liked nothing in this world more than colors, the brighter the better.
Tommy’s screams subsided into sobs that indicated he was gasping for breath. He seemed near hyperventilation.
“Slowly,” Gabe said. He reached over and gently took Tommy from her. He held his shoulders. “I was taught in police school how to breathe when I’m upset.”
Holly doubted it, but this wasn’t the time to call him on his veracity. Unless maybe he had paramedic training, too. She looked around. No paper bags here. Wasn’t that what was needed when a person hyperventilated, to breathe into a bag?
Tommy regarded Gabe with wide, frightened eyes that asked a question.
“Here. Like this.” Gabe took an exaggeratedly deep breath, and let it out very slowly. And then another. “You try it.”
Tommy coughed, then stilled his panting long enough to studiously inhale, then exhale.
“Hey, that’s great! It took me a lot of practice to get it right, and here you’re doing it first thing.”
Tommy smiled as he breathed the same embellished way once more. His respiration grew more regular.
“Good deal,” Gabe said. “Now, are you ready to see if we can find some of those butterflies?”
Tommy gave one decisive nod.
“Do you remember their names, the kind I told you about?”
Again, Tommy nodded.
“And what is it?”
Tommy stopped smiling. He blinked.
He obviously wasn’t ready to talk yet.
“You can tell us later, okay?” Holly said.
He nodded and held out his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, then glanced around. Edie still stood beside them. Reverend Miller, on the pulpit, regarded her questioningly, with Evangeline standing beside him. Sheldon had taken a seat nearby.
Holly knew the eyes of all the hundreds of funeral attendees were on Tommy and her. She couldn’t exactly take Tommy out into the garden for a lesson in entomology right now. But she couldn’t abandon him, either.
Gabe apparently understood her ambivalence. “Tell you what, sport,” he said to Tommy. “I think your mom needs to stay in here for now. Grown-up rules and all. But for the moment they don’t apply to me, so just you and I will go outside, okay?”
Tommy looked at her, appeal in his gaze. He obviously wanted to go with this man. Speaking of ambivalence—was Holly ready to let her frightened son out of her sight? Especially now?
But he couldn’t be in any safer hands than those of the chief of police, could he? And this man, this stranger, had somehow known exactly what to say to calm her son.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, her words stronger than her conviction.
“Great. Come on, Tommy. I guess this isn’t a good place for a race, so we can’t see who can get out there fastest. Maybe once we’re outside we can play a game. Okay?”
Tommy grinned and nodded yet again.
Gabe McLaren had to be married and have a houseful of kids, Holly thought as she watched Tommy tuck one small hand into Gabe’s huge one. How else could he know how to deal with a terrified child that way?
And why did the thought of his active marital status send a pang of disappointment through her?
The very large man and the very small child walked hand-in-hand out of the crowded chapel. As they reached the door, she saw Tommy turn back and glance not toward her, but toward the crowd. His sweet face screwed up again as if he was going to cry once more.
Gabe apparently noticed, for in a moment he swept Tommy into his arms as if he were as light as meringue, and they disappeared through the door.
NINE O’CLOCK in the evening was too late to come to the Poston house. Gabe knew it, even as he pulled his blue Mustang up to the house with the number he’d been searching for. He could see by the streetlight that it was an attractive pale blue stucco home with white trim. As with the rest of the eclectic residential neighborhood a couple of miles inland from the beach, the Poston house resembled none of its neighbors. Gabe had to drive around the block, looking for a parking space.
A few media vans still lurked here on California Street, but their occupants appeared to be packing up. Gabe had designated an information specialist from his department to deal with reporters. She was to act cooperative while saying as little as possible about the Poston case.
He had meant to arrive earlier, but time had gotten away from him after Thomas Poston’s funeral. There were several administrative matters he’d had to take care of that day, and the memorial service had messed up his schedule.
More importantly, he’d delved further into the investigation of Poston’s murder. Even though the detective in charge was the best, Gabe wasn’t happy about the progress so far.
Especially not when it might relate to the undercover matter that brought him here in the first place.
And so, he’d decided to insinuate himself right, smack into the middle of this one. In fact, he was going to work on it here and now. Tonight. Assuming he found a parking space.
Not that he was about to try to twist Tommy Poston’s arm. Poor little tiger. He was the closest thing to an eyewitness they had. Gabe didn’t completely subscribe to the theory popular around the N.B.P.D. that, if he had witnessed the killing, Tommy would have been dead right alongside his daddy. Maybe it was so. Maybe it wasn’t. In any event, Gabe wouldn’t risk the boy’s life on it. He’d warn Holly Poston not to let Tommy out of her sight unless he was with someone completely trustworthy.
He finally found a parking spot and pulled in. Deciding to leave his holster and 9mm Smith & Wesson in the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and swapped them for a smaller pistol. Carrying a weapon was standard procedure, no matter which police force he’d worked on. Here, because of his undercover investigation, it was imperative. He stuffed the pistol in his pants pocket and put his suit jacket back on, his cell phone in an inside pocket.
His thoughts still swirled as he walked the two blocks along the dimly lighted residential streets to the Postons’ house.
Gabe suspected Tommy had seen something, even if it wasn’t the actual murder. That could be why the kid wasn’t talking.
Poor Tommy obviously missed his daddy already. He’d latched onto Gabe in the garden as if he were starved for a man’s attention, hanging onto his hand, listening to everything he said, pointing out all the flowers and butterflies and birds.
He hadn’t spoken at all. That was another thing Gabe needed to talk to Holly about. He’d learned, from the perfunctory report filed by Al Sharp after visiting the boy, that this silence was probably a result of the trauma of losing his father. It wasn’t normal for Tommy Poston. But was Tommy talking to his mother? If so, maybe Gabe could coax him, over time, to describe what he’d seen. Or maybe he’d already told Holly.
Now, Gabe heard the hubbub of voices as he strode up the short, yucca-lined
