The Darker Side

give yourself some distance.'

'I know, sir, it's just . . .'

'I know, I know: he's not taking a break. That's tough, but that's how it goes sometimes.' He examines me, speculative. 'You've been spoiled the last few years.'

Annoyance flares up at this observation. I can barely keep the edge off my voice.

'How do you figure that, sir?'

'Don't get your back up. What I'm saying is, you've had a good run breaking cases quick. A real good run. It's not like that all the time. Everyone has their Zodiac, Smoky. The one they never catch. I'm not saying that's what this is, I'm just saying that you won't win them all.'

I stare at him and try to keep it from becoming a glare.

'Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I don't want to hear that right now.'

He shrugs, unsympathetic. 'No one ever wants to hear it. The stakes are too high. But you better be ready for the day that you fail, because that day is going to come, guaranteed.'

'Wow. Great pep talk, sir.'

He barks a laugh. 'Okay, okay. I'll keep running interference with Director Rathbun. Do what you have to.'

'Thank you, sir.'

I SURVEY THE OFFICE. CALLIE is chattering away on the phone with her daughter, Marilyn, about the wedding. The fact that Callie has a daughter, much less a grandson, is still a little disorienting. She was always the picture of a female bachelor, enjoying men like a gourmet meal. Her only permanent ties were here, with us, the job. She'd buried a moment in her past, along with the pain it had caused her, until a case and a killer brought her and her daughter together again. It irks me, now and again, that a mass murderer was responsible for giving Callie this gift.

Alan is out of the office and James has his nose buried in a file. I stare at the white board until my eyes burn.

'A whole lotta nothing,' I mutter underneath my breath. 'Oh well for now.'

Putting a case aside is not like placing a file folder in the 'to do'

pile. You open your arms and close your eyes and fling it as far away from you as possible. It sails away and you head into your normal life at a dead run and pretend it's not out there, circling like a bat. It is out there, though. Tethered to your wrist with sticky-string, tugging and chuckling and waiting for the wind to change. Sometimes I'll wake up in the night to find it there, perched on my chest, staring at me with those big black eyes and smiling at me with a mouth too wide for its face. It loves me. It's horrible that it loves me. I'm about to go see Bonnie, so I open my arms and fling. Force of will works, again, for now.

20

I CONSULT MY GROCERY LIST IN THE CAR TO MAKE SURE I GOT everything. Bonnie and I always choose the weekly recipe together. This week we're feeling ambitious and are trying a steak with a Madeira-balsamic vinegar sauce. The mere fact that it involves the unlikely mixing of wine, balsamic vinegar, and Dijon mustard is a little terrifying, but we had agreed to stray outside our comfort zone. I read the list back to myself in a mutter: 'Delmonico steaks, cracked pepper, olive oil, yep, all there.'

Satisfied, I head toward what is always the highlight of my day, week, month, and year: picking up my adopted daughter to bring her home with me.

'SMOKY!'

It's a cry of sheer delight, followed by a twelve-year-old crashing into me. I return the hug and marvel, with a mix of amazement and regret, at just how tall Bonnie has gotten. At twelve, she's five feet one, which might seem reasonable to an outside observer. It means she is taller than me. The fact that two years ago I could look down and see the top of her head emphasizes the changes she is going through. I never got to experience this with Alexa, watching her morph subtly from girl to young lady. Bonnie teeters on the cusp of becoming a teenager and she is definitely her mother's daughter. Annie was a beautiful, blonde early bloomer. Bonnie has that same blonde hair, the same striking blue eyes, the same slender frame. She is changing from awkward to coltish before my eyes. I note again, and always with the same mix of sadness, anxiety, and helplessness, that her chest is no longer boy- flat, that her walk has become less clumsy and more loping.

A dark thought comes to me: the boys. They'll start noticing you soon. They won't know why, not exactly, but you'll be more interesting. You'll catch the eyes of the normal ones, but you'll also catch the eyes of the hungry ones, because they'll smell you like a dog smells meat.

I shove this thought away down deep. Worry later. Love now.

'Hey, babe,' I say, grinning. 'How was school?'

She pulls away and rolls her eyes. 'Boring but okay.'

'She did fine,' Elaina says. 'A little distracted maybe, but she's ahead of her grade level.'

Bonnie smiles at Elaina, basking in the praise. I can't blame her. Praise from Elaina is like sugar cookies or a patch of warm sun. Elaina is one of those genuine people, who always mean what they say, say what they mean, and err in the direction of kindness. She's been another mother to Bonnie and to me. Our love for her is fierce.

'Goddammit,' Alan mutters.

He's sitting on the couch in front of the TV, and appears to be having troubles with the remote.

'Language,' Bonnie scolds.

'Sorry,' he says. 'We just got TiVo and I'm having some problems figuring it out.'

Bonnie gives Elaina and me another eye roll and walks over to Alan. She grabs the remote from him.

'You're such a Luddite, Alan,' she says. 'Here's how you do it.'

She walks him through the steps of picking programs to record and how to watch them when they have, answers his questions with patience. Elaina and I look on, bemused.

'And that's all there is to it,' she finishes.

'Thanks, kiddo,' Alan says. 'Now beat it so I can watch my programs.'

'No hug?' Bonnie admonishes.

He smiles at her. 'Just testing you,' he says, and reaches out to engulf her in those massive arms. The affection between the two is a constant. If Elaina is another mother, Alan is a second father.

'Okay, now beat it,' he says.

'Come on,' I tell her. 'We've got a steak to ruin.'

She grabs her backpack, gives Elaina a final hug, and we head out the door.

'Luddite, huh?' I say as we reach the car.

'Vocabulary. See? I listen,' she says, and sticks her tongue out at me.

'MAN'S GUIDE TO STEAK,' I complain. 'Why did we choose this cookbook? Hello--two women here.'

'Because it's made for cooking retards like us,' Bonnie replies.

'Now come on, we can do this. What does he say?'

I sigh and read aloud from the cookbook.

' 'Rub the surface of the steaks with salt and pepper.' '

'Check.'

'We're supposed to use a half tablespoon of olive oil in the skillet.'

'Check.'

'Uh . . . then we heat the olive oil to high heat. Whatever that means.'

Bonnie shrugs and turns the knob to high. 'I guess we just wait till we think it's hot.'

'I'm going to cut the slit in the middle of the meat.'

This is our cheat. The first few times we tried to cook steaks, we followed the various dictates of a cookbook. 'Three to four minutes on each side,' or whatever, and ended up with meat that was either too cooked or too rare. It had been Bonnie who suggested slicing the meat all the way through in one place so we could actually watch the color of the center change. It wasn't pretty, but it had worked for us so far.

'I think it's ready,' Bonnie says.

I grab the two steaks and look at her. 'Here goes nothing.' I throw them on the pan and we are rewarded with the sound of sizzling. Bonnie works the spatula as I look on, pressing the meat to the pan. 'Smells good so