Point Of Departure. Laurie Breton

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      They fell silent, both of them contemplating the mystery that was teenage womanhood. “We can’t even carry on a conversation,” Sam said. “We haven’t been able to for years. It’s as though I’m speaking English and she’s speaking Swahili.”

      “She’ll grow out of it. Until she does, good luck trying to have any kind of normal relationship with her.” Vince got up from the chair and stood there awkwardly. “Do the police have any theories about where Kaye might be?”

      “If they do, they haven’t bothered to share them with me.”

      Vince shuffled his feet a little. “Listen,” he said, “if you need a babysitter, or if Gracie gets lonely, she’s welcome at our house anytime. Day or night.”

      Vince and his third wife had a young daughter. Every summer, the two families spent a couple of weeks together in a rented beach house on the Cape. Gracie thought of five-year-old Deidre as a younger sister, and always loved spending time with her. “Thanks,” Sam said. “I appreciate the offer.”

      With false heartiness, Vince said, “Well, I’m off to slay the dragons of ignorance.” He tucked the chair back into its corner and paused, hand on the doorknob. “Hang in there,” he said. “If you need anything, Ellen and I are just a phone call away.”

      When he was gone, Sam buried his face in his hands and exhaled a hard breath. How had his life deteriorated to this point? It just kept getting worse and worse.

      There was a knock at the open doorway. He looked up. The man who stood there, dressed in jeans, a navy windbreaker and a Red Sox cap, was unfamiliar. “Dr. Sam Winslow?” he said.

      “Yes?”

      “This is for you.” He handed Sam an envelope. “Have a nice day.”

      Sam looked stupidly at the envelope, picked up his letter opener from the desk and slit it open. He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and unfolded what appeared to be some kind of official-looking documents. It took his sleep-deprived mind a couple of seconds before the words in bold print at the top of the page took on form and meaning.

      Petition for Divorce.

      Five

      The squad room was noisier than a junior high cafeteria at noon, abuzz with conversation, ringing phones and the deathly slow ka-thunk ka-thunk of the photocopier that was the bane of Lorna’s existence. At the desk across from hers, Policzki was on the phone. “Thanks, guy,” he said. “I really appreciate it, and so does Gram. Give me a call this weekend, and we’ll catch that movie. Maybe pick up some pizza afterward.”

      Policzki hung up the phone, caught her watching him. “My nephew,” he explained. “My mother’s on my case about mowing the lawn. I bribed him.”

      “That always seems to work at my house,” she said. “Just be careful you don’t go overboard. By the time you’re done paying for two movie tickets, popcorn and soda for two, and a teenage-boy-size pizza afterward, you could’ve paid to have it done by a professional.”

      “True, but it’s worth more brownie points if I keep it in the family.”

      “Christ, Policzki, you need a life. Matter of fact, what you really need is your own place. How long have you been living with your mother?”

      “Six years,” he said. “Six long and—did I mention long?—years.”

      “Lord love a duck. If I had to spend six years living with my mother—or worse, Ed’s mother—I’d tie a rope over the nearest rafter and end it all.”

      “She’s not that bad. She means well.”

      “Of course she means well. She’s your mother. It’s part of the job description. So is making your kid’s life hell if he’s past twenty-five and still living at home.”

      “It wasn’t my idea to move back home.”

      “Which is why you need to move out. Listen to me, kid. I know what I’m talking about. You’ve paid your dues and then some. If you don’t cut the apron strings pretty soon, you’re going to wake up some morning and realize you’re forty and still living at home with Mom. Get a clue, Policzki. You must have enough money saved up by now for a down payment. Buy yourself a condo. Something small, something you can turn over in a few years if you get married and need more space.”

      “And leave my mother alone? I’d never be able to live with myself. The guilt would do me in.”

      “Oh, but you see, Policzki, there’s where you’re wrong. That’s one more thing about mothers. We’re really good at playing the guilt card. But you know what? You’re not helping her by living there.”

      “How do you figure that?”

      “You’re creating an unhealthy dependence. She needs to reclaim her independence. She’s a strong woman. You step back a little and watch what happens. I bet you’ll see her bloom.”

      “You’ve been watching Oprah again, haven’t you?”

      “I’m serious, Policzki. The two of you need some space between you or you’ll never figure out that you’re two separate people. And how convenient for you—you just happen to know a genuine, card-carrying Realtor.”

      “Mia DeLucca? Be serious. She hates my guts.”

      “I wouldn’t be so sure. To know you is to love you.”

      “Not if I’m eyeing your brother as a possible murder suspect.”

      Lorna thought about it, shrugged. “I suppose that would tend to put a damper on my enthusiasm,” she said.

      “You think?” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, then lowered them. “So, tell me. Did you have any luck with the M.E.’s office?”

      “Nothing yet,” she said, “although not due to a lack of badgering on my part. How about you?”

      “Salvatore’s starting work on the BlackBerry. He’ll fax us over a list of all Winslow’s calls, all her appointments. We should have it by noon. Delvecchio just e-mailed me a couple photos of the victim. Maybe they’ll help us with the ID.”

      “Shit. Can’t Salvatore put a rush on it? I have a feeling we need to move fast on this one.”

      “That is his version of a rush. Just because you eat Wheaties every morning, Abrams, doesn’t mean the whole world does. Some of us have to sleep occasionally.”

      Dryly, she said, “I’ll try to remember that.”

      “I just shot the photos of the vic to the laser printer. And while you were on the phone with the M.E.’s office, I went to the Winslow & DeLucca Web page and pulled Kaye Winslow’s photo. I’m having copies distributed even as we speak. I also have Jiminez working his way through the list of Winslow’s friends that Mia DeLucca dropped off this morning. If he runs across anything worth more than a phone call, he’ll let me know and I’ll follow up with a visit in person.”

      Lorna rested her chin СКАЧАТЬ