“What’s wrong?”
“My present, the one I picked out for Evie,” Somers said, giving the presents a final search. “It’s gone.”
III
SEPTEMBER 7
FRIDAY
4:41 PM
THEY WENT THROUGH THE presents again, together. Nothing. Most of the gifts were clearly marked, and when Hazard lifted the few that weren’t, Somers just shook his head. His eyes had darkened to a stormy blue by the time they finished.
“It doesn’t matter,” Somers said.
“I thought we got her the—” Hazard glanced over at the scrum of squealing children and lowered his voice. “—playhouse?”
“Yeah, we did. I just—it was just something little. Something I picked up the other day.” He shook his head again. “It’ll turn up.”
“You’re sure you wrapped it?”
Somers laughed. “Yes. And I’m sure I put it out here. I put both our names on it.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Sure I did. Anyway, it’s fine. She’ll be over the moon when we take her downstairs and show her the playhouse. And she’s having a great time; that’s what matters.”
“This is her birthday party,” Hazard said. “It’s supposed to be perfect.”
“It’s a toddler’s birthday party. It’s going to be a mad hell. But it’s also supposed to be pretty and pink and fun, and I think you did that part well enough.”
Hazard opened his mouth to ask another question—when was the last time you saw the present—but before he could, Grace Elaine caught Somers’s sleeve and said, “They’re getting quite loud, John-Henry.”
“They’re kids, Mom. They’re supposed to be loud.” But Somers patted her hand and waded into the sea of children, exclaiming, “Who wants to play Duck, Duck, Goose?”
Screams of joy followed him.
Hazard shifted uncomfortably near the presents, aware of Grace Elaine’s cool gaze.
“I suppose a banner was your idea,” Grace Elaine finally said, her eyes flicking up toward the length of paper. And then she drifted across the room to stand next to her husband.
Hazard clenched his fists hard enough that he felt a knuckle pop. He watched Somers herding the children into a circle, wrangling some of the wilder ones with impromptu wrestling and tickling. A few of the moms joined in, helping corral the kids and set up some semblance of order so they could start the game. The dads, for the most part, stood against the wall, drinking beers and sharing miserable looks. Then one of them, a compact guy with a flat-featured face, slid something out of his back pocket and showed it to the other men. A few of them laughed and slapped him on the shoulders. One guy turned away. The compact man slid the object back into pocket, grinning, and jerked a thumb at the door. Hazard wondered exactly how stupid the man had to be to bring a joint to a police officer’s home.
For a moment, Hazard considered confronting them. Then he snorted at his own attempt at self-deception and went back to the kitchen for another beer. He popped the bottle open, and the cap chimed against the counter before he swept it up with one hand. He took a drink. Somers would be able to lean up against the wall, Bud Light in one hand, and talk to the other dads. Somers would say some sort of bullshit, something about the Cardinals or about the Blues or about the Tigers. Somers would grin and laugh, and the other dads would grin and laugh. And Somers would find a way to get the asshole with the joint out of the house without causing a scene.
Hazard took a long pull of the Guinness, working the cap in his other hand, tracing the metal. Hazard, on the other hand, would lean up against the wall, say something, and somehow it’d be the wrong thing. And the other guys would go quiet and stare and drift away, one by one, until Hazard was leaning up against the wall alone. He pressed his thumb against the cap’s fluted sides. It wasn’t like he’d learned something new about himself; he’d been to enough social events in his life—in high school, in college, work events in St. Louis. And he knew himself, knew his nature. But something about this damn party was throwing him off balance, and he hated the feeling.
Laughter caught his ear. Giggling. The sound of small children. But not the wild, raucous play from the front room. No, this sound came from somewhere else in the house. And it had a different quality to it, a note that raised Hazard’s hackles. He had grown up surrounded by bullies, and he knew the sound of vicious laughter. What he was hearing now wasn’t exactly the same. But it was . . . a precursor, Hazard decided.
He followed the sound upstairs and stopped just outside the door to Evie’s room. He recognized the two boys who were sitting on the floor, surrounded by Evie’s toys. He had marked both of them as troublemakers earlier that day: the stout, dark-haired boy who liked taking things away; and the skinny, taller boy who ran around like a wrecking ball. They held one of Evie’s dolls between them, each boy gripping a leg, and then, laughing, they pulled. The doll’s legs popped off, her torso dropping to the floor, and the boys squealed with laughter.
“Hey,” Hazard barked.
The effect was instantaneous. Both boys started as though Hazard had slapped them. They dropped the severed legs they were holding. They looked at each other. And then they started to cry.
“Which one of you took the present?” Hazard said.
The taller boy got to his feet, wobbled, and then sprinted for the door. Hazard didn’t try to stop him; with some perps, it was better to let them run. He focused his gaze on the stockier boy.
“Tell me now,” Hazard said, “and it’ll go easier on you. We can talk to your parents. We can work out some kind of deal.”
The boy’s crying had
