I WAS STILL BUILDING OUT Silvio1053’s profile at the coffee shop when my daughter, Becca, vomited on her first-grade teacher. The nurse called to tell me a stomach bug had been making the rounds at school, and Becca’s number came up.
“Becca’s mother is the primary contact on our call list, but I keep getting her voice mail,” said the nurse. “You’re listed as the alternate contact. She’s been lying down for a half hour and says she feels better, but it’s policy to send students home if they get sick in the classroom. Can you pick her up?”
“I can be there in twenty minutes,” I said.
“Great,” said the nurse. “Just show your ID at the main office. They’ll call me and I can bring her in.”
“I’m on my way.” I tossed my empty cup into the garbage can on my way out the door.
MY EX-WIFE, BROOKE, DECIDED BECCA should attend the Cincinnati Catholic Academy, not because she was Catholic, although I think we faked it pretty well during the interview, but because she had zero faith in the public school system. I didn’t argue at the time, but at ten grand a year for first grade, I wished I’d put up more of a fight.
The brick building reminded me of something from Vatican City. Large domes, archways and a thick stone cross that could take out a low-flying plane. I stopped at the main entrance, expecting a valet to run out and park my car. That didn’t happen, so I parked in a visitor’s spot and headed through the heavy doors. Inside, I passed a line of elementary students all wearing white polo shirts and khaki pants and plaid skirts, walking single file down the hall. They looked at me like I was the only person in the entire zip code who hadn’t tucked in his shirt. I dodged their judgmental glances until I found the office.
Behind the glass office door stood a large oak counter. The room looked like a five-star hotel lobby, but the heavy pine smell reminded me of the night I spent in the delivery room when Becca was born. The short, pudgy woman behind the reception desk, who also wore a white polo shirt, took my ID and called the nurse a moment later.
I stood in the office, staring at the large oil portrait of someone who must have been the school’s founder, when my daughter came through the office door and wrapped her arms around my waist with a force that almost knocked me backwards onto the red-and-gold carpet. A tall blond nurse, who also wore a white polo shirt, but who looked much better in it than the woman behind the counter, followed my daughter. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five and looked more like an ESPN sideline reporter than a school nurse. If the school administrators knew anything about marketing, they’d slather this woman all over the admission brochures.
The nurse smiled as I tried to pry my daughter from my legs. “I bet she’s already feeling better,” she said.
“Looks like it.” I patted Becca on the head. “So what happened?”
“She got sick in Mrs. Daniels’ classroom. She’s not running a fever, but she said her stomach hurt a little. I gave her some ginger ale to help settle it, and she kept that down. I’m sure she’ll be fine after some rest.”
“I hope so.” I finally dislodged Becca’s death grip and hoisted her up in one arm, determined not to tear a rotator cuff in front of the nurse. “Let’s get you home.”
I thanked the nurse and carried my daughter through the office doorway, turning enough to glimpse the absence of a ring on the nurse’s left hand. I cracked my own smile and carried Becca to the car.
“So are you feeling better, sweetheart?”
“A little,” she said.
“We’ll get you home and in bed so you can rest. I’ll bet you’re back to one hundred percent by tomorrow.” Becca smiled. “Any other casualties? Take out any of your classmates with friendly fire?” I imagined her covering Mrs. Daniels or a random classmate with the remnants of whatever they served in the gilded cafeteria.
“Daaaad,” she said and giggled.
I buckled Becca into her booster seat, pulled out of the parking lot, and put Saint Exorbitant in my rearview.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER WE ARRIVED at Brooke’s house. I carried Becca through the front door, up the stairs and helped her into bed. Her favorite stuffed horse sat next to her, and she picked it up, smashed it into her face, and then clutched it to her chest. I set a glass of orange juice on her nightstand, kissed her forehead, dove back into Vanilla Ride and waited for her to fall asleep.
Once she was out, I crept down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There was one of those fancy single-cup coffee brewers on the granite counter. One with the digital display and two steam wands that made cappuccino and café au lait and all those other French-sounding drinks I didn’t like. It must have been new because I hadn’t noticed it before. Not that I spent a lot of time in Brooke’s kitchen. The stainless steel rack next to the coffee machine held a selection of single-serving coffee packs. I found the strongest blend, popped it into the machine and followed the instructions on the digital display. A minute later I sipped one of the best cups of coffee I’d ever had.
I sat down at the kitchen table, opened my laptop and resumed my search for Silvio1053. Halfway through my coffee, my phone rang. Brooke.
“Is Becca with you?” her voice rushed.
“Yes, she’s sleeping upstairs.” I heard a heavy exhale.
“I just got off with the school and they said you picked her up.”
“She got sick. They tried to call you but couldn’t reach you, so they called me.”
“One of the surgical nurses couldn’t come in and they needed me to assist,” she said. “I didn’t have my phone with me.”
“No worries,” I said. “The nurse thought it was probably just a stomach bug. Apparently it’s going around.”
“I just got off my shift, so I’ll be home as fast as I can.”
“No need to rush. I can stay here as long as you need me to.”
“Thanks, but I want to see her. I just need to change and then I’ll be out of here.”
“Wait,” I tried to catch her before she hung up. “Where did you get that coffee maker? The one with all the buttons?” The line went dead.
BROOKE BURST THROUGH THE FRONT door a half hour later. She dropped her bag on the floor and jogged up the stairs before I could say anything. I kept digging into Silvio1053 until she came back down the stairs.
“She’s still asleep,” she said coming into the kitchen. “Did you give her anything?”
“Just the orange juice. The nurse said she didn’t have a fever.”
“That’s good,” Brooke swiped her thumb across her eye, wiping away a tear.
“It’s just a stomach bug,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not that.” She paused. “Becca hasn’t been herself lately. She’s been really depressed over this whole thing. Over us.” She picked up my empty coffee cup and set it in the sink. When she turned back toward me, she caught a glimpse of the .45 tucked in my leather messenger bag. “Do you have to bring that in the house?”
“I’m on a case,” I said. “It hasn’t been out of my bag. Becca didn’t see it.”
“A case?” She turned and washed the coffee cup in the sink. “What about your PI license? I thought you couldn’t work without a license.”
“The people I’m working for don’t care if I have a license or not.”
“Who are you working for?”
“Better you don’t know.”
“Are you doing something illegal?” It looked like she’d scrub the color off the cup.
“No,” I said. “Just looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
“Do they ever want to be found?”
“If they did, I wouldn’t have a job.”
“Well, just be careful.” She dried the cup with a dish towel and placed it back on the cup rack next to the coffee maker. “I never liked you carrying a gun.”
“It’s just a precaution. I doubt I’ll ever have to use it.”
“Just keep it away from Becca. I don’t want her to find it at your place or anything.” Brooke looked at her watch. “You should go. Daryl will be home soon, and it’ll be weird if you’re here.”
“Weird? What’s so weird about me picking up my sick daughter from school?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated. “He’s just ... He’ll ... It’ll just be better if you’re not here right now. It’s just the way he is. It’s complicated.”
“It’s always complicated,” I said. “If you ever need to talk ...”
“No offense, Finn,” she cut me off. “But you’re the last person I need to be talking to right now.”
“Fine.” I closed my laptop and shoved it into my bag on top of my holstered .45. She wiped her eyes with the dish towel. I stepped forward to hug her, but she sidestepped me.
“You should go.”
“Okay, I’m not here to piss anyone off,” I said. “Let me know how Becca is feeling.” I left the house, climbed back in my car and headed to my slip in Manhattan Harbor.
DR. DARYL JENNINGS ARRIVED AT THE brick house at 5711 Tangerine Court. He eyed the green Range Rover on the street before pulling into the driveway. He walked through the front door and found Brooke sitting on the couch next to Becca, watching a cartoon. Daryl kissed Brooke’s cheek.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Good. I got to assist with a surgery today. Appendectomy.”
“Sounds fun,” he said as he looked out the living room window at the Range Rover. “Why did you park on the street?”
“Finn was parked in the driveway when I got home. I took the street so he could get out.”
“Why was Finn here?”
“Becca got sick at school and he picked her up and brought her here.” Brooke stood up and walked into the kitchen. Daryl followed her.
“Why did he bring her here? Why not take her to that damn boat of his?”
“I don’t know, Daryl. He probably thought she’d feel better being in her own bed.” Brooke placed a coffee cup underneath the coffee maker, dropped in a single-serving cup and pushed a few buttons on the display. The machine whirred.
“Why didn’t they call me to pick her up?” said Daryl.
“Because you’re not her father. They called me, but I was in surgery. When they couldn’t reach me, they called him. It’s no big deal.”
“How’d he get in?”
“He has a key.”
“Has a key? Since when?”
“Since for a while, I don’t know. I gave him one in case of an emergency. Like today.” The machine spit a stream of steaming coffee into the cup and then beeped. “She’s feeling better, by the way.”
“Who?”
“Becca. She’s feeling better. Thanks for asking.”
Daryl took the cup from Brooke’s hand and set it on the counter. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I’m sorry. I should have asked. I’m glad she’s feeling better. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He released his grip, walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, next to Becca, as Brooke sipped her coffee in the kitchen.
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