articles was any indication—even a sliver—of the dad’s possible innocence. Only a broken heart could deny the facts—Eddie’s dad had wiped out his family, sparing his teen son simply because he was in school at the time Dad snapped.
Did I really expect anything more? Wasn’t this really just a way to distract myself from that damn phone call?
I shut off the microfiche machine and returned the cartridges to the research desk.
Outside, my breath steamed in the cold air. I stood at the top of the cement steps leading to the library doors, trying to decide what to do with myself.
The stretch limo that pulled to the curb made the decision for me.
I sat in the back of the limo, alone. The Friday edition of the Tribune lay neatly on the leather seat next to me. A pair of bottled waters sat in a cup holder to one side. A mini fridge was built in under the cup holders. When the limo took a turn, I could hear a faint clink from inside the fridge. I kept my curiosity on a leash and didn’t open it. I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted to know why the driver of this limo had found me at the library and invited me for a ride. I had hesitated at first. Officer Rogers taught me in elementary school never to get into a car with a stranger. But something the driver had said made it so I couldn’t resist.
The ride is courtesy of an old friend.
I didn’t have many friends in Hawthorne left. And I couldn’t think of any who would send a limousine to pick me up.
So in I went, and now I sat staring at the back of the driver’s head through the glass partition wondering how much stranger a single day could get.
We arrived at a hotel in what qualified as part of downtown Hawthorne—basically a collection of now abandoned machine shops, hotels, and a strip club or two all gathered around the Hawthorne airport. Not a lot of flights came in and out of Hawthorne. Mostly private planes. If you wanted to book a flight for the family vacation, you’d have to leave out of Detroit Metro.
The driver pulled into the half-circle driveway at the hotel’s front door. He got out and opened the door for me. All I needed was the red carpet and I could play the pop star my parents had always hoped I’d become. Imagine their disappointment when they learned I’d gone into private investigation instead. I never got to see their faces when I told them what I was up to out in LA, but I did hear my dad’s choked gasp over the phone. At the time, I felt like I’d really stuck it to them. I’d had no idea it would be the last time I ever spoke with them.
The driver slipped the valet a bill and changed roles to escort. He guided me to the elevator and we rode up to the sixth floor. I tried a couple of times to ask who we were meeting with. His answer was always the same.
“Patience,” he’d say like a Kung Fu master admonishing his student.
In silence, we exited the elevator and followed the hall till my companion stopped in front of one of the room doors and waved a delicate hand at the knob. “Go right in.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said. “We should do this again sometime.”
One eyebrow lifted, but I didn’t get so much as a smirk out of him. Some people have no sense of humor.
I let myself in, glad I had my gun tucked in its shoulder holster under my coat. I didn’t go many places without it anymore. I’d learned my lesson three years ago after the cluster-fuck Autumn Rice had dragged me into.
The last person I expected to see sat at a small round table by the window. The gray sky behind her gave her face a dark cast. Her eyes looked sunken, a trait she hadn’t had last time I saw her. Her white hair had turned a dirty shade that matched the sky. The lines in her face were a picture worth more than a mere one-thousand words.
She looked like hell, and from the color of her skin, I knew it was the drinking that had done it to her.
“Sheila.”
“Hello, Ridley. You’re looking a little haggard.”
“You should
Did I really expect anything more? Wasn’t this really just a way to distract myself from that damn phone call?
I shut off the microfiche machine and returned the cartridges to the research desk.
Outside, my breath steamed in the cold air. I stood at the top of the cement steps leading to the library doors, trying to decide what to do with myself.
The stretch limo that pulled to the curb made the decision for me.
I sat in the back of the limo, alone. The Friday edition of the Tribune lay neatly on the leather seat next to me. A pair of bottled waters sat in a cup holder to one side. A mini fridge was built in under the cup holders. When the limo took a turn, I could hear a faint clink from inside the fridge. I kept my curiosity on a leash and didn’t open it. I wasn’t thirsty. I wanted to know why the driver of this limo had found me at the library and invited me for a ride. I had hesitated at first. Officer Rogers taught me in elementary school never to get into a car with a stranger. But something the driver had said made it so I couldn’t resist.
The ride is courtesy of an old friend.
I didn’t have many friends in Hawthorne left. And I couldn’t think of any who would send a limousine to pick me up.
So in I went, and now I sat staring at the back of the driver’s head through the glass partition wondering how much stranger a single day could get.
We arrived at a hotel in what qualified as part of downtown Hawthorne—basically a collection of now abandoned machine shops, hotels, and a strip club or two all gathered around the Hawthorne airport. Not a lot of flights came in and out of Hawthorne. Mostly private planes. If you wanted to book a flight for the family vacation, you’d have to leave out of Detroit Metro.
The driver pulled into the half-circle driveway at the hotel’s front door. He got out and opened the door for me. All I needed was the red carpet and I could play the pop star my parents had always hoped I’d become. Imagine their disappointment when they learned I’d gone into private investigation instead. I never got to see their faces when I told them what I was up to out in LA, but I did hear my dad’s choked gasp over the phone. At the time, I felt like I’d really stuck it to them. I’d had no idea it would be the last time I ever spoke with them.
The driver slipped the valet a bill and changed roles to escort. He guided me to the elevator and we rode up to the sixth floor. I tried a couple of times to ask who we were meeting with. His answer was always the same.
“Patience,” he’d say like a Kung Fu master admonishing his student.
In silence, we exited the elevator and followed the hall till my companion stopped in front of one of the room doors and waved a delicate hand at the knob. “Go right in.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said. “We should do this again sometime.”
One eyebrow lifted, but I didn’t get so much as a smirk out of him. Some people have no sense of humor.
I let myself in, glad I had my gun tucked in its shoulder holster under my coat. I didn’t go many places without it anymore. I’d learned my lesson three years ago after the cluster-fuck Autumn Rice had dragged me into.
The last person I expected to see sat at a small round table by the window. The gray sky behind her gave her face a dark cast. Her eyes looked sunken, a trait she hadn’t had last time I saw her. Her white hair had turned a dirty shade that matched the sky. The lines in her face were a picture worth more than a mere one-thousand words.
She looked like hell, and from the color of her skin, I knew it was the drinking that had done it to her.
“Sheila.”
“Hello, Ridley. You’re looking a little haggard.”
“You should
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