to a desk job until he retired. It’s not an admission of guilt, but let me tell you, the Seattle PD doesn’t take somebody off the street for no reason. Anyway, I’m sorry for what happened to you. It’s a terrible thing to lose a parent. And to have it covered up.”
“Well, you know how it feels.”
“That I do,” said Maclean.
The waiter glanced over in their direction. Maclean picked up on his cue.
“Want to stay for another?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Verraday, “That’d be good.”
Maclean signaled for another round of drinks. Verraday absent-mindedly tapped the rim of his glass.
“Out of curiosity, do you know Bosko?” he asked.
“Not really,” Maclean replied. “Uniform cop. Passed him a couple of times in the station. Never spoken to him. I don’t think he’ll ever make detective or sergeant. Not after what happened with you. Even if the department won’t admit it. Plus he doesn’t have the smarts to be a senior officer. But whatever his faults, he’s brave, I’ll give him that.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He saved a kid who fell into a storm sewer during a flood last spring. Went in after him without any backup or equipment. It was an extremely dangerous situation. He got a commendation for it.”
“I can never understand that about cops,” said Verraday. “I mean, some cops.”
“What?”
“The fact that they seem to like kids so much. But only until they grow up. What’s that about?”
“I can’t speak for Bosko. But cops have a protective nature. Kids are easy to protect, philosophically speaking. They’re pure and innocent. Unfortunately, by the time people grow up, you can’t be as certain of their motives any more. That’s why most of us get into this line of work. We want to be the people you once idolized, keeping everybody safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, you know?”
“I suppose.” Maclean grinned wryly. “Hey, speaking of superheroes, there’s something else I’ve been wondering. Why did you ask Kyle Davis what the special power was that the kid said he’d like to have?”
Just then, the waiter came by with their drinks. Again, it caused a lull in their conversation, and again, unlike the waitress at the Trabant, the waiter just took it in stride that he’d arrived at a private moment.
“There you go, folks,” he said with a smile, then quickly slipped away.
When the waiter had left, Verraday answered, “Partly it was a test to see if Davis actually had an answer or if he was just making it up, bullshitting us,” replied Verraday. “And partly because I’m just curious about what kind of superpowers kids are into these days.”
“Why? Did you ever wish for any superpowers when you were a kid?”
“Sure.”
“What kind?” asked Maclean.
Verraday suddenly felt embarrassed. This was the second time tonight that it would have been more convenient to lie to Maclean. But he didn’t want to lie to her. He wanted to tell her the truth. So he did.
“At first I wanted to have X-ray vision so I could peek through walls like Superman and see what was beneath women’s clothes.”
Maclean burst out laughing. “You were a naughty boy.”
“I guess I was,” said Verraday, annoyed to feel his cheeks getting warm.
“What can I say?” he responded with a shrug.
“So you said, ‘at first.’ Does that mean you wanted a different superpower later on?”
Now Verraday really did feel like lying, just so he wouldn’t add a depressing note to their conversation. But he was starting to like Maclean too much to be deceitful. So instead he told the truth.
“But then, after the accident, I wished I had a power ray that could stop a speeding car. I used to imagine myself shooting it out and redirecting Robson’s car away from ours, so I could save my mom and my sister.”
He paused.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a downer.”
“Hey, I was the one who asked,” said Maclean.
“So what about you?” asked Verraday. “Did you ever wish for a superpower?”
“Yeah. I wanted to be able to control time.”
“What, like Doctor Who?”
“No, though a TARDIS would have been cool. I just wanted to go back in time so I could keep my dad from going to work the night that he died. Then I imagined myself staking out the warehouse and catching whoever started the fire, then turning him over to the police.”
“And is that when you decided to become a cop?”
“That is exactly when I decided to become a cop. Now I have another question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“When you asked me the other night if I’d ever dated someone who was bipolar. Why did you want to know?”
“I wondered if you’d had that experience. It changes you.”
“Who was it?”
“Somebody I met when I was in graduate school.”
“A psychologist?”
“No, a singer in an alternative band.”
“You dated a singer in an alt band?” she asked, teasing him a little.
“What?” said Verraday. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks again. “What’s so weird about that?”
“Nothing. Nothing weird at all,” she said. “I’m just thinking that you are full of surprises. Picturing you in your wild years. What was her name?”
“Nikki.”
“Was she beautiful?”
Verraday suddenly realized that he was feeling shy about discussing his love life with Maclean, and especially telling her about another woman’s looks.
“She was attractive, sure,” said Verraday, carefully omitting the word “beautiful.”
“So how did you find out she was bipolar?”
“Mood swings were the first indication. Erratic behavior. But I ignored all the signs in the beginning. Just like Kyle Davis.”
“When did it become obvious?”
Verraday smiled archly. “As an expert in human behavior, I’d have to say the big clue was the time she waltzed into my apartment at three in the morning with this crazed smirk on her face, stinking of cigarettes and bourbon after having sex with some guy she’d met four hours earlier.”
“It’s okay. The only part that bothers me anymore is that I put up with her crap for weeks before it got to that point. It’s too embarrassing to think I was ever that unassertive.”
“You were young. None of us know anything at that age. And you’re an idealistic and compassionate person. I can tell that just from spending this much time with you. That makes you vulnerable in one way, but in another way, it makes you stronger because you experience and understand life in ways that other people never come to terms with.”
“That’s a very generous assessment. So now that we’ve discussed my horror story, what was your worst experience with the opposite sex?”
Maclean suddenly looked serious. “It’s way worse than yours, trust me,” she said.
Maclean turned toward the waiter and signaled to him to bring the check.
“Hey,” said Verraday. “You can’t bail on me now.”
By now the waiter was busy getting pints of Guinness for two happy-looking couples who had just come in together. Verraday marveled at how, with nothing but a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, and an eye movement, the waiter managed to convey that he’d be right with Maclean as soon as he’d finished.
Maclean turned back toward Verraday. “Seriously. I doubt if you really want to hear this story.”
“Well seriously, yes. I do want to know,” said Verraday.
Maclean took a sip of her vodka and soda. “Okay, here’s the straight-up version. I used to be married. Fowler is the reason I’m divorced. He sexually assaulted me.”
Verraday sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. His impulse was to offer some comforting words, but he knew from training and experience that he’d be more help to Maclean if he just invited her to talk, then let her.
“How did it happen?”
“I had been married nearly four years. My ex is in the Coast Guard. He was away for a couple of days on patrol duty. I was working robberies at the time. It was a Friday evening at the end of a busy week. I went out with the people from my squad to have some drinks and let off a little steam. We all got a bit tipsy but not out of control. A couple of hours later, Fowler and a few of his crew showed up. Fowler went to the bar and bought a round for everyone. About half an hour later, I started to feel tired, and I decided to head home. I was too drunk to drive, so I left my car in the lot. I said I was going to get a cab. Fowler played the chivalry card. He told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be out alone that late at night and that he was going to wait ’til I got a cab. It was raining like hell, so there was nobody on the street and no taxis anywhere. Fowler told me that since he’d only had two drinks, he’d give me a ride home. When we got to my place, he insisted on walking me to the door to make sure I got in safely. I tripped going up the steps and fell. I thought I’d broken my kneecap, it hurt so bad. I was surprised and a little embarrassed. I mean, I’d definitely had more than just a few, but I didn’t think I was that sloppy and out of control. Fowler put his arm around me to help me up. I took my front door keys out of my purse, but I dropped them. I bent over to pick them up and started to get the spins. He laughed and reached for the keys, got them and opened the door to let me in. He told me I should go straight to bed. I said I could handle it from there.
“And that’s the last thing I remember clearly until the next day. I blacked out. I didn’t wake up until the next afternoon, when my husband came home and found me in bed. I had the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life and the bedsheets were everywhere. I had this vague memory of Fowler on top of me and me trying to fight him off. But I couldn’t remember the specifics.”
“It’s called anterograde amnesia,” said Verraday. “Fowler probably roofied your drink and had it all planned out.”
“And I was too stupid to see it.”
“It’s not your fault. We all have this social contract. That’s what people like Gary Ridgway and Ted Bundy play on.”
“Yes, but I’m supposed to be smart enough to see through that kind of bullshit.”
“Fowler’s a colleague, a fellow cop,” said Verraday. “He’s expected to uphold the law, not break it. There’s no reason you would have anticipated him doing what he did.”
“But everything about it played into my own carelessness. That’s what bothers me the most. I charged him with sexual assault. I had bruises on my arms from where he pinned me down. But because I also had bruises on my knees and legs from when I tripped, Fowler’s attorney argued that it all happened when I landed on the steps. And the judge believed him. I felt like an idiot.”
“What about semen?”
“Fowler used a condom. And get this: the judge interpreted that as further evidence that it was consensual sex since Fowler ‘cared enough to use a condom.’ In the end, the sexual assault charge didn’t make it past the probable cause hearing. Fowler’s lawyer argued that I was just trying to cover up my infidelity because I got caught cheating on my husband. That asshole Fowler actually went up to my ex outside the courtroom and told him he was sorry, that he really thought I’d wanted it. Can you fucking believe it?”
“With Fowler? Yeah, I can believe it. So what about your husband? What happened there?”
“I don’t think he knew what to believe. But I’ve seen enough of this as an investigator to know that a lot of marriages don’t survive a sexual assault, particularly if there’s any doubt about the victim and her relationship to the accused. My ex stuck around for a few weeks, but it started eating away at him. Then one day I came home from work and he wasn’t there. But there was a letter from a lawyer initiating divorce proceedings.”
“I’m sorry,” said Verraday. “But you’ll get through this. You’ve got survivor instincts.”
The waiter had finished up with the other customers and brought the check. “There you go, folks,” he said, again with that genuine smile.
Verraday pulled out his wallet but Maclean waved it away.
“Your money’s no good here, Professor. I’m getting paid for all this. I mean, not overtime. Those days are long gone. But I do get paid my regular hours, and I appreciate what a time suck this is for you.”
“Well, your company is a lot more agreeable than most of the time sucks I get sucked into.”
“Thanks, but just the same, this one’s on me.”
“Okay, but only if I get the next one,” said Verraday.
“Deal,” said Maclean as she threw down a couple of twenty-dollar bills to cover it and then stood up to leave.
Verraday glanced down and saw that she had left a 20 percent tip. Generous, but not so generous as to indicate an emergency exit from the conversation.
“Thanks folks,” the waiter called after them. “Enjoy your evening.”
When they reached the front door, Verraday held it open for Maclean, then followed behind her to the sidewalk.
“So at the risk of sounding creepy and Fowler-esque, can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
Maclean turned to face him. She smiled. “Trust me, you couldn’t possibly sound creepy and Fowler-esque. And I appreciate the offer. But I’m trained in Muay Thai and I’ve got a box cutter and a Glock nine millimeter in my purse. So barring a zombie apocalypse, I’ll be okay. But I’ll be happy to escort you to your ride.”
“I always admire self-confidence,” said Verraday. “I can’t say I’m packing anything more than attitude, but I did make it as far as blue belt in karate, so I think I can handle myself.” He pointed to his car. “Plus I’m parked two doors down. I only have about eight or nine seconds to get into trouble, so I should be all right.”
Maclean arched an eyebrow at him. “In my experience, Professor, eight or nine seconds is more than enough time to get into all kinds of trouble. But don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye out for you until you make it to your car. Good night.”
She lifted her right hand and made a slight waving gesture at Verraday. It struck him as almost childlike. He was charmed by it. He had no doubt that if anyone could fend off a zombie apocalypse, it was her. But at the same time, he felt compassion and admiration for this woman who had lost her natural male protector at such a formative stage, had fought every inch of the way to get where she was, and had even survived a sexual assault from a senior colleague. Despite all that, she remained open hearted enough to insist on playing the shepherd with him now and was still able to give him such an unselfconscious wave.
“Good night to you, Detective,” said Verraday, smiling, with a slight bow that was only partially ironic.
She watched as he walked the few paces to his car door then clicked his remote. She smiled then turned away, giving him one last glance over her shoulder as she crossed the street. He climbed into his car and went to start the engine but felt a protective impulse of his own. He hesitated, lingering while Maclean got into her vehicle, a Jeep of some sort, which was parked under a streetlight. Only after she pulled away from the curb and turned down a side street did Verraday start his own vehicle and leave.
On the drive home, Verraday’s head was swimming with the news about Robson. He knew he’d have to tell Penny, but wasn’t sure what the best way would be. It was late now, and he was too tired to call her. It would be a long conversation and not the kind he wanted to have on the phone anyway. He was seeing her for dinner next week. But the news was too important to wait until then. He clumsily texted, “Hey sis. Something’s come up. Wondering if we could get together for dinner tomorrow instead of next week?”
To his surprise, she texted back almost immediately to confirm. She was better at this than he was. Verraday slipped his cell into his jacket, stepped onto the sidewalk, and was relieved to see that the gate was closed and latched this time. He walked up his path to the front steps, fumbled for his keys only slightly, and then entered the foyer. Inside, he kicked off his boots and hung his jacket up on the hall tree. He went straight to the kitchen, took his Seattle World’s Fair tumbler from the dish rack and reached for the bottle of brandy at the back of the counter.
Then he changed his mind. It was late. Almost midnight now. The dark ale and the shared conversation with Maclean had been satisfying. He really didn’t need anything else. It was just habit, he told himself. So instead, he poured some water into his glass, took a sip, and headed upstairs with it to bed.