considered having him gelded, but everyone who saw him thought she should put him up for stud. She’d pried out of Stuart the fact that he’d paid an outrageous twenty-five thousand dollars for the horse, and she was told she could maybe charge five hundred for each live birth. But to do that, she’d have to move him to a different farm where workers knew how to handle breeding, and she guessed if he was being regularly bred, with his blood fired up he might be even harder to handle. Since she did so love riding her elegant Arabian, it seemed more bother than it would be worth. She didn’t really need the money. Except that it made sense, of course, to geld him if she wasn’t going to breed him.
“You should come with me someday,” she suggested impulsively. “Have you ever ridden?”
“I seem to remember a pony ride at the Woodland Park Zoo when I was five.” He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Coward.”
A smile in his blue eyes, John said, “Haven’t you heard that discretion is the better part of valor?”
“That from a man who risks his life day in and day out.”
“We all choose our poison.”
“I’m sure we could rent a placid horse that wouldn’t break out of a walk,” Natalie coaxed.
“Maddie and Evan could go, too.”
He groaned. “Maybe. And don’t you dare go behind my back and prime them.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she promised, crossing her fingers in her pocket.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” In passing her, he gripped her shoulder briefly. “Go ride. Then take a nap. I’ll try to be home for dinner.”
By the time she followed him out of the office, he had already disappeared toward the front of the house. She heard his voice, then the slam of the front door.
“Drive carefully,” she murmured.
THE WOMAN WITH SOFT, flyaway gray hair gazed at him with bewilderment and the beginnings of horrified understanding. “Ronnie is dead?”
This was the moment John hated most. There was no kind way to tell parents that they would have to bury the son or daughter who was supposed to long outlive them. Ronald Floyd might have been a scumbag, but he was still their son, a baby born in hope.
“I’m afraid so,” he said gently.
He stood on the front porch of the small frame house in south Tacoma, his vision of Marvella Floyd obscured by a screen door. She had briefly opened it, but when he told her why he had come, it had slipped out of her nerveless hand and snapped shut between them.
Now she clutched at the door frame, bewilderment still predominating. “But…what happened? Was it a car accident?” Hope made her sound eager. She wanted it to have been a tragic accident, the kind that could have happened to anyone. “He’d gone straight, you know. He said so. And even in his bad days, he never hurt anybody, not Ronnie.”
No, he just helped hook the youth of America on a relentlessly addictive white powder that replaced jobs, family, loved ones as the very reason for existence. And, oh, yeah, damaged hearts, destroyed nasal passages, and was generally a fun party favor.
“When you deal drugs, you’re coming in contact with some brutal people.” Understatement. “Ma’am, may I come in?”
“What?” She stared at him with dazed eyes. “Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” She backed slowly inside the living room of the small frame house, leaving him to open the screen door and follow. When he did, she looked over her shoulder with apparent confusion, as if she’d forgotten where she was or who ought to be here.
“Is your husband home?” John asked. When she swayed, he reached for her elbow, expecting her to crumple.
Her worn brow crinkled. “I don’t know where he is.” She raised a voice that quavered. “Ralph!” Both she and John listened to the silence. “He was here a minute ago,” she fretted, completely focused on her husband’s absence rather than her son’s death. Denial was something John knew well. “Ralph?” she called again.
“Could he have stepped outside?”
“Oh!” Relief infused her voice. “I think he did. Tomorrow is garbage day, you know. That’s it. He was taking the garbage out, he said.”
“Why don’t you sit down,” he suggested, steering her to the couch. “Let me get your husband.”
“Oh, but…” She tried to rise again. “The kitchen is such a mess! We haven’t cleaned up from breakfast yet.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled reassurance. “I’m a single father. You should see mine.”
She sat again but quivered with worry as he cut through the old-fashioned kitchen to the back door. It swung open before he reached it. A heavyset, balding man entered, mind on other things until he saw John and came to an abrupt stop.
“I’m Detective McLean,” John said, holding out his shield. “Port Dare P.D. Your wife let me in. Sorry to startle you.”
Worry settled on him, stooping his shoulders. “It’s Ronnie again, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid your son has been killed, Mr. Floyd.”
He caught the implication immediately. “How?”
John told him.
Mr. Floyd shook his head. “His mother has always believed every word that boy said, but the last time he was here I knew he was going right back to the low road. That was Ronnie—always spoiled. If he could get it for nothing, that’s what he wanted.”
What child didn’t? John thought. Wasn’t it a parent’s job to teach the virtues of hard work and charity?
“He was our only boy. We have two girls. Good girls. They both have families now. One works for the county assessor’s office. I don’t know, maybe we’re the ones who spoiled Ronnie. But that boy. He was in trouble with the law by the time he was twelve. Shoplifting. It’s just been one thing after the other.”
“Ralph?” From the living room came his wife’s shaky voice. “Ralph, are you talking to that policeman?”
Moving wearily, feet shuffling, Ralph Floyd passed John and went to his wife. He sat beside her on the couch, patting her restless hands on her lap, and they both gazed with deep sadness and anxiety at John, who sat in an armchair facing them.
He explained again how Ronald Floyd had died. “I’m hoping you can tell me something that might help find his killer,” he said. “Can you give me names of friends? Was he working? Do you have his address?”
They did have that. His father gave the names of some friends from high school but shook his head when pressed for others. “He’d mention people in prison—Joe or Buzz Saw or some such nonsense, but I have no idea whether they’re still locked up or not. He wouldn’t have brought a cell mate home. He knew better than that.”
“Job?”
“Ronnie
