Page 40 of Den of Iniquity

“And did you know Gene Krupa is the guy who actually invented the original drum set, like the one I have in the garage?”

“That’s news to me,” I said, and Mel nodded in agreement.

“Hank actually has one of Krupa’s original sets,” Kyle continued. “He also has a record—a seventy-something... of Gene Krupa’s band.”

“A seventy-eight maybe?” I inserted.

That’s when it occurred to me that Kyle had most likely never seen a vinyl record of any kind, thirty-three-and-a-thirds and forty-fives included, to say nothing of a record player.

“That’s it,” Kyle said. “A seventy-eight. He said if I drop by their house sometime, he’ll play it for me.”

For the first time since Kyle had been with us, he sounded excited about something. That did my heart good, but the idea that the poor kid was having to pal around with a pair of old geezers was still a bit heart-wrenching.

Although neither Kyle nor I had said anything bad about the meal Mel had prepared, she was under no illusions about the quality of what had been served. After dinner, she opted for some time in her soaking tub. Mel holds herself to very high standards in everything she does, and it didn’t surprise me at all that she needed some alone time to suds off her disappointment.

In the meantime, the kitchen was such a mess that I took pity on Kyle and helped with the cleanup. I was working away on scrubbing the stovetop where something had boiled over when I asked, “Have you heard anything from your folks?”

Yes, it was a nosy question, but it was also a conversation starter.

“Mom called,” he answered. “She wanted to know how school was. I told her it was fine. I guess Dad can’t be bothered. I’m sure he’s got other things on his mind.”

I heard the depth of betrayal in his voice, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “I guess that’s about par for the course,” I suggested.

“I guess it is.”

A bit of time passed before he spoke again. “Care to see a movie tonight?”

At first, I thought he was asking if I wanted to go to a movie. Two years of working at the Bagdad Theater in Ballard while I was in high school pretty much cured me of going to movies and of all things related to either popcorn or bubble gum. On those occasions when I do venture out to a movie, instead of paying attention to what’s on the screen, I’m always worrying about what’s on the sticky floors.

“I’m not much of a movie buff,” I admitted.

“Have you ever seenThe Martian?”

I instantly had visions of some kind of animated Disney movie filled with little green men. “Not that I remember,” I said.

“It’s an old movie, sci-fi, and one of my favorites,” Kyle explained. “I brought my DVDs with me. If you’re interested, we could watch it together on the TV in the family room.”

An “old movie” for me would be something likeGone with the Wind, and I’m not big on sci-fi, either. But Kyle and I weren’t just on opposite sides of a generation gap—it was more like a generation chasm—and this unexpected offer of social interaction with my grandson was one I could hardly refuse.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

As far as the movie goes, I ended up being pleasantly surprised. There wasn’t a little green man in sight. It was a gripping story about an astronaut who is inadvertently left behind on Mars and of his struggle to survive long enough for someone to come back to get him. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Mel emerged from the bathroom shortly after the movie started. Wrapped in a bathrobe and with her hair smelling of somethingflowery, she poured her evening glass of merlot and curled up beside me on the couch.

“What’s this?” she asked, nodding toward the screen.

“It’s calledThe Martian,” I explained. “It’s one of Kyle’s favorites.”

The three of us watched the film together. It felt comfortable and surprisingly normal, almost as though we were an ordinary family. Considering the circumstances, that was the best any of us could have hoped for.

It was only after the movie ended and we were getting ready for bed that Mel asked if I was making any progress on either of my current cases. I told her about the arrival of Caroline’s cigarette butts and then recounted my conversation with Ron Wang as it related to Darius Jackson’s case and to one of Yolanda Aguirre’s as well.

“A vigilante?” she mused thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s possible, but it’s also pretty worrisome. If Spaulding died within days of being let out on parole, how did his killer know he was back on the streets almost as soon as it happened?”

“Good question.”

“Makes it sound as though there might be some kind of law enforcement component to all this,” she added. “What if you’re looking for a cop who’s gone rogue and decided to take the law into his or her own hands?”

---