“I?m glad you?re here,” she said, in a voice that had lost its youth.
“Glad to help,” I said.
“Nobody can help,” she said.
“You want to talk it out?” I suggested. “It helps, I?m told.”
“But not for you, is that it?”
I thought about what she?d said. It was true, there were few people in the world I could talk to. A
hazard of the profession.
“I guess not,” I said. “Nobody trusts a cop.”
“It?s hard to realize that?s what you do.”
I looked around the place. It was a man?s room, no frills, no bright colours. The colour scheme was
tan and black and the antique furniture was heavy and oppressive. The walls were jammed with
photographs, plaques, awards, all the paraphernalia of success, squeezed into narrow, shiny brass
frames. The room said a lot about Harry Raines; there was a sense of monotonous order about it, an
almost urgent herald of accomplishment. A single flower would have helped immensely.
Oddly, Doe was in only one of the pictures, a group shot obviously taken the day the track opened.
The rest were all business, mostly the business of politics or racing: Raines in the winner?s circle with
a jockey and racehorse; Raines looking ill-at-ease beside a Little League ball club; Rains with the
Capitol dome in Washington soaring up behind him; Raines posing with senators, congressmen,
governors, generals, mayors, kids, and at least one president.
“Didn?t he ever smile?” I asked, looking at his stern, almost relentless stare.
“Harry wasn?t much for smiling. He thought it a sign of weakness,” Doe said.
“What a shame,” I said. “He looks so unhappy in these photographs.”
“Dissatisfied,” she said. Resentment crept into her tone. “He was never satisfied. Even winning didn?t
satisfy him. All he thought about was the next challenge, the next victory, another plaque for his wall.
This was his place, not mine. I?m only here because it?s convenient. As soon as this is all over, I?m
getting rid of it. I?m sick to death of memorials, and that?s all this house is now.”
“How about you, did you satisfy him?”
“In what way?” she asked, her brow gathering up in a frown.
“I mean, were you happy together?”
She shrugged.
“We had all the happiness money can buy,” she said ruefully. “And none of the fun that goes with it.”
“I?m sorry,” I said, feeling impotent to deal with her grief. “I?m sorry things have turned so bad for
you.”
