42
Hogart, 1992
Beth Brannigan had never felt so much pain. The contractions were coming closer together, tying her into knots so she could hardly breathe.
The baby is trying to get out. He’s trying to be born.
Beth found herself terrified and astonished, as if this were something she’d never suspected would happen. As if she hadn’t been waddling around all those months with a new life inside her.
A complete surprise.
The bedroom window lit up with a flash of distant lightning. A storm on the way. Just what Beth needed.
Thunder rumbled through the darkness outside. A few large raindrops struck the window, and then came the steady plinking sound of rainwater dripping against the metal elbow of the downspout.
Beth switched on the bedside lamp and glanced at the numerals on the clock radio. Two-thirty a.m. Babies picked the damnedest times to be born.
If this was the real thing.
Even if it wasn’t the real thing, what was she going to do to find out? Wait until her water broke before calling for help?
She reached for the landline phone by the bed and considered calling 911. Then she decided that would probably bring Sheriff Westerley or his deputy Billy Noth.
Beth realized it was Westerley she wanted to come, to be by her side.
She put the phone back in its cradle and rooted in the tiny nightstand drawer until she found his number.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the night. Rain began falling in a torrent.
When Beth picked up the phone again, a strange thing happened. Some of her fear disappeared, and it was replaced by an odd kind of exhilaration. This was really happening. She was about to become a mother.
She made her call, alerting what had obviously been a soundly sleeping Westerley, who came awake in a hurry.
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t have called if I wasn’t,” Beth said. “You told me-”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I was putting on my pants. How close together are the contractions?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“We got some time, then. Stay calm.”
“I’m glad you know something about this. What was that?”
“Knocked over a lamp. Oww! Damn it!”
“Sheriff? Wayne? You okay?”
“Yeah. Stubbed my toe. You stay calm and I’ll be there before you know it.”
“Wayne?”
“I’m leaving. I’ll see you soon.”
There was a crash, and he hung up.
Beth lay in bed smiling, until the next contraction.
The seven-pound-four-ounce baby boy was born at 6:07 that morning. The birth had been accomplished without complications. It hadn’t been easy for Beth, but it was less painful than she’d expected.
Sheriff Westerley had stayed at the clinic throughout the ordeal of birth. He came into her room a few minutes after the nurses had given Beth the infant to hold.
He leaned over the bed, and she thought he might kiss her on the forehead. Instead he straightened up and smiled down at her.
“He look’s like he’s got all his parts,” he said.
She laughed. That hurt a bit, but the pain didn’t dent her relief and euphoria. “I’m gonna make you his godfather.”
“Fine with me,” Westerley said. “In fact, I’m honored.”
On the birth certificate Beth used her maiden name, Colson. The space for father was filled in with unknown. Beth named the baby Edward Hand, after her grandfather. Her son would be Edward Hand Colson.
Beth, lying in bed with her eyes closed and with an inner peace that she’d never believed possible, was already thinking of him as Eddie.
43
New York, the present
Fedderman and Penny Noon were eating pasta at Vito’s Restauranti in Lower Manhattan. The food was a lot better than the neighborhood.
“The angel-hair pasta’s terrific,” Penny said, winding another bite around the tines of her fork, “but I wouldn’t risk coming here alone for it.”
“Mean streets,” Fedderman said. He had on the new suit and looked better than merely respectable.
Penny paused in her winding and raised her eyebrows. “You’ve read Chandler?”
“And Hammett,” Fedderman said. “We detectives like detective fiction. It gives us a break from the real thing.”
“The novels aren’t realistic?”
“Sometimes, but not usually,” Fedderman said. “Down in Florida, when I was sitting fishing and not catching anything, I read a lot.”
“Just detective fiction?”
“Mostly. Connelly, Grafton, Parker, Paretsky, Mosley…”
“Those are fine writers.”
“I left out a lot who are just as good. There’s this guy in St. Louis…”
“Something about you,” Penny said. “When we met I knew somehow you had a literary bent.”
Fedderman took a sip of the cheap house red. He’d never considered himself the literary sort. He realized Penny was doing something for him, lifting him in ways he hadn’t suspected possible.
“Sometimes your boss, Quinn, seems like a character out of a book,” Penny said.
“A good book?”
“The best. There’s something about him. He can make you trust him. And he’s handsome in a big homely way. Like a thug only with a brain. It’s easy to see that people respect him. And sometimes fear him.”
“It can be the same thing,” Fedderman said.
“Have you ever seen Quinn angry?”
“Sure have. And sometimes he’s angry and you don’t know it. That’s what’s scary. He’s tough in ways that are more than physical.”
“You obviously respect him.”
“I know him. He’s a good man. We’ve been friends for a long time. Rode together in a radio car back in another era.”
“Has police work changed that much?”
“Society has. Police work changed along with it.”
Penny was going to ask what Fedderman meant by that when his cell phone buzzed.
“Sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically as he dug the phone from a pocket and checked caller ID. He delayed making the connection. “It’s Quinn.”
“Of course. He sensed we were discussing him.”
