still the cop.
“But later, okay? Come on. You drive.”
She took off her jacket and tossed it in the backseat. Her car smelled of the same overripe peach perfume I remembered from the hospital. She had the usual cop radios and a shotgun locked to the dash. Voices chattered on the radio and she turned it down as she backed down my driveway. I studied her from the corner of my eye, took in the cuffs, mace, and spare clip on her belt, the way her shirt gapped open, showing a pale lace bra that didn’t go with the rest of her. Muscles stood out in her jaw, and I suspected that she would much rather have me in custody than be squiring me around town on the city’s nickel. I thought about what a good cop she was, reminded myself to be careful of what I said. She was looking for an excuse.
Once on the street, she turned right, past the park. We drove to Main Street in silence; then she pointed the car out of town, toward the long, impossibly narrow roads so typical of the county. “So talk,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out. I want to know everything that happened on the night your father disappeared. Don’t edit. Don’t choose. Give me everything.”
So we drove, and I tried to speak with great care.
“Why were you there, at his house?”
“My mother’s idea. Dinner. Trying to make peace, I guess.”
Mills turned fractionally, cut her eyes away from the road. “Peace between . . . ?”
“Jean and my father.”
“What were they fighting about?” she asked.
“Fighting is too strong a word. There was just a distance there. One of those father-daughter things.”
“Specifically what?”
I wanted to lie, to protect Jean completely, but I feared that Mills would find the truth elsewhere. A lie now would only make it seem more important. That was the problem with talking to cops. You never knew what they knew. In the end, that’s how they nailed you.
“I think it was about Alex.”
“Your sister’s girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Your father didn’t approve?”
“No, but it was an old argument. We’d been there before.”
“Your sister was not mentioned in your father’s will.”
“She was never in the will,” I said, lying. “My father had old-fashioned views about women.”
“And why did your mother intervene?”
“She just got worried. It was a loud argument.”
Mills kept her eyes on the road. “Did your father beat Jean?” she asked.
“No.”
She looked at me. “Did he beat your mother?”
“No.”
“Who was it again that called?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you were there when the call came in.”
“I didn’t answer it.”
“Tell me exactly what your father said.”
I thought back. “‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ That’s what he said. He answered the phone. He listened. Then he said he’d be there in ten minutes.”
“He didn’t say where?”
“No.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No.”
“Who had called?”
“No. Nothing. He just left.”
“How long was he on the phone?”
I thought about it. “Thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds is a long time.”
“It can be,” I said.
“So someone had a lot to say.”
“What about phone records?” I asked. “Lugs, PIN numbers, anything like that?”
“No luck,” Mills said before she caught herself discussing the case and quickly changed the subject. “There had to be something else. Did he take anything with him? Say anything? How did his face look? Was he angry, sad, thoughtful? What direction did he drive?”
I thought about it, really thought about it. That was something I’d never done. How had he looked? What was in his face? Something. Resolution, perhaps. Determination. Yes. And anger. But something else, too. Smugness, I thought. The bastard looked smug.
“He looked sad,” I told Mills. “His wife had just died and he looked sad.”
“What else?” Mills pushed. “Did he take anything? Did he stop between the phone and the door going out? Think.”
“He stopped for his keys,” I said. “Just for his keys.” And then I thought, My God—his keys. Ezra kept his keys on a hook board by the kitchen door. One set for his car, one set for his office. I saw it happen like it had been this morning. He moved past me, into the kitchen, his hand reached out—and he took both sets of keys. I saw it. He was planning to go to the office! But why? And had he made it before he was killed?
“There were no keys on his body,” Mills said.
“Any sign of his car yet?” I asked, eager to distract her. I didn’t want to talk about the keys. Not until I knew what