This went on for a few more minutes, with Sarah repeating her reasons, until finally Kyle gave in.
“Okay, how’s this?” Kyle said. “Let me call the guy. You can meet him there and go over the damage. He can start his crew working this afternoon, but I’ll ask him to quit by seven or eight this evening, so you’ll have the house to yourself tonight. They’ll work around you. You won’t have to move out. They should be finished in a day or two, and when they do, your home will be good as new.”
No, it won’t. It will have been invaded. It will never be the same. But it will still be our home—mine and Harry’s and Jenny’s. “I guess that would work,” Sarah said. Then she had another thought. “I need to call my insurance agent and report this.”
“Tell you what,” Kyle said. “Let’s get out of this heat. We’ll go to my office. You can contact your insurance agent and let him get started. He’ll probably want to schedule a visit from an adjustor to inspect the damage. While you’re on the phone, I’ll use my cell to call Tom Oliver so he can get started. After that I’ll buy you some lunch.”
Sarah hesitated. “Kyle, you don’t have to do all this. I know I called you, but that was because I thought I might need a lawyer. If Detective Larson is to be believed, I didn’t really need legal representation.”
“You may not need me as a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you could use a friend to help you through this. Remember, I was Harry’s friend. Now that he’s gone, I think I owe it to him to be around when you need me.”
As the two walked away, Sarah wondered if the call to Kyle had been unnecessary. When she reached out to him, she thought she might need an attorney, but judging from what Larson said this morning, that wasn’t the case. Now it seemed that Kyle wanted to take charge and help her through this trial. Sort of like what Harry would have done.
* * *
Bill Larson sat at his desk with his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows. He probably ought to get some short-sleeved dress shirts to wear during the summer. He’d thought about it recently, but he kept putting it off. Maybe it was because there were times when he thought this stop in Texas was just temporary. He had dreams of winning back his ex-wife, and of his family reuniting and moving back to Minnesota. Then again, maybe it was just inertia, the same thing that kept him living in a furnished apartment rather than looking for a house although he’d been in Jameson for almost a year.
He looked at his watch and did a rapid calculation. It would be an hour earlier in Montana. Annie and Billy would be up by now. She’d be having her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table and his son would be watching cartoons. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“Annie, this is Bill.”
“Good morning.” He couldn’t tell from her words or the tone in which they’d been spoken what her mood was. He wanted to tell her he was working to get his life back together. He wished he could ask her if she was seeing anyone. He had lots of things he wanted to talk about, but any one of them might set off an argument. It was like trying to navigate through a minefield.
He talked for a few minutes with her—desultory conversation, nothing of consequence. He did manage to mention that he was staying sober, but Annie didn’t seem to want to pursue the subject. Finally he said, “Can I talk with Billy for a minute?”
But if trying to talk with his ex-wife was difficult, talking with Billy was like pulling teeth. It was obvious that the preschooler would rather watch Saturday morning television than talk with his dad. His answers were mainly monosyllables. Larson could picture him, one eye on the TV set, shifting from one foot to the other as he tried to talk with his father while not missing any of his favorite cartoons.
Finally, Larson ended the conversation, promising to call again in a few days. Just before she hung up, Annie said one thing that encouraged him. “It’s good that you’re sober. I hope you stay that way.”
Larson sat for a few minutes afterward, wondering how he let his family get away from him. Actually, he knew very well how he did it. The same way he wound up being given the choice of resigning from the Minneapolis police force or being fired. He’d drunk himself off the force and out of the life of his wife and son. And he was still working to repair that damage. He wondered if he ever could.
He sighed and picked up his notebook from where it lay on his desk. Larson riffled through the pages where he’d jotted down information about the fire at Sarah Gordon’s house. He was about to start reading when he heard someone come up behind his desk.
“Working on a Saturday! Are you trying to get promoted to Chief of Detectives? If so, let me remind you that the Jameson police force doesn’t have that position. We’re too small.”
“Just doing my job, Cal,” Larson said. He swiveled around to face Cal Johnson, who was standing next to his own desk, right behind Larson’s.
“I waited for you, but you didn’t show. I thought we were going to run together this morning at the high school track,” Cal said. He half drained the bottle of water he held.
Cal’s skin, the color of old mahogany, glistened with sweat, evidence of his recent exercise. Cal wore a University of North Texas tee shirt, grey shorts, and well-broken-in Nikes. In the hand opposite the one holding the water, he grasped a ragged towel with which he mopped his forehead. His dark hair was plastered to his skull by perspiration.
“Sorry. I should have called you,” Larson said. “I had to come in and take a statement this morning. Someone set a fire in Dr. Sarah Gordon’s garage in the middle of the night.”
Cal’s eyebrows went up, which for him was a significant display of emotion. “Why would someone do that?”
“That’s the question I’m trying to answer.” Larson gave Cal the information he had thus far. “Now I’m getting ready to do what police work boils down to—knock on doors, run things up on the computer, nose around. Want to help?”
“I will if I’m needed,” Cal said. “Otherwise, I’d better get back to the house. Since it’s my day off, I promised Ruth I’d take care of a pretty significant honey-do list.” He took another swipe at his forehead with his towel, then finished the water he held. “Of course, if anything breaks and you really need some help, give me a call.”
Larson was already shaking his head. “Cal, you’ve already had one marriage end because your wife couldn’t stand your being gone so much. I’ll call you if I have to, but I’m not going to contribute to your second divorce.”
“It’ll happen or it won’t,” Cal said. “Ruth seems to be a little more understanding than Betty was.”
“That’s good, but don’t test her.” Larson was silent for a moment. “You’d better do your best to make your marriage work.”
Cal moved to Larson’s side and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know that’s a sensitive subject for you. How long’s it been?”
Larson didn’t have to think about it. “It’s been a little over a year since Annie left.”
“She still in Montana?”
“She and Billy. I call them about once a week.” He held up his cell phone. “I just finished talking with them.”
“Any chance you and your wife will get back together?” Cal asked.
“She hasn’t remarried, so that’s good. Even though she divorced me, I keep hoping if I stay sober she’ll agree to try it again.” Larson looked at the ceiling and counted. “I’ve got eleven months of sobriety now.”
“That’s great,” Cal said.
“Time will tell whether it’s good enough,” Larson said. “Meanwhile, I guess I’d better get to work. Getting fired from this job wouldn’t help my situation.”
* * *
After