Page 32 of Sharp Force
“I know all about it,” I reply, and if I had a cigarette right now, I’d sure as hell smoke it.
CHAPTER 11
We don’t see another car on South Payne Street, the lights of homes pallid in the storm. Marino opens the ashtray for more chewing gum. Juicy Fruit this time.
I take him up on the offer, my mouth parched. I’m shaky inside and blame it on low blood sugar. It’s almost nine o’clock, our staff Christmas lunch a long time ago, my stomach empty and raw.
“Rowdy had to have known what a deadbeat husband and dad he was, nothing but a liability after some asshole ran him over.” Marino gets back to that. “Be nice to find who’s responsible and lock up his ass. It would be the gift that keeps on giving.”
The gum’s fruity flavor makes my mouth water, carrying me back to my father’s store. I remember a bell jingling when the front glass door opened, the cool fragrant air inside. I envision the old cash register with its sliding drawer that I’d unlock first thing with the steel key I wore on a string around my neck.
“As far as I’m concerned, the driver should be charged with manslaughter,” Marino goes on, both of us vigorously chewing.
“That won’t happen, assuming the person is ever caught,” I reply. “Rowdy’s heart disease was due to his lifestyle. And possibly to genetics.”
“He made bad choices because someone else caused him to be disabled mentally, physically, in every way possible,” Marino says.
“True,” I reply.
“I guarantee he wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for the shitcan who slammed into him and sped away.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree. “But it wouldn’t hold water legally. And after six years, the police aren’t motivated anymore. Rowdy’s death likely won’t change that.”
“Huh. I’m not sure how motivated they were to begin with,” Marino says, driving well under the speed limit, our headlights reflecting off whiteness.
It’s hard to know where the pavement ends and the shoulder begins, snow blowing wildly in streetlights. I pass along the name of the state trooper Reba mentioned. Maybe Marino should get in touch with him.
“You’re reading my mind, Doc. I’ll give Trad Whalen a call ASAP, see what he has to say about the hit-and-run. Maybe there’s evidence that wasn’t ever tested.”
“I have some of Rowdy O’Leary’s records and will go through them when I get home,” I reply.
“A hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve,” Marino says.
“What else did you learn from the boys?” Already, I’m tired of the gum.
Taking it out of my mouth, I drop it into the trash bag.
“They told me enough that I believe Rowdy cared about them, spending a lot of time playing video games, watching movies,” Marino replies. “More a friend than a father, I got the impression.”
“Thank you for being kind. I think you might be their new hero.” I use my sleeve to wipe condensation off my side window.
“You don’t have to thank me, Doc. The least I could do,” he says. “The piece of shit who hit their dad did damage to them, too. And to Reba, but I’m not sure what I think of her yet.”
“You’re a good person.”
“Well, the little dudes have my number, and I’ll check on them tomorrow,” he adds as we drive through their neighborhood. “But I want to be careful how much attention I pay. Since we don’t really know what we’re dealing with.”
“No, we don’t,” I reply. “But you were right about the life insurance. And it’s substantial enough to cause questions should someone have reason to suspect Reba is somehow responsible for her husband’s death. Although I fail to see what involvement she could have had.”
Tire tracks are faintly visible through new snow, and we slow down as a splendid three-point buck trots across the street in front of us. He stands as still as an ice sculpture, staring, his eyes reflecting red in our headlights reminding me of the phantom hologram again.
“Looks like Santa lost one of his reindeer,” Marino says.
He taps his horn and the buck bounds away, vanishing in the snowy dark.
“It sounds like Rowdy left considerable debt.” I pick up where we left off. “I don’t know what he was making as a software designer, but I suspect his wife has been the one holding everything together at home while working full time as a nurse.”
“You can count on the insurance company doing everything it can to avoid making the payout,” Marino says, lightning flashing in the gloom. “A lot of insurers won’t pay if it’s a suicide.”
