Thereafter, a feud developed between the Stevens girl and another classmate named Austin Brown, whom she believed had instigated the social ostracism. At a party to celebrate the end of the school year, tensions had boiled over and Brown was alleged to have ordered her to be forcibly removed to an isolated area where she was subsequently killed. Brown was also identified as the person who had supplied Fritz McCabe with the weapon used in her shooting death. Of the four boys implicated, one testified at the trial in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Fritz McCabe was found guilty of murder one, kidnapping, and tampering with evidence. He was given the maximum sentence, serving his time at CYA until his twenty-fifth birthday, when his release was required by statute. Troy Rademaker had been found guilty of obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, aiding and abetting, and lying to the police. Austin Brown, who was alleged to have engineered the killing, had fled and was still at large.
Diana had included a couple of quotes from Fritz, who said, “I’ve paid my debt to society. I made a mistake, but I’ve put that behind me now so I can move on.” When asked about his plans, he said, “I’m looking forward to time with my family and then I hope to find a job and become a worthwhile member of the community.”
I took a wild-ass guess that Lauren McCabe’s call was related to her son’s release from prison. Much to ponder here and I was already curious what sort of task she had in mind.
I went up the spiral stairs to the loft, changed from my work clothes into sweats, and hit the walkway that parallels the beach. The running path is shared by walkers, bikers, and kids with skateboards. It was also sprinkled with city signs advising us to share and play nice. The sky was a wide expanse of unbroken blue with not a cloud in sight and it felt good to be in the open air. I didn’t like having to adjust my exercise routine to account for Ned Lowe, but neither did I like the feeling of vulnerability. I would have preferred to run packing my semiautomatic, but that seemed extreme. Last I heard, Ned Lowe had torched his motor home in the desert and was believed to have taken off on foot. In the wake of his disappearance, his photographic darkroom had yielded numerous pictures of the young girls he’d killed.
I finished the jog with a walk to cool down, and then showered when I got home. I spent the next couple of hours reading a mystery novel by Elmore Leonard, marveling as I always did at his ear for low-life dialogue.
At six, I set my book aside and headed for Rosie’s, which is the Hungarian dive half a block from my apartment. I’m there three or four nights a week, which is embarrassing to admit, but true nonetheless. I don’t cook, so if eating is on my mind, my options are limited.
Walking in, I saw no sign of Henry’s brother, William, who’d been felled by a twenty-four-hour stomach flu that had confined him to his bed for the previous five days. He and Rosie had been married for three years and he was usually front and center, tending bar and chatting up the customers while she commandeered the kitchen and bullied diners into ordering what she referred to as the Special du Jour of the Day.
Rosie was at the bar rolling stainless-steel flatware into paper napkins. I spotted my friend Ruthie at a table by herself and she waved, gesturing for me to join her. I held up a finger, indicating a slight delay during which I caught Rosie’s eye. “How’s William doing?”
“Still chucking up one end and sicking out the other.”
I held up a hand, blocking the mental images. William was ninety and I didn’t want to hear the details about his bodily woes.
During the late summer months, we’d all been subject to one illness after another: colds, flu, bronchitis, pharyngitis, laryngitis, sinusitis, pleurisy, and otitis media. William, already inclined toward hypochondria, was elated, seeing in our ailments a pointed reminder of our own mortality, which he believed was imminent. The rest of us were not convinced. When our low-grade fevers and hacking coughs went on too long, we cycled through a nearby Doc-in-a-Box and came away with short-term courses of antibiotics, which made us right with the world. Rosie ignored our penchant for pill popping and refused medical intervention altogether. She believed sherry was the cure for just about anything, including galloping pneumonia. Since she alone of the gang had been unaffected, I was inclined to take her word for it. “You like wine?” she asked.
“Why not?” I said. Rosie’s wine had all the germ-killing properties of a popular mouthwash.
I joined Ruthie, whose attention was fixed on my cousin Anna, who was sitting with Cheney Phillips, a homicide detective with the STPD. The two had their heads bent together over a crossword puzzle. Anna looked fetching for someone who puts her outfits together with a careless disregard for fashion trends. She wore baggy cargo pants, an oversize bulky-knit gray sweater with a white T-shirt under it, and what looked like combat boots. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head, where she’d secured the bun with a pair of wooden knitting needles. Cheney sat next to her in a chair he’d pulled around parallel to hers. He had his hand on the back of her seat, his legs stretched out in front of him.
“They seem as comfortable together as an old married couple,” Ruthie remarked. “Pity you didn’t snag him when you had the chance.”
Ruthie was the widow of a private detective named Pete Wolinsky, who’d been shot to death a year prior, leaving behind work notes that had led me to Ned Lowe, he of the girl-choking inclinations. She was referring to the fact that I’d had a fling with Cheney two years before, and while nothing had come of it, I’d since experienced a proprietary sense that my cousin was out of line. I’d never confided the particulars of the affair, but Anna should have known enough to keep her hands to herself. I wasn’t exactly miffed, since the pairing wasn’t a surprise as those things go. Anna was a guy magnet. Who could resist her when she was so pretty and with such a welcoming air about her? Also knockers twice the size of mine. Some would call her “loose,” but let’s not get into that. Even with my natural bias in place, I could see her appeal. She was open and unpretentious and it was clear she liked guys. No hidden agenda here, more’s the pity in my view. I would have preferred her with a load of unassigned rage so that men who fell under her spell would soon realize she left something to be desired. Apparently, not so in Cheney’s case.
“She can have him,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” Ruthie replied with a rolling of her eyes.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m expressing skepticism.”