Page 20 of Sharp Force
A Christmas tree’s multicolored lights blur through curtains. Marino parks behind a Ford Cherokee SUV, covered with snow. It obviously hasn’t been moved since the storm started. I know fromthe police that Rowdy O’Leary’s pickup truck is in the impound lot, towed there from the pier after he went missing a week ago.
Curtains move in the bay window, the curious faces of two young boys appearing, the Christmas tree blazing behind them. They stare at us, and I go hollow inside.
“Bad shit like this shouldn’t happen at Christmas.” Marino blows out a frustrated breath.
He takes the gum from his mouth, dropping it into the trash bag attached to the gearshift.
“I never get used to it,” I reply as we unbuckle our seat belts.
“I hate it for the kids most of all. How much are you going to tell them and their mom?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I don’t like to say it, but remember, we don’t know much about Reba O’Leary. Or if she has something to do with what happened.”
“I’ve been around the block a few times,” I tell him.
“One of the things that’s got the police going is the life insurance policy. I guess Reba stands to get a pile of money. Five million or something.”
“That doesn’t mean she did anything wrong,” I reply.
“I’m just saying we need to be careful.”
He removes his pistol from under the steering column. He slides the gun into the pancake holster on his hip.
“I wish I had something to give them besides this.” I tap the evidence envelope in my lap. “Pasta and homemade bread. A pizza or some other comfort food.” I imagine what I would cook, trying to forget the ache in my chest.
“It’s a big deal that you bothered to show up in person,” he says as we climb out of his truck, thudding the doors shut.
The mixture of snow and sleet is falling fast and gusting in the wind, stinging my face, my eyes watering. The yard and walkway are blanketed, nothing shoveled. But footprints and gouged areas lightly dusted suggest a recent snowball fight. Tracks lead to a sled propped against a winter bare oak tree, the bark frosted white on one side.
As we reach the front porch, Reba O’Leary opens the door, and I guess her to be late thirties, her pleasant face freckled, her green eyes haunted. She’s heavyset with shoulder-length blond hair. Fixing up for the grim occasion, she’s put on makeup, a red pleated skirt, a cardigan with snowmen embroidered on it. I smell cookies baking.
“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say to her while unbuttoning my coat, tucking the scarf into a pocket.
“We know how hard this is,” Marino adds, taking off his baseball cap.
He hangs it and my coat on the coatrack where two ski jackets are drying. Beneath them on a towel are wet snow boots and mittens.
“I hope the roads weren’t awful,” Reba O’Leary says, a dog whistle of panic in her tone.
“Nothing my truck couldn’t handle,” Marino replies as footsteps sound.
Her twin boys walk into the foyer, dressed in blue jeans and matching Charlie Brown Christmas hoodies. Their green eyes and wavy rose-gold hair remind me of Lucy at that age, and my heart hurts as if someone squeezes it.
“This is Mick and that’s Rick,” Reba introduces them to us.
“Nice to meet you, Mick and Rick. I’m Investigator Marino.” He bends down to shake their hands as they eye him with astonishment. “So, how old are you?”
“Nine,” they answer.
“I’m Doctor Scarpetta.” I smile, and they look frightened.
“They’re here to tell us about Dad,” Reba says to them. “And to return some of his things.”
Her attention briefly alights on the manila envelope I’m carrying, her face stricken. We follow her and the boys into a living room with maple flooring centered by a Persian-style rug. The big wall-mounted TV is turned off across from the black leather sofa.
I notice the pile of packages under the Christmas tree, the two Ferrari-red bicycles with big silver ribbons on them.
