Zachary tried to visualize it. A child wouldn’t be able to see the pond as far away as an adult would because of his short stature. If his view were further screened by the plant life, the banks steep and crumbly, he might not be able to see it until he was right on top of it. Or in it.
“It’s not a lot to go on,” he said. “The fact that he was afraid of water.”
“I know.” Molly used both hands to wipe her eyes. “I know that.” She looked around the apartment, swallowing hard to get control of her emotions. “I just want the best for my baby. A parent always wants what’s best. Growing up… I wasn’t able to give her that. She didn’t have an easy life. I wonder if…” She didn’t have to finish the sentence this time. Zachary already knew what she was going to say. She wondered if that rough upbringing had caused Isabella’s mental fragility. Whether things would have turned out differently if she’d been able to provide a stable environment. Molly sniffled. “Do you have children, Mr.—Zachary?”
Zachary felt that familiar pain in his chest. Like she’d plunged a knife into it. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No. My marriage just recently ended. We didn’t have any children.”
“Oh.” Her eyes searched his for the truth. Zachary looked away. “I’m sorry. I guess we all have our losses.”
Although hers, the death of her grandson, was clearly more permanent than any relationship issues Zachary might have.
In the end, he agreed to do the preliminaries. Get the police reports. Walk the area around the house and pond. Talk to the parents. He gave her his lowest hourly fee. She clearly couldn’t afford more. He wasn’t even sure she’d be able to pay on receipt of his invoice. He might have to allow her a payment plan, something he normally didn’t do, but something about the frail woman had gotten to him.
He put in an appearance at the police station, requesting a copy of the information available to the public, and handing over Molly Hildebrandt’s request that he be provided as much information as possible for an independent evaluation.
“You got a new case?” Bowman grunted as he tapped through a few computer screens, getting a feel for how many files there were on the Declan Bond accident investigation file and how much of it he would be able to provide to Zachary.
“Yes,” Zachary agreed. Obviously. He didn’t encourage small talk; he really didn’t want Bowman to start asking personal questions. They weren’t friends, but they were friendly. Bowman had helped Zachary track down missing documents before. He knew the right people to ask for permission and the best way to ask.
Bowman dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. He unwrapped a piece and popped it into his mouth, then offered one to Zachary as an afterthought.
“No, I’m good.”
Bowman chewed vigorously as he studied each screen. He was a middle-aged man, with a middle-age spread, his belly sagging over his belt. His hairline had started receding, and occasionally he put on a pair of glasses for a moment and then took them off again, jamming them into his breast pocket.
“How’s Bridget?” he asked.
Zachary swallowed. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the conversation. Bowman looked away from his screen and at Zachary’s face, eyebrows up.
“She’s good. In remission.”
“Good to hear.” Bowman looked back at his computer again. “Good to hear. It’s been a tough time for the two of you.” His eyes flicked back to Zachary, and he backtracked. “I mean it’s been tough for her. And for you.”
“Yeah,” Zachary agreed. He waved away any further fumbling explanation from Bowman. “So, what have we got? On the Bond case?”
“Right!” Bowman looked back at his screen. “I’ve got press releases and public statements for you. medical examiner’s report. The cop in charge of the file was Eugene. He likes red.”
Zachary blinked at Bowman, more baffled than usual by his abbreviated language. “What?”
“Eugene Taft. I know, it’s a preposterous name, but he’s never had a nickname that stuck. Eugene Taft.”
“And he likes red.”
“Wine,” Bowman said as if Zachary was dense. “He likes red wine. You know, if you want to help things along, have a better chance of getting a look at the rest of that file, the officers’ notes and all the background and interviews. If you have to apply some leverage.”
“And for Eugene Taft, it’s red wine.”
“Has to be red,” Bowman confirmed.
“Okay.” Zachary looked at his watch. “Can you start that stuff printing for me? Is there anyone downstairs?” He knew he would have to run down to the basement to order a copy of the medical examiner’s report. Just one of those bureaucratic things.
“Sure. Kenzie should be down there still.”
Zachary paused. “Kenzie. Not Bradley?”
“Kenzie,” Bowman confirmed. “She’s new.”
“How new?”
“I don’t know.” Bowman gave a heavy shrug. “How long since you were down there last? Less than that.”
Zachary snorted and went down the hall to the elevator.
As he waited for it, Joshua Campbell, an officer he’d worked with on an insurance fraud case several months previous, approached and hit the up button. He did a double-take, looking at Zachary.
“Zach Goldman! How are you, man? Haven’t seen you around here lately.”
“Good.” Zachary shook hands with him. Joshua’s hands were hard and rough like he’d grown up working on a farm instead of in the city. Zachary wondered what he did in his spare time that left them so rough and scarred. He wasn’t boxing after work; Zachary would have been able to tell that by his knuckles. “Hey, how’s Bridget doing? Did everything turn out okay…?” He trailed off and shifted uncomfortably.
“Yeah, great. She’s in remission.”
“Oh, good. That’s great, Zach. Good to hear.”
Zachary nodded politely. His elevator arrived with a ding and a flashing down indicator. Zachary sketched a
