“Still waiting for the initial results from the FBI lab, but we’re working under that assumption.”
Before taking the rifle slug that shattered his pelvis six years before, Bernie Aaliyah had been one of the best homicide detectives in Baltimore. He’d basically taught her everything she knew about investigative work. So she was interested to hear his take.
He thought about it a few moments, poured her a cup of coffee, and then said, “Obviously, if the skin matches, Harrow’s your killer, but unless he’s the dumbest dick on the face of the earth, he’s not this Mulch character.”
His daughter nodded. “I don’t think anyone plays with gas in front of an open woodstove. Not even raving meth heads.”
“Exactly,” he said. “So this Mulch, he kills Harrow after Harrow kills Cross’s wife and son for him?”
“Looks that way from where I’m standing.”
“Me too,” he replied. “What does Cross think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is he?”
“Last the FBI told me, he’d bought gas in Fairmont, West Virginia. Stayed in a motel there last night too.”
“What’s he doing in Fairmont?”
“He’s not talking to us. They took him off the investigation.”
“That’s not a good thing.”
“I’m aware of that, Dad.”
“Just saying,” he replied, and then got a puzzled look on his face.
“What?” she asked.
“Probably nothing,” he replied. “But your mom had fibroids removed, long before the cancer.”
“Like twenty-five years ago,” she replied. “I remember.”
He nodded. “It’s why we couldn’t have any more kids.”
“And?”
“It’s probably nothing,” he said. “Medical advances and all that. But what are the odds of Cross’s wife getting pregnant if she had the same kind of scarring as your mom?”
His daughter shrugged again. “Like I said, a tragic miracle.”
They talked some more, and then Aaliyah glanced at the clock. “I should be going. And you’ve got your date to pick up.”
Aaliyah almost laughed when her father flushed and said, “It’s not a date.”
“What is it, then?”
He struggled, and then said, “We’re just two people who live alone going down to the harbor for a walk and some dinner.”
The detective hesitated, then stood and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Whatever it is, she seems nice. I should have been nicer to her. Tell her I’m sorry for being a bitch.”
“You weren’t a bitch.”
“Yes, Dad, I was.”
They hugged and he promised to return her calls promptly in the future. She went to her car, and as she drove off she saw him hurrying to get the fishing poles off the Chevy.