Detective McFadden beamed to have the Chief agree with him.
Amy walked up to her brother, and resisted the temptation to kiss him. He looked desolate.
“How’re you doing, Sherlock?”
He nodded and raised his beer can.
“OK. You want a beer?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think I would. Thank you.”
“The beer’s been gone for an hour,” Peter Wohl said. “We can call and get some. Or would you like something stronger?”
“Hello, Peter,” Amy said. “How are you?”
“Long time no see,” he said evenly.
“There’s scotch, bourbon, and gin, honey,” Brewster C. Payne said. “And Irish.”
“Yes, of course, Irish,” Amy said. “An Irish, please. A short one, over the rocks. And then I think we should call off the wake.”
Her father nodded and stood up to make the drink.
“Have you been out to Chestnut Hill?” he asked.
“Not since I saw you there. I gave Grace something to help her sleep, and I called a while ago and Violet said she’d gone to bed. I was tied up at the hospital.”
“I left when Dick went to sleep,” her father said.
In other words, passed out, Amy thought. He was three-quarters drunk when I left there.
“I’ll go out there first thing in the morning,” Amy said, and then turned to her brother. “I asked you how you’re doing?”
He shrugged.
“What a goddamned waste,” he said.
“I want a minute with you alone when everybody’s gone,” she said.
“None of your goddamned pills, Amy.”
“I’m trying to help,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Your beer must be warm.”
“Is that a prescription? Booze in lieu of happy pills?”
“It might help you sleep.”
He met her eyes for a moment.
“Dad, could you make two of those, please?” he called.
Their father turned to look over his shoulder at her. She nodded, just perceptibly, and he reached for another glass.
“Charley,” Mary-Margaret McCarthy called, “we’re going.”