Page 22 of Sharp Force
They watch him unzip his black leather bomber jacket, taking it off, his muscles bulging through his tactical vest and black T-shirt. His big pistol is plainly visible.
“WHOA!”
He’s flexing his biceps, basking in the adoration, and I wonder if I should stop him. But I don’t. I sit quietly on the sofa while he pontificates about the importance of being in shape.
I can hear Reba in the kitchen, a pancake turner scraping against a cookie sheet, the smell of chocolate and potpourri sickening. My head hurts, my stomach unsettled, but I don’t let on. I’m perfectly calm as Marino continues wowing the O’Leary twins.
The more they’re transfixed by him, the more apparent that their father failed them ultimately. Not by dying but by living the way he did. Irresponsibly. Selfishly. Slothfully. Perhaps he couldn’t help it. No doubt, he was suffering in every way imaginable. But that doesn’t lessen the damage to his family.
“So, you two ever seen thundersnow before?” Marino asks the two boys.
“No, sir,” they answer at once, their eyes bright as they sit on the fireplace hearth.
“Well, it’s when you have thunder, lightning and snow all at the same time. Exactly what’s going on right now,” Marino explains, leaning forward in the wingback chair. “Some people believe it’s a magical sign, a good one. Like a shooting star or a double rainbow.”
“Maybe it’s Dad trying to tell us something,” Mick decides with a seriousness beyond his years.
“That’s stupid!” Rick snaps, his eyes fiery like the emerald ring his dead father had in a pocket.
“It’s not stupid,” Marino says. “I think people we care about try to let us know they’re okay. Sometimes they look after us without our knowing. And maybe they help us in ways they couldn’t while they were still here. As much death as I’ve seen, it’s made me believe in the afterlife.”
“You think Dad’s in heaven and sees us right now?” Mick looks up at the ceiling.
“Yeah, I think he’s watching.” Marino nods. “You should always assume he’s seeing everything you do. Was he religious?”
“He quit going to church after getting hit by the car,” Mick says.
“Catholic?” Marino eyes the crucifix on the wall near the dining room.
“We used to go to Saint Mary’s. But not anymore,” Rick explains.
“I grew up Catholic too,” Marino confides. “But haven’t been to church in a long time.”
“Sometimes Mom goes by herself,” Mick replies. “Dad hates it. He said God shouldn’t have let the car hit him.”
“I can understand him feeling that way,” Marino replies as I think of the necklace Rowdy O’Leary was wearing when he died.
He may have turned against the church, but not entirely. Orwhy would he have on a crucifix? Why would he allow one to hang inside his house?
“He was mad that God didn’t punish whoever hit him without stopping.” It’s Rick saying this. “He blamed God for a lot of things.”
“I can understand him feeling that way, too,” Marino replies.
“How many murders have you worked?” Mick then asks.
“More than I can count,” Marino answers as Reba returns with Christmas cookies.
She sets down the plate on the coffee table, her hands trembling as she passes around cocktail napkins with a partridge in a pear tree on them. I get up from the sofa, carrying over the evidence envelope. I show Reba that the back of it is sealed and scrawled with initials.
“Someone who works for me placed the items inside it,” I explain. “Are you all right with my opening it here?”
What I’m really asking is if it’s okay to do it in front of her children. Because that’s not my preference. It will be traumatic, and I can’t talk freely if they’re sitting here.
“Why don’t you two watch TV in your room for a little bit?” their mother says to them.
“Do we have to?” they plead in unison.
“Just for a little while,” she replies, her face distressed again, and Marino gets up from his chair.
