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  The judge then turned to me. “Have you anything to add to this, Mr. Steel?”

  “I concur with Mr. Kornbluth. In the aftermath of the discovery of Henry Carson’s body, I was derelict in my responsibility to inform Mrs. Carson she couldn’t leave the state. Accountability for what she did belongs to me. And I apologize to the Court for my failure to properly execute my duties.”

  “Thank you for your frankness,” Judge Hiller said. “Apology accepted.”

  He turned his attention to the District Attorney. “Mr. Lytell?”

  “My statement stands.”

  After several moments of silence, Judge Hiller looked at us and gently banged his gavel. “Bail for Mrs. Carson is hereby reduced to five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” Lytell said, his outrage growing by the second. “From ten million? That’s outrageous, Frank. In essence you’re handing her a Get Out of Jail Free card.”

  “While I’m grateful for your expert opinion, Mr. Lytell, the ruling stands. Now, if there’s nothing else...”

  “Chicken shit ruling,” Lytell muttered under his breath.

  “What’s that, Mike?” the judge retorted. “I couldn’t quite make you what you said.”

  “Nothing, Your Honor. It was nothing.”

  “I certainly hope so.” He picked up his gavel and this time slammed it down directly in front of Lytell, who jumped in his seat.

  “Dismissed,” Hiller said, his angry gaze focused on the D.A. “And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  Lytell glowered at him but held his tongue. The three of us filed out of the judge’s chamber.

  Once outside, Lytell exploded, “Fucking travesty of justice.”

  “Get over it, Mike,” Murray Kornbluth said. “You heard Buddy. He fucked up. So what? Cut her some slack.”

  Lytell looked away.

  “You’ll draw up the release papers?” Kornbluth asked.

  “Sometime today,” Lytell responded.

  “What’s wrong with right now?” I said.

  Lytell glared daggers at me “Ah,” he said, “the fuck-up speaks.”

  “You know something, Mike? My father has a saying that’s totally appropriate for this occasion.”

  “Oh, really,” Lytell exclaimed. “And what would that saying be?”

  “Blow it out your barracks bag.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marsha Russo accompanied me as we made our way to the so-called Tombs, the makeshift jail that had been hastily constructed in the basement of the Town Hall building.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  “The paperwork hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Yeah, but it will. I attended the meeting where it was determined. I can see no earthly reason to keep her imprisoned for even one minute longer.”

  “Even if it looks bad on your record.”

  I stopped walking and stared at her. “I have no interest in whether this event has an impact on my record. If anyone were to use it as a chance to impugn me or my integrity, then so be it. It’s already on my head that she was imprisoned in the first place.”

  “Actually,” Marsha said, “it’s on mine.”

  “Whatever. I challenge anyone to say or do something about it.”

  “Sir Galahad.”

  “I’m not kidding around, Marsha.”

  “I know that, Buddy. I really do. I’m trying to find some light-hearted way of thanking you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Thank you, just the same.”

  I smiled as we stepped into the makeshift jail. Kimber was lying on the cot reading when we showed up. She looked at us.

  “You might want to think about packing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You’re out, Kimber. Get your stuff.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “He’s not,” Marsha said.

  Kimber stood and began putting her few belongings into the cotton duffel that Marsha handed her. I unlocked the cage and stood aside. Kimber slowly approached. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how I’ll get home.”

  “Sheriff Steel, here, is planning on driving you,” Marsha told her.”

  She looked at me. “That’s not necessary, Buddy. I’ll Uber.”

  I pointed to the duffel. “Is that everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I meant it when I said an Uber would be fine.”

  “I know. My car’s parked behind the building. No one will see us leave.”

  Marsha picked up the duffel. When we reached the rear door, she peered outside. “It’s clear.”

  I hurried to my cruiser and climbed in. Marsha helped Kimber into the passenger side and once she was settled, tapped the roof of the cruiser twice. After making certain she was belted, I fired up the engine and headed out.

  Kimber sat silently beside me, watching the landscape slide by as if for the first time. “It changes you.”

  “Jail?”

  “Yes. I wonder if I’ll ever see things the same way again.”

  “Which may be a good thing.”

  She turned to me. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Helping me. Getting me fresh clothing. Driving me home.”

  “This was all my bad.”

  “How so?”

  “You were never warned.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Twenty-twenty,” I said.

  “Hindsight?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still didn’t have to do it.”

  “Is there any chance we could put this behind us?”

  She smiled. “You’re very sweet.”

  “What I really am is cynical and cranky.”

  “You don’t fool me, Buddy. I owe you for this.”

  “How ’bout we call it even?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I turned into the circular driveway of the small Colonial she had lived in with her husband and pulled to a stop at the front door.

  I collected her duffel and helped her out of the cruiser. She unlocked the door and together we went inside. She appeared jittery and uncertain. “Would you mind staying for a few minutes?”

  “Spooky?”

  “That’s not the half of it.”

  I accompanied her as she walked slowly through each of the rooms, stopping occasionally to examine things. Finally we made it to the kitchen where she pulled out one of the chairs at the small Formica table and sat. She looked around as if in search of something.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  She focused her gaze on me and nodded. “Whiskey?”

  “There’s an idea.”

  I picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that stood on the counter beside several other bottles.

  “Straight?”

  “Definitely.”

  I poured us each a shot and placed one in front of her. She downed it in a single gulp. She coughed a couple of times. Then she sighed. “This is easily the best-tasting drink I’ve ever had.”

  She held out her glass for a refill. This time she took only a sip. “I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

  “Are you in a rush to decide?”

  “No. Not really. I’d certainly like to know why someone killed him. It totally creeped me out. I understand I’ll have to start over again, likely somewhere new, but I’m clueless as to where.”

  She retreated into her thoughts for a while. Her uncertainty was affecting. Her vulnerability made me want to take her in my arms and hold her. Show her that everything was all right. Which would have been a grave error.

  She surfac
ed from her reverie and gazed at me. “I’m okay now, Buddy.”

  She walked me to the door. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

  She put her arms around my neck and held tight to me. Her body shook as she briefly sobbed. Then, with her arms still around my neck, she leaned back and stared at me through red-rimmed eyes. Then she let go and pulled back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Her embrace had taken me by surprise which must have shown on my face.

  She quickly opened the door and I stepped outside. I looked back at her.

  She smiled briefly and gently closed the door.

  I stood rooted to the spot for several moments.

  “That was a close call,” I mused.

  Then I snapped out of it and headed for my cruiser.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a small memorial service held in the Rectory of St. Theresa’s Cathedral, officiated by Father Francis Dugan, Freedom’s senior cleric—friend and spiritual counselor to any and all who might seek him out. He had been in place for as long as anyone could remember, a wizened man, gentle and kind, short in stature but large in character.

  I had first connected with him shortly after my seventeenth birthday, when I was suffering a crisis of faith. My mother had recently passed away after a lengthy battle with ovarian cancer. She had endured a great deal of pain and in the end, she simply surrendered, embraced the opioids she had previously forsworn and soon thereafter, checked out.

  For much of her life she had relied on God to guide her along the path. She attended church regularly. She offered herself into the service of her Lord and his daily business. She volunteered readily to work with and support her beloved Father Dugan. But as her strength began to ebb and the illness sapped her spirit, she unwittingly started questioning her faith.

  “Why has He forsaken me?” she asked frequently. “What did I do to warrant such suffering?”

  Over time she became more and more desolate, wracked with pain and remorse, until ultimately she lost her faith. She stoically withstood her deterioration with no comfort forthcoming from her Lord. She stopped attending church services. She withdrew from the congregation, unsettled by the realization that her lifelong belief in a Godly heaven had crumbled.

  I frequently sat with her, mostly in silence, always aware of her spiritual crisis which, over time, infected me as well.

  When she passed, zonked on painkillers, drifting in and out of consciousness, facing the unholy death that was nothing like what she had envisioned, I realized that I, too, had lost my faith.

  St. Theresa’s Cathedral had been built in the eighteen nineties, in the Gothic-revival style, and its concrete structure had withstood earthquakes, monsoons, and more than its share of ocean-precipitated deterioration. It reeked of incense, dampness, and age.

  A small crowd had gathered and the service was about to begin. Marsha Russo and I were in the back, watching the events unfold.

  Her Honor, Regina Goodnow, my stepmother and Freedom Township’s Mayor was in attendance, as was the school principal, Julia Peterson, along with a number of Freedom High students and faculty.

  Kimber Carson sat in the front row, her parents on either side of her. A well-dressed middle-aged couple sat across the aisle, holding hands, clearly grieving. I assumed they were Henry Carson’s parents.

  Although Father Francis was in excellent form, it was evident he was not an acquaintance of the deceased. He spoke in platitudes and beseeched his Maker to embrace the spirit of Henry Carson and allow him respite from the horrific manner of his passing. He prayed for Carson’s eternal peace and salvation. He offered communion and compassion.

  I took note of the groupings of the young people in attendance. I recognized Bobby Siegler and Chrissie Lester, the swim team captains. Fred Maxwell, the team coach, was present, along with three of his associates.

  Chrissie Lester sat with four young women, all somberly dressed, but withdrawn, not particularly invested in the service. At one point, I noticed two of them engaged with their smartphones. The same held true for several young men, also together, sitting apart from the other attendees, plugged into their devices, uninterested in the service.

  Bobby Siegler was near the front, seated with a number of men and women, all raptly tuned into Father Francis. The boys and girls were intermingled in this group. I noticed a few of them holding hands, occasionally gazing at one another. None interacted with their cell phones.

  I turned to Marsha and whispered, “Have you noticed the way all of these kids are seated? In those groupings?”

  “I have.”

  “Is there any chance you can find out their names?”

  “You mean the kids in each group?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Try not to hurt yourself.”

  She stared at me. “There’s something wrong with you, Buddy.”

  I grinned at her and nodded.

  As he neared the conclusion of the service, Father Dugan invited those in attendance to share any thoughts they might have about Coach Carson. No one volunteered. None of the family members chose to speak.

  After the Father wrapped things up, the attendees quickly exited the church and scattered. As she and her parents made their exit, Kimber Carson briefly made eye contact with me. Then she was gone.

  Father Dugan spotted me and came over. The smile that lit up his face brought a smile to mine, as well. “It’s a rare treat seeing you here, Buddy. I wish you’d come around more often.”

  “It was a lovely service.”

  “Albeit, an odd one.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t really know. It was strangely devoid of any emotion. Maybe in the intervening days since the murder, they all cried themselves out. But it was likely the driest service I’ve ever conducted. I pride myself at being able to reach even the most unreachable. I always get at least a few tears. This one was unfathomable.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t such a likable guy.”

  “Or maybe I’ve lost a step or two.”

  “Who, you?”

  “Happens to the best of us.”

  “Feeling a bit sorry for ourself, are we, Francis?”

  “You know me too well, Buddy.”

  “If it would make you feel any better, had I known the deceased, I surely would have cried.”

  “Can it, Buddy. I’m not that bad off.”

  “I’m just saying, is all.”

  He flashed me his famous dead-eyed stare and changed the subject. “I heard about what happened at Temple Israel.”

  “The graffiti?”

  “I sent a few of my young parishioners over to help Rabbi Weiner clean it up.”

  “Has me worried.”

  “Because?”

  “This graffiti business is on the verge of becoming a scourge. These idiots have taken to engaging in what they refer to as metropolitan beautification, which, translated, means desecrating the landscape. Removing it is costly. And once it’s been removed, these taggers are more than likely to target the same spot again.”

  “I guess we’re lucky here at St. Theresa’s.”

  “So far.”

  “Can you put a stop to it?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Let me know if I can help.”

  “You can pray for them.”

  “Them who?”

  “The taggers.”

  “Pray for them, why?”

  “Because when I catch them, I’m going to make them regret what they’ve done.”

  “And you want me to pray for them?”

  “I want you to pray for me. Pray that I don’t actually kill any of them.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I arrived at the coffee shop early and was able to score a w
indow table, one that offered a view of Liberty Street Park and the Town Hall across the road.

  I was on overload. The investigation into the death of Henry Carson was more complex than I had first imagined. There was a subtext I hadn’t yet identified.

  The graffiti scourge continued unabated and, unless the penalties were heightened, it would seriously impact the pristine beauty of San Remo County.

  I had been on automatic pilot for a spell, but the sudden surge of activity had ratcheted up the stakes. Which presented a genuine challenge. One that carried with it a plethora of anxiety and uncertainty. So much for life in a small town, I thought.

  As I sipped my macchiato, I caught sight of Helena Madison loping up the street, graceful as ever, a larger-than-life vision of athleticism in motion.

  I watched her enter the shop, collect her coffee, look around, spot me, then head for my table. She put her briefcase on the empty chair beside her and sat facing me.

  “Okay,” she said. “Come on.”

  “Come on what?”

  “One on one.”

  “What one on one?”

  “You and me, Buddy. Like old times. Just us. One on one. I want to show you what’s what one time more.”

  “What are you, nuts?”

  “Possibly. Likely. But be that as it may, I still want one more.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to play because you know I’d whup your ass.”

  “Possibly. Likely.”

  “You’re just a big chicken, aren’t you?”

  “Live with it.”

  She took a swig of coffee. She appeared not a day older than she had when I first met her all those years ago. Her rich chocolate skin was agleam in the sunlight that streamed through the coffee shop window. Thick, wavy hair cascaded chaotically around her face. Her electric eyes were like lasers. Her aquiline nose and ripe red lips completed the portrait. “I have good news and bad. Which do you want first?”

  “The bad.”