scrambled,” he said. “Detective Danielson’s probably already here for our eight o’clock meeting, but I’m going to have to cancel on her. I’ve got to go home and get some sleep.”
Those were my sentiments exactly. It was somehow reassuring to realize even the resident Eagle Scout of IIS, the original iron man himself, needed sleep occasionally. I was in good company.
“You’ll be coming to the funeral, won’t you?” he asked as he climbed out of the car.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Good. The three of us-you, Sue Danielson, and I-will have to get together and strategize sometime later on today, but probably not until after the funeral, considering the way I feel right this minute.”
“You’re the boss,” I told him.
Tony Freeman smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Beau. It’s been a hell of a night, but you do good work. Go home and get some sleep.”
It’s a good man who can remember to compliment someone else when he’s too tired to keep himself upright. Tony Freeman’s stock was already pretty high in my book, but it went up a little more right about then.
He closed the car door and started away, but he turned and came back before I could pull away from the curb. I rolled down the window.
“Remember,” he warned, “not a word of this to anyone. No one is to know that you and I were anywhere near Sam Irwin’s house in Beaux Arts. When you hear the news that he’s dead, it had better be news to you. Understand?”
“I got the message,” I told him. “I figured it out at the same time you were telling Hammer and Crowe.”
“Good,” he said. He waved me away and hustled into the building. I arrived home right around eight o’clock, staggering into what I expected to be a quiet house. Wrong. The apartment reverberated with the clatter and rumble of electronic warfare. In the den I discovered Heather Peters and Junior Weston happily ensconced on the floor, deeply engrossed in some kind of two-player video game.
I wanted to interrupt, to tell Junior that I thought we had found at least one of the men responsible for the murders of his family members. I would have liked to be able to tell him that I was almost certain the bad man who had killed Bonnie was dead himself, but Tony Freeman had given me marching orders to the contrary. There were far too many other loose ends in the investigation for me to risk speaking out of turn and revealing IIS involvement.
Stifling my loose-lips impulse, I left the kids where they were and went looking for Ralph Ames. I found him in the kitchen, bemoaning the fact that I didn’t own a waffle iron. Someday in the far distant future I may have a kitchen that will measure up to Ralph’s expectations.
“Where’d you get the video game?” I asked, pouring myself a glass of orange juice from a pitcher of freshly squeezed that had appeared mysteriously in my formerly empty refrigerator.
Ralph shrugged. “I called Reverend Walters and asked him. When he said no problem, I sent a messenger over to his place to pick it up. It was a present to Junior from Big Al, you know. The poor kid was really upset that he couldn’t bring it along last night. As much as he’s been through the past few days, I wanted it here first thing this morning.”
Ralph Ames is the only person I know who’s a softer touch than I am, especially when it comes to little kids. “And how did you go about locating Reverend Walters?” I asked.
He grinned at me. “It’s an old Indian trick,” he told me. “I used the phone book.”
On that note, I headed for bed. “By the way,” I said, pausing in the doorway, “did Homer Walters say anything about what arrangements have been made for Junior to attend the funeral?”
“The way I understand it, the limo from the funeral home will pick up Emma Jackson first and then stop by here for Junior around noon.”
“Good. Wake me up no later than eleven so I can get ready.”
“You’re going along in the limo?”
“You bet. I’m not letting that kid out of the building without me along as a bodyguard. What about clothes for him? I didn’t think to bring along anything but the pajamas he was wearing when I picked him up.”
“It’s already handled. Homer Walter’s wife had clothes for him there, and the messenger brought them along when he picked up the Nintendo,” Ames said. “I figured that was one less thing we’d have to worry about later on today.”
I should have known that if Ralph Ames was in charge, all those pesky little details would get handled in a totally seamless fashion. Gratefully mumbling my thanks, I stumbled down the hall and fell into bed. I don’t even remember lying down. It seemed only a matter of minutes later when Heather Peters brought me a cup of coffee and announced it was time for me to get up.
Settling cross-legged on the foot of the bed, she regarded me seriously while I sipped coffee and waited for my head to clear.
“Is it hard to tie a tie, Uncle Beau?” she asked.
Heather seems far more mature than I like these days. I still haven’t adjusted to the relative size of her new permanent teeth which seem totally out of proportion with the rest of her small, round face. And I miss that damn toothless lisp.
“Not too hard,” I told her, “but it’s tricky until you learn how. You’re a girl. Why do you need to know about tying ties?”
“I don’t, but Junior does. Ralph’s helping Junior tie his right now. He can’t do it himself.”
“I’m sure Ralph doesn’t mind.”
“But if Junior’s daddy is dead,” Heather pointed out solemnly, “who’s going to teach him about ties and all that other stuff kids are supposed to learn?”
Heather’s matter-of-fact question struck smack at the heart of Junior Weston’s newly problematic existence. Who would teach him all those necessary things? I wondered. Tying ties is only one of the mysteries of the adult universe that must be mastered in those fragile years between five and twenty-five. I had grown up without a father, but not without a mother. Junior Weston would be growing up without the benefit of either one. How would he manage? Thinking about it made my heart ache.
“I don’t know, Heather,” I told her.
“Well,” she said seriously. “I’ve been thinking about it. Why can’t he live here with you?” She waited for my answer with cheerful confidence.
“With me?” I choked, misswallowing a mouthful of coffee. A dozen coughs later, I was able to continue. “It sounds like a good idea, Heather, but it probably wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?” she pouted. “You have lots of room. If he lived here, I’d have someone closer to my age to play with. Tracy always acts like I’m just a little kid. And Junior’s fun. I already took him downstairs and introduced him to Gertrude.”
“You can’t just decide where a child is going to live,” I told her. “Those kinds of decisions are usually left up to the family.”
“But Junior doesn’t have a family,” Heather insisted. “They’re all dead.”
“He has a grandfather.”
“He’s old,” Heather sniffed.
“And he probably has aunts and uncles, too,” I added. “Scoot, now. If I’m going to be ready on time, I’d better climb into the shower.”
Once dressed, I called down to Harborview to check on Big Al. Molly wasn’t in the ICU waiting room, but her son Gary, the one from California, took my call. He assured me that his father was sleeping right then but doing as well as could be expected. Gary told me that his brother, Greg, had just taken Molly home to change clothes in preparation for the two o’clock funeral service at Mount Zion Baptist Church. He said Molly wouldn’t be returning to the hospital until after the funeral.
“Give your dad a message from me the minute he wakes up, would you? Tell him it’s been handled.”
“What’s been handled?”
“Just give him the message. He’ll understand. Tell him I’ll stop by later to fill him in.”
“Got it,” Gary said. “I even wrote it down.”
By the time the doorman called to say the funeral home limo was downstairs, I was properly dressed in a suit and tie, and so was Junior Weston. As we rode down in the elevator together, he put one hand trustingly in mine. The other held his faithful companion, the teddy bear.
