Criminales are moving and investing a lot of their money. We’re gonna be a big pain in their ass for a long time-I’m thinking we can claw back another hundred million.”
“A hundred million. I like the sound of that,” the director said. “That’s a nice round number.”
After the call, O’Brien sighed, looked at Lucas, and said, “Well, that’s it then.”
“I’d really like to get Kline and Sanderson,” Lucas said. “And Albitis, for that matter, if she ever comes back.”
“We at the DEA have a little … mmm … aphorism … to cover such yearnings,” O’Brien said.
“What’s that?”
“Tough shit, pal.”
The day after the debriefing, the Brooks family was buried. Lucas did not go to the funeral, and was told by Shaffer that for such a well-publicized mass murder, the funeral attendance was remarkably subdued. The Brookses did not belong to a church, and so the funeral was attended mostly by family members, Sunnie employees, and reporters. “Hard way to go, all at once, like that,” Shaffer said. “Nobody left behind.”
That same day, Albitis opened one eye and looked around, then opened the other. Hospital room. She felt terrible: her head, neck, spine, arms, and hips hurt. Her mouth was dry, and something stank. She suspected it was her. Her feet seemed okay. She tried to turn her head but couldn’t. She managed to raise one arm into her field of view and found it punctured by a number of needles that led to plastic drip lines.
A moment after she woke up, a nurse, apparently alerted by the monitoring equipment, stuck her head in the room and said, “There you are.”
Albitis tried to speak, but her tongue was like sandpaper.
“You need something to wet your mouth,” the nurse said. “I’ll be right back.”
She was back a minute later with a bottle of water and a straw. Albitis took a sip, then two more. Her voice didn’t seem to work quite right, so she whispered, “Was I in an accident?”
The nurse said, “We don’t know exactly what happened to you. We were hoping you could tell us.”
Albitis thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know.” Then, “You’re speaking English. Where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital in Minneapolis,” the nurse said.
“Minneapolis? In the U.S. What am I doing here?”
“We don’t know exactly,” the nurse said.
Albitis’s eyes wandered away, then came back. “Minneapolis? I live in Tel Aviv.”
The nurse said, “Oh, boy.”
A week after the shooting, the Davenports moved back into the house. Jimenez had been working his ass off-there were no bullet holes or blood to be seen. He’d replaced the carpet in the hallway where Tres had died, with carpet indistinguishable from the original. He hadn’t yet put in the new upstairs hallway wall, but the maple was gone, and the hall showed bare studs and electric wiring down its length.
The hallway where Martinez had died had a varnished hardwood floor. Jimenez had stripped the varnish and redone it. He’d found a good door to replace the one Martinez had shot through, and had already fitted and painted it. The far wall had been peppered with pieces of nine-millimeter hollow-points, and he’d patched the drywall and repainted.
The temporary front door and the bare studs in the upper hallway were the only remaining signs of the fight.
Letty walked through, checked it all out, and pronounced herself satisfied. “If I didn’t have this cast … I hate this cast.”
“Better than the alternative,” Lucas said.
She thought about that for three seconds, then said, “But he didn’t hit me in the head. He hit me in the arm, and I hate this cast.”
“I got this little … aphorism … from the DEA,” Lucas said.
Weather was watching Letty like a hawk, and the third day after they’d gotten back in the house, she said to Lucas, “I hope there’s nothing wrong with her.”
“Like what?” Lucas asked.
“She’s not showing any signs of the psychological trauma that she should be. I’ve been reading everything I can find on it. The shock-”
“She’s okay,” Lucas said.
“But-”
“I know exactly what you’re saying,” Lucas said. “You’re worried that she might be a psychopath, or a sociopath, or one of those path things. She’s not. Or at least, that’s not all she is.”
“You know I love her,” Weather said.
“Of course you do, but that doesn’t have anything to do with what you’re worried about,” Lucas said. “But stop worrying.”
“I’m not sure I can. I want her to be … happy. I want her to be well.”
“A lot of people think surgeons must have a little psychological thing, you know?” Lucas said. “They take perfectly good people and slice them to pieces so they can have a shorter nose. You’d have to be a little crazy to do that, or to get it done, for that matter. We’re all a little crazy, sweetheart.”
Weather got puffed up. “Comparing what I do-”
“I know, there’s no direct comparison.”
They had a little five-minute exchange about the psychological stability of surgeons, punctuated with examples of crazy surgeons that Weather had talked about in the past, and she finally said, “Look, whatever-I’m not talking about all of that. I’m talking about our daughter.”
“I know you are,” Lucas said. “And like I said, we’re all a little crazy, but basically, and overall, Letty’s okay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s just like me,” Lucas said. “And I’m okay, mostly.”
Lucas and Letty stopped at a coffee shop, and Letty got a grande latte and Lucas got a no-fat hot chocolate, and Letty asked, “Is Mom okay?”
“She’s holding up. She’ll be working again tomorrow,” Lucas said.
“Okay, that’s good,” she said.
“How are
“I…” she said, then stopped. “I don’t know.” Her voice was distracted, Lucas thought, like she was taking effort just to talk. Usually she was chatty. She didn’t sound depressed, though. Just distracted.
“Do you feel bad about it?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I shot that one guy before, but I didn’t kill him. But this … nope. Nothing. Just … I had to do it, and I did it, and it was done. I’m not worried about it, I don’t feel bad. Is that normal?”
“It depends,” Lucas said. “Sometimes, if-”
“How many people have you killed?” Letty asked abruptly.
Lucas considered. They’d never talked about it. Not directly. It was known, but it was a topic they’d always avoided. He did a quick tally in his head.
“Ten,” he said. “That I know of.”
“That you
“There are a few more people dead, that I was responsible for, directly or indirectly,” Lucas said. “I’d get in a situation where pretty much it’s going to end with a death. That sort of thing.”
“Is
“No. Not for most cops. But I was always pushed into the rough stuff. All of my professional life,” he said. “And sometimes, you’ll get something-a hostage situation, say-and you’ll find out that there’s no way to do it without someone dying. When that happens, if it’s your only option … I just don’t have time to feel too bad about it.”
