to mute the devastating news with gentle tonality. It wasn't working. I knew from years of police work in homicide that there is no good way to deliver this kind of information.
My stomach did a turn. I felt my spirits plunge.
"I've been meaning to stop by and see him," I said. It was, of course, completely off the point and pretty much a huge lie.
"He left a note in his desk," she said. "It was written a week before he died. He wanted you to be one of his pallbearers."
Chapter 3
Diamond Peterson told me that the funeral was going to be at the old Surfers' Church located on Cliffside Drive, overlooking the public beach at Point Dume. It was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, when we were planning to be in Hawaii.
I hung up and turned to face Alexa, who could read my devastation. She knew bad news was coming.
"Problems?"
"Yeah." I stood there, trying to get the right words.
"Come on, buddy. Just lay it on me," Alexa said. "Something go wrong with one of your current cases?"
"You remember Walter Dix?"
She frowned slightly, found the memory, and nodded. "From the group home?"
"He's dead."
Her expression changed, saddened by sympathy. Tm so sorry, Shane. I know how important he was to you growing up."
"Suicide," I said, trying to fit that idea into a mosaic of things I knew about Pop. Some guys are suicide types--brooders, drinkers, mood flippers, tight winds. Pop was none of those. He was the perennial optimist, a hang-loose guy who loved to laugh.
Even though he ran a foster-care home packed with depressing social casualties, he saw the world as a place of constant opportunity. There was always a party wave out there. He knew it was coming and would be large enough for all of us to ride. He believed in miracles.
He didn't seem to me like someone who would commit suicide. But then, how did I really know? I'd ditched him like a bad date. I hadn't been back there to see him in years. And the few times I did go, I'd been awkwardly subdued. We'd been on the same page when I was a kid, but we struggled to communicate as adults. I'd told myself the reason for this was that all we had in common were bad memories of my childhood, which neither of us wanted to revisit.
This excuse suddenly seemed like an artful dodge to avoid a painful self-evaluation. I suspected the real reason I didn't go was because Walt was a witness to a different Shane Scully, a mean angry bully who I no longer liked. I'd been staying away because he knew about parts of me that I was trying to either eliminate or forget.
If I thought about it, I didn't really know Walter Dix as he was today at all. I knew who he said he was, but sometimes there's a big gap between that and the real thing. Maybe under those crinkly smile lines and the surfer disguise, something darker was hiding. I couldn't trust my recollections as a child and hadn't invested enough interest as a man to have a valid opinion.
"When's the funeral?" Alexa asked, getting to the meat of it before I had a chance to bring up that problem.
"Day after tomorrow."
"You need to go," she said, instantly knocking three days off a vacation we'd carefully planned and had been desperately looking forward to.
"Yeah," I said.
She took a step forward and held my hand. "It s okay, honey. Ten days in paradise is still nothing to complain about. It'll give me time to refine my wardrobe selections."
"He left a note. He wants me to be a pallbearer."
She stood there thinking, remembering the few things I'd told her over the years. "But you . . ."
"Yeah. Shallow, selfish bastard that I am, I've barely talked to him in twenty-five years."
"Come on, Shane, stop it."
My thoughts suddenly started shooting all over the place. The Huntington House home; the early morning surf trips to the beach; toys Pop had bought for us with his own money; coaching our baseball and soccer teams; a sad memory of him sitting next to Theresa Rodriguez's bed one night, holding one of her horribly scarred hands while
My stomach did a turn. I felt my spirits plunge.
"I've been meaning to stop by and see him," I said. It was, of course, completely off the point and pretty much a huge lie.
"He left a note in his desk," she said. "It was written a week before he died. He wanted you to be one of his pallbearers."
Chapter 3
Diamond Peterson told me that the funeral was going to be at the old Surfers' Church located on Cliffside Drive, overlooking the public beach at Point Dume. It was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, when we were planning to be in Hawaii.
I hung up and turned to face Alexa, who could read my devastation. She knew bad news was coming.
"Problems?"
"Yeah." I stood there, trying to get the right words.
"Come on, buddy. Just lay it on me," Alexa said. "Something go wrong with one of your current cases?"
"You remember Walter Dix?"
She frowned slightly, found the memory, and nodded. "From the group home?"
"He's dead."
Her expression changed, saddened by sympathy. Tm so sorry, Shane. I know how important he was to you growing up."
"Suicide," I said, trying to fit that idea into a mosaic of things I knew about Pop. Some guys are suicide types--brooders, drinkers, mood flippers, tight winds. Pop was none of those. He was the perennial optimist, a hang-loose guy who loved to laugh.
Even though he ran a foster-care home packed with depressing social casualties, he saw the world as a place of constant opportunity. There was always a party wave out there. He knew it was coming and would be large enough for all of us to ride. He believed in miracles.
He didn't seem to me like someone who would commit suicide. But then, how did I really know? I'd ditched him like a bad date. I hadn't been back there to see him in years. And the few times I did go, I'd been awkwardly subdued. We'd been on the same page when I was a kid, but we struggled to communicate as adults. I'd told myself the reason for this was that all we had in common were bad memories of my childhood, which neither of us wanted to revisit.
This excuse suddenly seemed like an artful dodge to avoid a painful self-evaluation. I suspected the real reason I didn't go was because Walt was a witness to a different Shane Scully, a mean angry bully who I no longer liked. I'd been staying away because he knew about parts of me that I was trying to either eliminate or forget.
If I thought about it, I didn't really know Walter Dix as he was today at all. I knew who he said he was, but sometimes there's a big gap between that and the real thing. Maybe under those crinkly smile lines and the surfer disguise, something darker was hiding. I couldn't trust my recollections as a child and hadn't invested enough interest as a man to have a valid opinion.
"When's the funeral?" Alexa asked, getting to the meat of it before I had a chance to bring up that problem.
"Day after tomorrow."
"You need to go," she said, instantly knocking three days off a vacation we'd carefully planned and had been desperately looking forward to.
"Yeah," I said.
She took a step forward and held my hand. "It s okay, honey. Ten days in paradise is still nothing to complain about. It'll give me time to refine my wardrobe selections."
"He left a note. He wants me to be a pallbearer."
She stood there thinking, remembering the few things I'd told her over the years. "But you . . ."
"Yeah. Shallow, selfish bastard that I am, I've barely talked to him in twenty-five years."
"Come on, Shane, stop it."
My thoughts suddenly started shooting all over the place. The Huntington House home; the early morning surf trips to the beach; toys Pop had bought for us with his own money; coaching our baseball and soccer teams; a sad memory of him sitting next to Theresa Rodriguez's bed one night, holding one of her horribly scarred hands while
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