rates really go up that high? That world was gone. It had disappeared not too long ago under a frigid November sky.
Grant stuck to the side roads as he drove to Danny's place. He was in no particular hurry, and he rolled all the windows down, turned up the radio, and stole a glance at a couple of women walking in short shorts, pushing strollers under the hot sun. “Yummy mummies” Danny Cook would call them back when they were working a community patrol car together. Grant thought about that as he drove, working a patrol area without Danny's wisdom and company. Radio chattering, coffee balanced on the dash, notebook entries, incident reports, traffic points, all of that. He grasped it and enjoyed the familiarity of those small things, the nuances specific to any job. As he got closer to Danny Cook's home the sadness faded, and he felt the sun coming off the dash and heard the music with greater clarity.
Grant pulled into Danny's driveway and tucked his Jeep in behind Danny's Caddy. Danny had obviously waxed the thing again; it damn near blinded you to look at it. Grant smiled, felt pleased for Danny Cook. He'd taken his daughter Gwen up on her long-standing offer to move in with her and her two daughters. Danny loved those grandchildren with all his might, with every inch of his great big Irish heart. And the arrangement had been working well, Danny and his daughter getting along famously, helping each other out and raising the twins. It seemed like a rewarding way to spend retirement.
Danny answered the door with a big grin on his face. The man could simply smile and you felt that all was right with the world. Grant followed him down the hallway into the kitchen and out a set of French doors to the deck. Danny excused himself to fetch a couple of beers, and Grant sat in a Muskoka chair and inhaled the sweet scent of the Cooks' huge flower garden below.
“That ought to hit the spot,” chuckled Danny, handing Grant an ice-cold bottle. Grant took a sip, wondered how Danny always kept the beer so damn cold, an ice particle or two in every sip. Danny positioned himself across from Grant.
“Hide your eyes, McRae, it's too hot out here for this thing,” said Danny. He yanked off his T-shirt to expose a typical retired cop's upper body: strong and burly, with the gut extending much further out than the chest. The cab forward design, as Danny called it. Danny took a healthy chug of beer and wiped his mouth with his forearm.
“Well, one last brew before you get back to it, huh?”
“Yeah, by this time tomorrow I'll be riding shotgun with the one and only Owen Crews,” said Grant.
“That's confirmed? You're going over to 14 Division, for sure?”
“Yeah, I talked to Inspector Laird yesterday. He's ready for me, said I'd be partnered with Crews for the time being.”
Danny Cook shrugged, said, “You're okay with that, aren't you?”
Grant hadn't done much thinking about it. That fact that he was actually going back to work had been a big enough bite to chew on. He was more concerned with how he'd handle it, how he'd perform.
“Well, I would have preferred to go back to 24 Division. I mean, it's where I started, our old stomping grounds, but let's face it, it's not a huge department, so it's not likely to be all that different, right?”
Danny leaned back and wiped the sweat from his beer. “Hey, 14 is growing, getting as busy as 24. And you knew that Laird would want you there, which might not be a bad thing, considering,” he said.
“I just hope that he doesn't want to talk about it all the time, you know? I hope he doesn't expect us to bond: brothers in turmoil and grief. That's all I need.”
“Well, Grant, he's a front-runner for Chief of Police once Glendon steps down. Deputy Van Heusen is too old, doesn't want the job anyway. So, my money's on Inspector Laird. Being tight with the future chief? Not exactly a career-limiting move in my opinion.”
Danny laughed when he'd said this and held up his beer.
“Cheers, by the way,” he added.
They clinked bottles and both looked off the deck onto an almost blue-green lawn.
“What do you know about Owen Crews?” asked Grant.
“Crews? Super Cop? Nothing outside the usual gossip really. I mean everyone knows of him. He's young, but also an old-fashioned law and order type, which doesn't bother me one bit.”
“I get it, but then I don't, you know? You'd think they'd have put me with someone like Singh or Moretti. Why Crews?”
“Well, if you were with Singh, you'd get stuck doing all his paperwork for him, on account of his hatred of anything that requires ink. Moretti would drive you nuts with his constant talk about renovating that fucking house of his. Take your pick,” said Danny.
“I guess you're right.”
“I usually am. Well, I was wrong once. Thought I'd made a mistake, but hadn't,” said Danny. He laughed at his own joke and told Grant to lighten up.
“Look, Grant, Owen Crews is Laird's boy. He just got made up to training officer, so Laird obviously sees something in him. Like I said, being on the next chief 's good side isn't going to hurt you. I'll bet Crews, despite his past lapses in judgment, makes sergeant within two years. Shit, McRae, don't make the same mistake I did and wind up a beat cop for thirty years. If Laird takes a shine to you and Owen Crews is going places 'cause he's in Laird's back pocket, well, get in there, ride in his slipstream, and take whatever opportunity comes your way.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You're right.”
“I usually am. Well, I was wrong once . . .”
Grant joined in and they finished the sentence in unison. And then Danny Cook got up to get two more beers out of the cooler.
Grant drove home just before the dinner hour. Danny had asked him to stay. He was heating up the barbecue and defrosting some chicken to feed “his girls” when they arrived home. Grant had declined. He didn't want to get in the way, interfere with family plans. Besides, it was tough being around Danny Cook's grandchildren. They were ten years old, happy, bright, well-behaved kids. And while that should've made them a pleasure to be around, for Grant McRae it was difficult to sit and watch them laugh and run and do all that kids do.
Rachel's Toyota was in the driveway when he arrived home. He backed his Jeep up beside her car and noticed a portion of the hedge that he'd missed when he'd trimmed it earlier that week. He opened up the main door of the garage and grabbed some pruning shears, wandered over and clipped back the fine branches. He always hated coming into the house after not seeing Rachel for a few hours. It always seemed to him that she observed him very carefully for the first few minutes. Conversation was wooden, and no matter how hard they both tried, it came out sounding rehearsed. He ran out of hedge to trim, so he unwound a few feet of garden hose, attached the sprinkler, and turned on the water.
The house smelled of onion and spice when he finally walked in. A preacher was whining on the radio, and he could see Rachel moving about in the kitchen.
“Hey, Rachel, I'm home.”
She came into the front hallway with an apron on, mixing spoon in one hand.
“I got your note,” she said. “How's Danny doing?”
“He's swell. You know him, happy-go-lucky. It's really working out well with his daughter and her kids.”
“I've
