Page 48 of It's One of Us
“Two months? The next one’s not due until March. You don’t have to rush it.”
“It’s not a problem. I already know what the story is. I’ll grind it out. But I need some cash now. I don’t know where things are headed here, and—”
The genial gentleman’s deal with a handshake three-martini-lunch agent he knows and loves is back. “No problem, buddy. I trust you. Barty trusts you. But if it gets out that you’ve been ghosting for him all these years, the spigot will run dry, you realize that. Your NDA is ironclad.”
“The police need—”
“What part ofironcladdid you miss? No way you can tell anyone, Park. Police included.”
“I understand.”
“Good. I’m glad we’re clear. You think about the memoir, and I’ll go run some damage control. Twenty-eight kids. Jesus. Hope you don’t have to put them all through college.”
Park doesn’t even deign the joke with an answer, just clicks off and drops the phone onto the counter with aclunk. He is rewarded with a small crack in the screen.
“Great.”
“Mr. Bender?”
Osley is back.
“Do you want more coffee, Detective?” Edgy, edgy, Park.
“Naw, I’m fine. Just letting you know we’re wrapped up in the shed. It’s a bit of a mess, but some wipes will take that dust away. How ya doing? You look wrecked.”
“I am wrecked, Detective,” he says, running a hand across his jaw. He hasn’t showered, he hasn’t shaved. He is rumpled and dirty and sad. “Tell me, what are the next steps?”
“Well, first, I gotta get your prints, for elimination.” He pops open a small case and sets it on the table. “Just press the pads of your fingers here, if you don’t mind.”
Park has the sudden urge to sayno, I want my lawyer, but he complies. He always complies. When you have nothing to hide...
But you do, Park. You do have something to hide.
He presses the pads of his fingers, then his thumbs, watches the loops and whorls assemble into a marker almost as specific to his body as his DNA. Good thing they don’t have a way to measure the soul. His would be spilling everywhere right now like blood from a cut.
“Great. Thanks. So now we put everything in the system and see if we get a match. I hear your wife had some excitement this morning, too. With the sketch of the dude, and prints from both places, we might be able to wrap this case quickly. I sure do hope so. Makes me jumpy, having a killer roaming around. You take all the precautions you can, okay? Keep your doors locked and alarms on, just in case. And keep an eye on your wife.”
Osley’s phone dings with a text, and he glances down at it. The bonhomie cowboy is gone, and Park sees the sharpness inside the man, the face suddenly tense and wary. It’s an act, Park realizes. The steady stream of good old boy I’m your buddy we’re just havin’ a chat patter is just a way to get people to open up, to say something that can be used against them later.
Osley is on the move. “Gotta go. We’ll be in touch.” And he’s out the door, the car whipping away from the curb with a squeal.
Something has happened, that’s clear enough. Probably another case. Park knows the cops work on more than one at a time.
As Osley promised, the shed is a mess. Park takes it all in, sighs, then starts cleaning up, stacking paper, wiping off the pens, the doorknob, his phone, the safe. Something bad is happening, something out of his control.
Twenty-eight kids. He’s going to sue the shit out of Winterborn. He and Olivia are never going to have to worry about money again.
And as he’s examining the facets of that little diamond, he turns it slightly, and the kaleidoscope reveals itself. He’s been suffused with excitement and hasn’t wanted to admit it. There’s nothing he’s ever wanted more than a big, boisterous family. Will he meet them all? Will they want something from him? Will he want something from them? Call me Dad, I want to be your friend, walk a few girls down the aisle, all that?
Maybe. And he has to admit, the thoughts fill him with joy.
But. One of them has killed a woman. Where will it end? No place good, that’s for sure.
He has no idea how to act, what to think, just feels the simmering emotions inside him. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t want it like this. Like he told Olivia, he wants the weekend back again, wants to stand over the king-size sleigh bed in the early morning sun watching his wife sleep, her lovely face blank with dreams, his son safe and warm in her belly. He wantsherto birth his children, not a bunch of faceless strangers. And he sure as hell wants the easiness of their earlier troubles. Infertility is a bitch, but fathering a murderer?
He’s still holding onto one shred of hope that the police have made a mistake.
The landline rings, and he answers it, hoping it’s Olivia, though why she would call the house phone, he has no idea.
