on the steps. He knew that Paige’s department reported to him, because she’d once pointed him out as her boss’s boss. He worked at the plant, something in production, and had moved to Hornbeck soon after being hired about the same time Logan started as a constable.
“Logan,” said Mr. Park. “Paying your respects?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good man.” Park slapped him on the upper arm as if he were a draft horse.
Logan stepped in from the cold and into the bright hallway. He removed his hat and gave it a spin before unzipping his constable jacket. He had intended to find Mrs. Sullivan, seeing her in deep conversation with her sister, Freda, in the living room, but then he spotted both Sullivan’s fourteen-year-old son, Steven, and eleven-year-old daughter, Valerie, sitting with their chins on their knees on the steps leading to the second floor. Instead of the familiar basketball shorts and sneakers, Steven wore gray slacks and a black shirt, and Valerie was wearing a forest-green skirt and white blouse. He’d never seen them in this sort of attire.
Steven’s chin lifted when he spotted Logan, assistant coach of his travel basketball team.
“Coach,” he said, his expression hopeful.
Logan changed direction and headed up the stairs, pausing to sit two steps below the kids. He placed his hat on the same step.
“I’m sorry about your dad, Steven, Valerie. He was a really good coach.”
Valerie didn’t make a sound, but tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“You going to be our coach now?” asked Steven.
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Everyone keeps hugging me,” said Steven, his expression now cross. His lower lip and the break in his voice told Logan that Steven was on the verge of tears. A swipe of his sleeve across his eyes confirmed Logan’s guess.
“It’s okay to cry, Steven. When my mom died, I cried for months. Not all the time but a lot and sometimes when I didn’t expect it. I’d just start crying.”
“How’d she die?” asked Steven.
“It was an aneurysm in her aorta.” He pointed to his heart. “That’s like a bubble in the artery. The wall of that blood vessel is thick and tough, but my mom’s was thin there and when it let go she died very fast.” Right beside him at the grocery store just after he turned eleven. He remembered the way she’d fallen, as if she had been a marionette with all the strings cut at once. The grapefruit in her hand had rolled straight down the aisle in the produce section like a bowling ball. He’d hit his knees beside her and stared at her face. She’d looked so surprised. But she’d already been gone.
“Where is my dad now?” asked Valerie, shaking him from his dark memories. He wondered if the child meant metaphorically or physically. As he pondered how to answer, Steven cut in.
“Nobody will tell us,” said Steven. “They just say he’s in heaven. Or with God. But where is he really?”
“Do you mean his remains?”
They nodded in unison, eyes wide.
“They took your father’s body to Owen’s funeral home. They have beds there for folks who have passed. And since it was an accident, the state police need to have a look at him for clues to help them catch whoever did this.”
“And put him in jail,” said Valerie.
“Might be a him,” said Logan. “Might be a her. But we’re trying every way we know to catch them.”
“Is he cold?” asked Valerie.
“No. Definitely not.”
“I’ve only ever seen dead animals. They get all stiff and swollen,” said Steven.
“No, that won’t happen. The people at the funeral home will wash him and dress him and treat his body respectfully.”
“Why?” asked Steven. “He can’t feel anything now. Can he?”
“It’s more for the family. Rituals to take care of our dead. It’s a last act of love.”
“You ever seen a dead body?” asked the boy.
Logan had seen many, according to his military record, but he remembered only one. “My mother, when she died and then again the day of her funeral.”
“What about at war?” asked Valerie. “Dad said you were in combat and that some of the other soldiers with you died.”
He’d been awarded the Silver Star for valor after half the roof had caved in on him and his men in a building in Fallujah.
“I heard that, too. But I don’t remember any of those deaths because I got hit in the head,” he said as he pointed at the scar on his forehead as evidence.
Both the Sullivan children regarded the scar with serious concentration.
“Kids in my class say you got a metal plate in your skull and you can stick a magnet on your head and it just stays there.”
“No plate, so a magnet wouldn’t stick.”
“Steven, Valerie?” Mrs. Sullivan stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding the newel post and looking up at them with red-rimmed eyes. Their gazes met. “Mr. Lynch, I didn’t know you were here.”
He retrieved his hat and placed it over his heart as he stood. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sullivan. I had great respect for your husband.”
“Thank you, Logan.”
“He’ll be missed.” He descended the stairs, and she extended her hand. The circles under her eyes and the red, puffy eyelids made her look years older. He kissed her offered cheek and drew back.
“Thank you for coming. Have you had your supper? We have too much food.” She took hold of his hand and led him toward the dining room, but paused in the hallway to stare at him. “My husband was having some trouble at work this week. He told me that he was worried about something. Running helped him relax.” She spoke quickly as if she’d been bursting to share the information with the right person.
“What?”
“Anomalies. Missing samples. That’s what he said.”
Someone stepped up behind them.
Lou Reber, the plant’s head of security, moved from the living room into the hallway, and Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes widened. She spoke to Logan without looking at him.
“Go and fix a plate for yourself, Logan, and please take something back for your father.”
Reber came up to her and took her hand, expressing his condolences. Logan hesitated a moment and then stepped into the dining room where callers mingled around the overladen table in quiet conversation.
In the hallway, Reber moved toward the front door. Mrs. Sullivan glanced
