Bookman's promise

Lee and your father were partners and you lived with them after he died.”

She leaned into the light. “My father was an embezzler.” Then she was back in the shadows, her voice coming out of the void. “My dad was a crook.”

“Those are mighty unforgiving words, Erin.”

“There can be no forgiveness for what he did. He stole from his client.”

She took a deep breath and said, “When I was little my dad was my hero. He was funny and smart: he could do no wrong. I never wanted to be anything but a lawyer, just like him.”

I told her I was sorry. Sometimes people fall short of what we want them to be.

“I was thirteen when it came out. The worst possible age. In school I heard talk every day. The humiliation was brutal. I wanted to run away and change my name but Lee talked me out of that.”

“Lee’s a smart man.”

“Lee is a great man. He knew what I needed was not to deny my name but to restore it. I don’t know what I’d have done if not for him. Did you know they put me through law school?”

I shook my head. “Miranda did say they couldn’t be prouder of what you’ve done.”

“Well, now I’ve done it. I made all the honor rolls, got a great job, paid them back. My father’s not just dead, he’s really buried, and I don’t need to do it anymore.”

Abruptly she changed the subject. “Your turn. Bet you’re glad you’re not still a cop.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a cop. There are some fine people who are cops.”

“I know that.”

After an awkward pause, she said, “Look, I know what happened to you back then. I read all the stories and if any of it mattered to me, I wouldn’t be here now. I like you. You make me laugh. And just for the record, I like the police too. Most of the time.”

“Then we’re cool.”

She flashed me that lovely smile. “We’re cool, man.”

I wondered how cool we were, but at that moment the phone rang.

It was Ralston, taking a chance I’d still be here. “Can you come up to my house? Mrs. Gallant wants to see you.”

“Sure. How about first thing in the morning?”

I had a dark hunch what he would say, just before he said it.

“You’d better come now. I think she’s dying.”

CHAPTER 7

The address he gave me was in Globeville, a racially mixed North Denver neighborhood, mostly Chicanos and blacks who had escaped the stigma of being poor, if they actually did, by the skin of their teeth. Globeville had none of the fashionably integrated charm of Park Hill, but at least it had avoided the ethnic rage that simmered in Five Points a few years back. The area had its own distinct character: bordered by Interstates 25 and 70, formed by people struggling to get along, defined by a school of architecture best described as modern crackerbox provincial, it was a few dozen square blocks of plain square houses and cyclone fences, crammed tight for maximum efficiency.

Erin knew Globeville well. “I had a client who lived in that house,” she said, gesturing as we turned off North Washington Street. “Classic case of a woman who desperately needed a man gone from her life. But nobody was gonna tell him what to do with his woman.”

“Until you came along,” I said with genuine admiration.

“Me and the Denver Sheriff’s Department. She already had a restraining order, they just didn’t want to bother enforcing it. Because she was black, because she was poor, because, because, because. I just became her instrument to get them off the dime.”

“That doesn’t seem like a case for Waterford, Brownwell.”

“It was pro bono. They were less than thrilled when I took it, but I do that once in a while. It keeps my head on straight, reminds me why I got into law in the first place, and lets them know they can’t send me to places like Rock Springs without consequences.”

She had offered to ride along because she found Mrs. Gallant’s story fascinating, and second, she said, “to see where your idea of a real date finally takes us.” Ralston’s house was on North Pennsylvania, half a block from East Forty-seventh Avenue. By the time we arrived, not a trace of light remained in the western sky. I pulled up behind his car and saw his bearlike silhouette in the doorway. He pushed open a screened door as we came up onto the porch.

I introduced Erin as a friend and her hand disappeared into his. We walked through a small living room with the sparest imaginable furnishings—no television, I noticed—and on into the kitchen. There was a rickety-looking table, four plain chairs, a cupboard, and straight ahead the door to the backyard. Off to the right, a short passageway led