“Don’t be. I spent a lot of time on the floor before I got used to this stuff.”
“How do you get used to it?” He looked back into her eyes, as if searching for the answer.
“I’m not sure. You just sort of disconnect, try not to think about it.” She looked away and quickly got to her feet. She hated how his eyes seemed to look deep inside her. She realized it as a simple device, a cunning tool of his charm. Still, she was afraid he might actually see some weakness she had carefully hidden. Months ago there wouldn’t have been anything to hide. Albert Stucky had supplied her with her own vulnerability, and she hated that it stayed so close to the surface where others might see it.
Before she could offer him a hand, Morrelli slowly stretched his long legs from the twisted knot and got to his feet without staggering or assistance. Other than his almost fainting, Maggie noticed that Sheriff Morrelli moved very smoothly, very confidently.
He smiled at her and rubbed the cold condensation of the can against his forehead, leaving a wet streak. Several strands of hair slipped across his forehead and stuck to the wetness. “Do you mind meeting me up in the cafeteria when you’re finished?”
“No, of course not. I won’t be much longer.”
“I think I’ll take a Pepsi break.” He lifted the can to her as if in a toast. He started to leave, glanced back at the boy’s body, then walked out.
Maggie’s stomach churned, and she regretted not eating the breakfast offered during her roller-coaster flight. The room was cool, but her shuffle with Morrelli had left her hot and perspiring. She pulled off a glove and wiped her hand across her forehead, not surprised to find it damp. As she did so, she glanced at the boy’s forehead. From this angle she could see something smeared on his brow.
She bent over the table, looking closely at the transparent smudge in the middle of his forehead. She wiped a finger across the area and rubbed her fingers together under her nose. If the body had been washed clean, that meant the oily liquid had been applied after. Instinctively, Maggie checked the boy’s blue lips and found a smear of the oil. Before she even looked, she knew she’d find more of the oil on the boy’s chest, just above his heart. Perhaps all those years of catechism had finally paid off. Otherwise, she may have never recognized that someone, perhaps the killer, had given this boy last rites.
CHAPTER 13
Christine Hamilton tried to edit the article she had scribbled in her notebook while pretending to know the score of the soccer game being played on the field down below her. The wooden bleachers were terribly uncomfortable no matter how she shifted her weight. She wanted a cigarette, but chewed the cap of her pen instead.
A sudden burst of applause, hoots and whistles made her look up just in time to see the team of red-clad, ten-year-old boys high-fiving each other. She had missed another point, but when the small, red-haired boy looked up from the huddle, she gave him a smile and thumbs-up as if she had seen the whole thing.
He was so much smaller than his teammates, yet to her he seemed to be growing too quickly. It didn’t help matters that he was looking more and more like his father every day.
She pushed her sunglasses on top of her windblown hair. The sun was disappearing behind the line of trees that bordered the park. Thankfully, most of the clouds had passed over without dumping more rain. It was bad enough they were playing a make-up game on a Sunday evening.
She had isolated herself on the top bleacher away from the other soccer moms and dads. She didn’t care to know these obsessive parents who wore team jerseys and screamed profanities at the coach. Later, they would slap the coach on the back and congratulate him on yet another win.
She flipped a page and was about to return to her editing when she noticed three of the other divorced soccer moms whispering to each other. Instead of watching the game, they were pointing to the sidelines. Christine turned to follow their gaze and immediately saw what had distracted them. The man striding up the sidelines typified the cliché—“tall, dark and handsome.” He wore tight jeans and a sweatshirt with Nebraska Cornhuskers emblazoned across the chest. He looked like an older version of the college quarterback he used to be. He watched the game as he walked—no, glided—up the sidelines. But Christine knew he was well aware of the attention he was drawing from the bleachers. When he finally looked over, she waved to him, enjoying the look of envy on the women’s faces when he smiled at her and made his way up the bleachers to join her.
“What’s the score?” Nick asked, sliding in beside her.
“I think it’s five to three. You realize, don’t you, that you just made me the envy of every drooling, divorced soccer mom here?”
“See, the things I do for you, and you repay me with such abuse.”
“Abuse? I never hit you a day of your life,” she told her younger brother. “Well, not hard.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He wasn’t joking.
She sat up straight, preparing to defend herself despite the guilt gnawing at her stomach. Yes, she should have called him before she turned in the story. But what if he had asked her not to run it? That story had put her on the other side of the door.
Rather than being stuck writing helpful household hints, she had two front-page articles in two days with her byline. And tomorrow she’d be sitting at her own desk in the city room.
“How about I make it up to you? Dinner tomorrow night? I’ll fix spaghetti and meatballs with Mom’s secret sauce.”
He looked over at her, glanced at the notebook. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Oh, come on, Nicky. You know how long I’ve been waiting to get out of the “Living Today” section? If I hadn’t filed that story, someone else would have.”
“Really? And would they have quoted an officer who told them something off the record?”
“He never once said it was off the record. If Gillick told you otherwise, he’s lying.”
“Actually, I didn’t know it was Eddie. Gee, Christine, you just gave away an anonymous source.”
Her face grew hot, and she knew the red was quickly replacing her fair complexion. “Damn you, Nicky. You know how hard I’m trying. I’m a little rusty, but I can be a damn good reporter.”
“Really? So far I think your reporting has been irresponsible.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Nicky. Just because you didn’t like what I wrote doesn’t make it irresponsible journalism.”
“What about the headlines?” Nick spoke through gritted teeth. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this upset with her. He avoided looking at her and watched the boys running up the field. “Where do you get off comparing this murder to Jeffreys’?”
“There are basic similarities.”
“Jeffreys is dead,” he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening. He clasped his hands together over a knee and tapped his foot on the empty bench in front of them, a nervous habit Christine recognized from childhood.
“Grow up, Nicky.
