“No,” I said, “he didn’t make it out of his car in time to question us.”
“Mike and Cassie went home,” she said. “They’ve got two little ones,” she explained to Cassidy. “I invited Greg to stay for supper.”
I watched Cassidy, who had warned me, just before we got out of the car, to follow his lead where Greg Bradshaw was concerned. Cassidy had his hands full of cases from the trunk of the car, but he nodded toward the Bear.
“Glad we’ll have a chance to get to know one another better,” he said.
Bradshaw smiled. “Yes, me too. Need help with those cases?”
“Oh, I’ll manage, thanks. Mind if I set up camp in that back room, Mrs. Harriman?”
“Not at all — Oh, that reminds me. Irene, Rachel called. She’s bringing some overnight things up here for you. I told her to plan on staying over, but I think she wants to get back home to Pete.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “Need any help in the kitchen?”
“Oh, it’s just roasted chicken. Won’t be ready for about another forty minutes.”
She sat down next to Greg again, and he took her hand. I wondered briefly about the gesture, then decided not to read too much into it. She was worried, I knew, and I regretted making her wait so long to hear more about what had happened to her son. I asked her to catch me up on news of her grandchildren. It made better than average small talk.
Cassidy came back into the room and wandered over to the mantel, picked up a photograph. Bea had family photographs everywhere, but the one he held was my favorite. Frank’s favorite, too, I remembered. In it Frank stood next to his father, whom he strongly resembled. They were both in uniform. Brian Harriman’s arm was around his son’s shoulders, his pride evident.
My thoughts wandered for a moment to the missing photographs, the ones that might have included his sister Diana.
“The people who have Frank didn’t choose him at random,” Cassidy said, gently replacing the father-son photograph, bringing my attention back to Bea and Greg. “He was deliberately targeted.”
Cassidy did his best to prepare them for the upcoming press conference, although he provided them with only a little more information than I had given John.
When he first mentioned the Ryan-Neukirk murders, only Greg seemed to recognize the case by name. But the moment he said “two young boys in a warehouse basement,” Bea drew a sharp breath.
Although he talked about the Ryan-Neukirk case, Cassidy never mentioned the possibility of a cop’s involvement. Apparently sure of my cooperation, he didn’t try to cue me to keep my mouth shut about that. No quelling glances, no phrases with double meaning, no hand signals.
If you surveyed everyone who’s ever known me, friends and enemies alike, and asked them to write down ten words that describe me, “obedient” wouldn’t make anybody’s list. So why, I wondered, was I quietly listening to Cassidy deceive people I cared about?
The easy answer was that Frank’s life was at stake. The harder one was that Cassidy’s seed of doubt about Greg Bradshaw was taking root. Greg was silver haired by the time I first met him; he was easily over six feet tall. For the moment I was going to trust Cassidy’s judgment. If he was wrong, though, and we were wasting an opportunity to get the Bear’s help, would I be able to forgive myself?
I watched Cassidy, grudgingly admiring his ability to win their confidence. He sat there, speaking in that soft and slow drawl, his voice and demeanor lulling them into matching his own calmness at a time when panic and dismay beckoned. Nothing in those slate blue eyes gave away worry or anxiety or even the weariness he must have been feeling after a long, demanding day.
I saw their tension easing as he spoke. Here was someone in command of the situation, their faces said, someone who knew what was best.
“I retired not too long after those murders,” Greg said, breaking into my reverie. He was speaking to Cassidy, his voice gruff with emotion. “Within the next year or so, Gus and Brian left, too.”
“Cookie retired then, didn’t he?” Bea asked.
“No, he was already retired.” Greg frowned. “At least, I think he was. But you know Cookie — he kept up on things. Brian was the same way after he left.”
“Forgive me,” Cassidy said. “Brian is—?”
“Frank’s dad,” Greg said. “He’s in the picture you were holding. Passed away about four years ago. Cookie’s real name is Nat. Nat Cook.”
“Our extended family, Detective Cassidy,” Bea said. “Along with Greg, Gus Matthews and Nat Cook were my husband’s closest friends. They all worked with him on the Bakersfield Police Department.”
“We all hated the Ryan-Neukirk case,” Greg said. “Those kids — it was one of those things that just made you feel too old and tired for the job. I was thinking of retiring anyway, but I still wasn’t sure I wanted out. Afraid retirement would be too dull for me. There would be action somewhere, and I wouldn’t be around to see it, you understand?”
Cassidy nodded. “Sure.”
“Then the Ryan-Neukirk case came along, and I just said, ‘Okay, that’s it, I’ve had enough.’ It was like that.”
“I can see how it would be,” Cassidy said. “It was hard to just read about it in the old newspaper articles. Must have been pretty rough to be there.”
“It was,” Greg said. “I knew that was going to be a bad one from the beginning. I don’t remember where I was exactly, but I was out in a patrol car somewhere. What I remember so clearly is — I heard Frank making the call from this warehouse — and my God, his voice — I don’t think I’ll forget Frank’s voice on that call as long as I live. Frank’s quiet, you know?”
