Page 18 of The Murder Inn

“It never really leaves you,” I said.

“I know the feeling.” Breecher gave her first smile of the meeting, a small, careful one. I could see from the way her cheek dimpled that her usual smile was broad and generous. I had a desire to see more of it, and I got the feeling most people who met her did. “Look. No offense, Bill. But you being a lawman doesn’t give you the right to just barge in on our business.”

“Maybe. Let me tell you a little story,” I said. I could feel Nick’s eyes on me now. “My best buddy in grade school was this kid named Max. He lived three doors down. We used to ride our bikes to school together every day, take a detour to throw rocks off a bridge. This was Revere in the 1960s. Not the best neighborhood in the world but not the worst.”

The waitress came and put down mugs and a coffee pot for us, unnerved enough by the weird vibe at the table to forgo pouring the drinks. She practically flung the menus at us as she turned away.

“Max’s dad was a real deadbeat,” I continued. “There’d be bruises on Max and his mother now and then. I’d see them, but I wouldn’t say anything, because my dad was a cop too and I knew it would cause trouble. Maybe my folks would stop megoing around there. Anyway, this one day, Max gets on his bike but he doesn’t want to go to the bridge, like usual. We go to the general store instead and buy a bunch of comic books. When I asked Max where he got the money, he went all quiet. And he stayed quiet all day at school. Distant. Troubled. Couldn’t focus. Wouldn’t tell me what was up. We went to the bridge after school that day, which we never did, because we were always starving and my mother would put cookies and juice out for us. We stayed out until it was dark. He didn’t want to go home.”

Breecher and Nick were watching me. I poured the coffees and held mine, let it warm my hands.

“I was a kid. I couldn’t put the signs together and predict what was going to happen that night after Max got home,” I said. “I tell myself that, and I believe it, but I don’t reallyfeelit, you know?”

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“Max’s dad beat him to death,” I said. “He told the court it was just supposed to be a regular old whooping because Max stole money out of his wallet. But Max hit his head on the coffee table accidentally and he just never woke up.”

“Jesus,” Breecher said.

“The dad did three years. Got out on good behavior.”

“Man,” Nick said and shook his head.

“The thing that sticks with me about it all is that Max stole five dollars,” I said. “Ihadfive dollars I could have given him to cover for what he did. My grandmother had just given it to me the day before, for my birthday. My point is that I knew my friend had a problem and I didn’t get involved. I could have pushed for answers, but I didn’t. And Max didn’t want to tell me what was going on, probably, because I was pretty rigid about that sort of stuff: stealing and lying. I was from a family of cops. Max probably thought I would think less of him.”

I turned to Nick.

“Sound familiar?”

“You wouldn’t think less of me if you heard what we did,” Nick said. “You wouldn’t think anything of me at all, Bill. I’m not a kid. I didn’t steal five bucks.”

“We can’t tell him.” Breecher reached over and gripped Nick’s hand. “We just can’t.”

Nick and Breecher watched each other.

“Is it what I think it is?” Nick asked her. “With Dorrich?” She nodded gravely. I waited, but they still wouldn’t let me in.

“Listen, you’re in trouble,” I said finally. “I can see it in your eyes, both of you. You need an ally, and I am one. Whatever it is, however bad, I’m with you on it, OK?”

They struggled in their own way, each of them. Breecher was focused on her hands, her mouth twisted; Nick was watching the waitress making her rounds, his eyes hollow.

Silence enveloped us. Nick put his hands flat on the table, his decision made.

“He’s right,” Nick said. “We need an ally. We’ve tried to do this alone and I for one can’t carry it anymore. Breecher, we need to get some help on this thing.”

Breecher looked at me, defeated. The diner bustled with noise and warmth and smells all around us, happy people enjoying their breakfast, going about their business, immune to the darkness we were dealing with at our table. Nick and Breecher seemed to decide wordlessly who would give me the key to Pandora’s box.

It was Nick who spoke. Nick who, with his words, tore to shreds the image of the man I thought I knew.

“We killed a family,” Nick said. “A big, innocent family.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I SAT BACK in my seat and let it wash over me, the story Nick told me about the night in the desert, the little house two down from the goat pen. I saw Nick crouching in the dark while Dorrich smashed in the door. The gunshots pulsed in my ears. I saw children sitting on the floor, mixed in among the adults; three generations of a family lounging together, reading, talking, safe and secure in their home in the desert until they were unceremoniously blown apart, all eight of them.

The IHOP waitress avoided us and no one moved in our booth as the story trailed off, dread weighing heavy on us, keeping us still and silent as the diner buzzed and bustled with activity.

I knew Nick and Breecher were waiting for a response from me, but for a long time I didn’t have one. I had to swallow the horror and disgust that captured my mind first, because I knew those feelings were valid but not useful to me right now. I needed to know more. During my time as a cop, I’d sat withdozens of confessed killers around tiny tables like this, trying to set aside my human response before it interfered with my real job. I was the investigator. The listener. The consumer of secrets. I would decide what to do with what I was hearing later.

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