He grunted before turning the heat on high. “Windchill’s supposed to drop to around ten. You might want to put on those jackets before we go see Mrs. Madison.”
“I didn’t bring them. It’s March. It’s springtime.” She tucked her fingers underneath each arm to stop them from turning blue. He didn’t even seem affected, and he was wearing short sleeves.
“Here, winter’s not over until summer.”
She luxuriated in the rapidly warming air blowing from the vents, finally loosening her self-hug so she could hold her hands out. When her heart had recovered from the shock and started pumping warm blood again, she settled back. “Why does Mrs. Madison not like police officers?”
“Family tradition. None of them were very good at walking the straight and narrow.”
They had plenty of those families in and around Evanston. Some of them were belligerent about it, but others, at least, disliked the police from the right side of the law. “And why does she like you?”
“She doesn’t exactly like me. She tolerates me. She and my mother’s family were neighbors.”
JJ doubted the first part of his statement. Once people got past his stiff, stern exterior, she figured, they liked what they found. Sam, Lois and Morwenna certainly seemed to have a bond with him.
She gazed out the window at the sometimes pretty, sometimes shabby, sometimes overcommercialized town that Maura had chosen to live in. It really wasn’t so different from Evanston. Smaller, not quite so prosperous, but she was certain it had its charm when the sun was shining and the air was sweet and warm.
She’d studied the Cedar Creek map, but it was always good to see exactly where to find the ice cream store and the grubby little hamburger joint that surely made the best burgers in town. In this particular case, they were south of downtown on Main Street. Another mile down, they passed a Whataburger, and her mouth started watering.
When she was a kid, every time they visited their grandparents in Florida, Grandpa had taken her and her sisters to Whataburger for a burger, fries and shake. Given that her mom and Grandma both had an unnatural aversion to fast food, it was always an absolute delight.
She intended to delight all over one later today.
When the street ended a moment later, Quint turned right. Three blocks later, he pulled into the parking lot of an assisted-living facility. Who’s going to take care of you when you get old if you don’t have kids? Mom routinely asked. You’ll wind up in one of those old folks places.
This one didn’t look so bad. The outside was well maintained, and inside, the lobby smelled of flowers and wood polish and, faintly, Italian spices, tomatoes and onions. Large windows let in a lot of light, and plants brightened even the darkest corners.
Quint signed them in, and they took the elevator to the third floor. Their strides weren’t so evenly matched this time. In fact, if she were a suspicious person, she would think he was practically skulking along the far wall, head down, shoulders hunched, face turned to the left. When he actually raised his right hand and pulled his hat even lower as they passed an open door, she made a quick note of the room number—318—then watched him revert to normal. Or, at least, his variant of normal.
Interesting.
With a silent sigh of relief at passing room 318 unnoticed, Quint stopped at 327 and rapped on the door. The voice that called a response was soft, frail, sounding like a fragile old lady summoning up her dying breath to invite them in.
He knew better.
Georgia Madison’s apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen that went mostly unused, a small living room and, visible through an open door, a bedroom. It was brightly lit to offset the gloominess outside, with table lamps and hanging globes of vivid colored glass. They were every shape and size: royal blue beside an orange the shade of JJ’s ring, sunny yellow and green and a red that set the standard for all reds.
Georgia was sitting in a recliner near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her hair was a mix of faded black, steel gray and white, her face lined with wrinkles, her eyes displaying her perpetual distrust of the unexpected. When she recognized him, some of the distrust faded, only to return in intensity at the sight of JJ.
“First time you come to see me in months, and you bring a copper with you?” She shook her head with mild disgust. Then she broke into a smile for him. “How are you, Quint?”
“I’m good, Georgie.” It was a blatant lie, and going by her second head shake, this one with mild sorrow, she recognized it.
He gestured to JJ, who’d stopped beside him. “Mrs. Georgia Madison, this is JJ Logan. You’re right, she is a cop. But she’s not out to get you.”
“All cops are out to get everyone.” The old lady gave JJ an appraising look, then nodded. “Sit. Ask your questions.”
JJ chose the couch, settling naturally into that perfect posture he’d noted earlier. Quint sat with a creak in the rocker a few feet to her left. The chair was old, the finish faded, but it was comfortable in ways a brand-new one could never be. He’d always sat in this chair when he’d visited the Madison home as a kid. It had squeaked badly even back then, and rocking in it had been one of his pleasures, until the inevitable warning from whichever adult was closest to please stop that.
He hadn’t thought about the chair, or those visits, or that time of his life in a very long while.
“How did you know I’m a cop?” JJ asked.
“Really? That’s the question you want to lead with?” Georgie gave an eye roll and a sigh, both heavily exaggerated. “It’s the look. Quint has it. That good-looking Little Bear kid he works with has it, that little guy, Harper—hell, everyone down there at thug headquarters. All good cops have the look.”
JJ considered, then accepted her answer as a compliment if her satisfied look was anything to judge by. “Do you prefer that I call you Mrs. Madison, Miss Georgia or Georgie?”
“Quint’s the only one in this room who can call me Georgie. For all other coppers, it’s Mrs. Madison.”
“All right, Mrs. Madison, can I ask you a few questions about the woman renting your house on Willow Street?”
“You can ask whatever you want, and I’ll answer whatever I want. And of course it’s my house on Willow Street. It’s the only house I own.” She humphed. “So? What do you want to know? I’m ninety-six years old, honey. Time’s a-wasting.”
JJ muttered, “And they say the good die young.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her mouth hardly moved, but that wasn’t going to save her, Quint knew. Georgie heard everything.
Georgie’s brows drew together in a frown. He thought for half a second about intervening but decided against it. The old woman was more than happy to spread her ire around, and he was more than willing to let her. Instead, he sat back, rested his ankle on the other knee and rubbed at a scuff on his boot.
“Let me tell you something, little girl. Disrespecting a fragile elderly woman that you want information from isn’t the smartest
