it provable and squeaky clean. Got it?”
They nodded and broke it up like a team that had been huddling with their quarterback. Grace was glad Kate was their captain. She was smart, a great tactician, and committed to the job. Perfect credentials, as far as Grace was concerned.
Energized, Grace crossed to her desk, opened her brown paper bag, and pulled out Mr. Briscombe’s framed photograph of Jamal and Malcolm at Jamal’s getting-out party. With a pang, she touched Malcolm’s face with her fingertip. Then she set the photograph on her desk, angling it just so. Next she opened the drawer where she kept the dried petals from all the roses the father of a murdered girl kept sending her, hoping to remind her to keep on working that cold, cold case. She had not forgotten. She would not forget.
So much death among the roses.
Ham walked up to her. “I got stuff on the dealer,” he said. “From Indian. His name was Chris Jones but he went by Ajax.”
“Because that is so much sexier,” Grace drawled.
“Someone accused him of cutting his heroin withkitchen cleanser. Jones beats the accuser to a pulp and injects him with ammonia.”
“Well, damn,
he’s
no angel.”
“He got a bad reputation for dirty drugs. Plus he banged some underage girl, got her pregnant, dumped her, and she committed suicide. So I could see someone hating him enough to shoot him three times.” Ham gazed down at the picture.
“And me, hating him enough to be glad he’s dead,” Grace said.
She couldn’t be sorry about it. But she was very sorry that this was the kind of world Jamal couldn’t seem to leave, no matter how hard she tried. He was going to wind up in hell, way down deep where the fire was hot.
Contemplating the work ahead, she made a face. “Sheesh, Chris Jones. Why couldn’t his last name be something like Nemecek-Gulac?” Which was the least common surname in the United States, and the answer to a bar bet.
“I’ll start a file on him,” Ham said. “You should have your sleepover.”
“You’re a good man, Dewey,” she said. She fluttered her wings, which were still attached to her office chair. “A real angel.”
“Payback.” His smile was lecherous.
“With interest,” she promised. She had rarely been clearer that the sleepover was the right thing to do. With the mayhem on the streets, Clay was safest with her, knowing he was loved, knowing he had people watching out for him.
She shut the drawer and got ready to leave, already planning the required store run before she picked up Clay. At the thought of the fun to come, she brightened, and reached in her pocket for a cigarette.
“Sure, I would love to see
Astronaut Farmer,”
Grace said as Clay held out the video. With all the deftness ofa card sharp, she shuffled the three zombie movies she had rented—who knew there were so many to choose from?—to the bottom of the pile that was threatening to spill over on the coffee table. She made a show of admiring Billy Bob Thornton’s smile as he stood in front of a barn. What on earth had possessed Clay to change his mind and watch this thing? She had a sneaking suspicion that Earl had had a hand in this.
Clay looked at her apprehensively. “You’re not disappointed, are you, Aunt Grace?”
“’Course not, man,” she said, taking his choice to the DVD player. “I think the popcorn’s nearly done. How about you grab it?” He scooted into the kitchen, and she put the disk in.
Dressed in raggedy sweats and a too-small Frontier City T-shirt that had really had its day, Clay opened the microwave door. “Oh, good, this is the kind with extra butter.” Grinning, he plucked up the steaming popcorn bag with his thumb and forefinger.
“There is no other kind,” Grace declared as she headed back to the couch. “Grab the Cokes, too.” She reached for the bag of sour candy on the coffee table and ripped it open. Dove in and stuffed her mouth full of eye-watering, sour goodness. Sugar, fat,
They nodded and broke it up like a team that had been huddling with their quarterback. Grace was glad Kate was their captain. She was smart, a great tactician, and committed to the job. Perfect credentials, as far as Grace was concerned.
Energized, Grace crossed to her desk, opened her brown paper bag, and pulled out Mr. Briscombe’s framed photograph of Jamal and Malcolm at Jamal’s getting-out party. With a pang, she touched Malcolm’s face with her fingertip. Then she set the photograph on her desk, angling it just so. Next she opened the drawer where she kept the dried petals from all the roses the father of a murdered girl kept sending her, hoping to remind her to keep on working that cold, cold case. She had not forgotten. She would not forget.
So much death among the roses.
Ham walked up to her. “I got stuff on the dealer,” he said. “From Indian. His name was Chris Jones but he went by Ajax.”
“Because that is so much sexier,” Grace drawled.
“Someone accused him of cutting his heroin withkitchen cleanser. Jones beats the accuser to a pulp and injects him with ammonia.”
“Well, damn,
he’s
no angel.”
“He got a bad reputation for dirty drugs. Plus he banged some underage girl, got her pregnant, dumped her, and she committed suicide. So I could see someone hating him enough to shoot him three times.” Ham gazed down at the picture.
“And me, hating him enough to be glad he’s dead,” Grace said.
She couldn’t be sorry about it. But she was very sorry that this was the kind of world Jamal couldn’t seem to leave, no matter how hard she tried. He was going to wind up in hell, way down deep where the fire was hot.
Contemplating the work ahead, she made a face. “Sheesh, Chris Jones. Why couldn’t his last name be something like Nemecek-Gulac?” Which was the least common surname in the United States, and the answer to a bar bet.
“I’ll start a file on him,” Ham said. “You should have your sleepover.”
“You’re a good man, Dewey,” she said. She fluttered her wings, which were still attached to her office chair. “A real angel.”
“Payback.” His smile was lecherous.
“With interest,” she promised. She had rarely been clearer that the sleepover was the right thing to do. With the mayhem on the streets, Clay was safest with her, knowing he was loved, knowing he had people watching out for him.
She shut the drawer and got ready to leave, already planning the required store run before she picked up Clay. At the thought of the fun to come, she brightened, and reached in her pocket for a cigarette.
“Sure, I would love to see
Astronaut Farmer,”
Grace said as Clay held out the video. With all the deftness ofa card sharp, she shuffled the three zombie movies she had rented—who knew there were so many to choose from?—to the bottom of the pile that was threatening to spill over on the coffee table. She made a show of admiring Billy Bob Thornton’s smile as he stood in front of a barn. What on earth had possessed Clay to change his mind and watch this thing? She had a sneaking suspicion that Earl had had a hand in this.
Clay looked at her apprehensively. “You’re not disappointed, are you, Aunt Grace?”
“’Course not, man,” she said, taking his choice to the DVD player. “I think the popcorn’s nearly done. How about you grab it?” He scooted into the kitchen, and she put the disk in.
Dressed in raggedy sweats and a too-small Frontier City T-shirt that had really had its day, Clay opened the microwave door. “Oh, good, this is the kind with extra butter.” Grinning, he plucked up the steaming popcorn bag with his thumb and forefinger.
“There is no other kind,” Grace declared as she headed back to the couch. “Grab the Cokes, too.” She reached for the bag of sour candy on the coffee table and ripped it open. Dove in and stuffed her mouth full of eye-watering, sour goodness. Sugar, fat,
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