Distemper (37 page)

“I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” He watched as Mad tried to top off his glass again. It was full, so all he
could do was go through the motions. Gordon ate another conciliatory beer nut. “Oh, right. What I was going to say was that,
well, last year was the best year of my life.”

It was my turn to stare at him. I couldn’t have been any more surprised if he
had
come out to us. “Are you out of your mind? For the record, last year was the
worst
year of my life. And since when do you have such romantic memories of this place, anyway? Need I remind you that you spent
last year living in a town you hated, working at a paper you said was hardly good enough to wrap a fish in, and stuck two
hundred miles away from any decent corned beef? Or have you had some sort of seizure?”

“I know, I know. All those things are true. But I’m not
kidding. I really… I mean, last year was the first time I ever really worked with anybody else, like on a team.”

“I’m gonna cry here,” Mad offered. “Jeeze, man, I love you too.”

Gordon turned an even rosier shade of pink. “Mock me all you want. But what I’m trying to say is that you know damn well my
work is my life. And last year I did the best work I’ve ever done. The three of us… well, we complemented each other.”

I patted his hand on my way to the beer nuts. “And being on opposite sides isn’t so much fun, huh?”

“I was really looking forward to it at first. I suppose I wanted to prove I’d been the one carrying everything last year,
and I could do the same thing all over again on my own. It’s made me kind of insane to realize I can’t.”

“Lucky for you,” I said, “there happens to be a cop reporter job open at the
Monitor
as we speak.”

“Whoa. I’m not that crazy.”

“Then what’s your point?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to apologize for being such a…”

“Manipulative wanker?”

“Um, yeah.”

“And this isn’t some lame effort to worm your way back into my good graces so you can rip off my story again?”

He looked wounded. “Of course not. How could you even think I’d…”

“Then consider yourself forgiven.” I kissed him on the cheek, and he wiped at the spot like a little boy in fear of cooties.
“I’ll even let you buy me a drink.”

I followed him to the bar, then started out the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Phone call. I’ll be right back.”

“Isn’t there a phone behind the bar?”

“This is business,” I said. “And I wouldn’t want to tempt you.”

I left before he could say anything else and went to the bank of pay phones on the Green. There, my slobbish tendencies paid
off when I found the right notebook among the legions at the bottom of my backpack. I flipped through it until I found David
Loew’s phone number, then got an answering machine that played “Meat Is Murder.” I figured it was the right guy.

After I left a message, I crossed my fingers and called Cody at the station house only to strike out again. I didn’t know
the cop at the switchboard, so all he’d say was that Cody was “out”—and when I asked him to elaborate, he informed me that
this meant Cody was “not in.” I tried calling his house, and again no dice. That left the only other number I had for him,
which I’d never used. I checked my watch, hoped that 9:25 wasn’t too late to call an old Irish lady, and dialed his mom.

Luckily, she sounded awake when she answered. She seemed to recognize my name instantly, which made me wonder what the hell
Cody had told her. It turned out that he was actually on his way over there for dinner, and the next thing I knew she was
giving me directions to her place. I promptly went back into the bar, drained the gin and tonic from Gordon in the name of
liquid courage, and sallied forth to let Cody’s mother scope me out from top to bottom.

T
O FIND SOMEONE MORE MOMLIKE THAN
M
ARY
C
ODY
, you’d have to order her out of a goddamn catalogue. Okay, I know that sounds bitchy, and I don’t really mean it that way.
Mrs. Cody is a nice lady, and she sure makes great oatmeal. But it’s kind of hard to compete with such a paragon of womanly
virtue. Mary Cody keeps a spotless house; suffice it to say her kitchen floor is cleaner than my dining-room table. But that’s
just the beginning of it. She volunteers. She plays bingo. She knits things, feeds the squirrels, and cooks wholesome meals
that include applesauce.

She even owns a red checkered apron. I saw it with my own two eyes.

Now, Brian’s mother was very sweet to me, and very accepting of the vegetarian thing. (She had, after all, spent ten years
of her life in Gabriel.) But I would have been considerably less intimidated by her if she’d been, say, a federal judge. That
kind of lady, I know how to relate to.

But what do I say to a woman who knows how to iron? And what must she think of the fact that I’m fairly unfamiliar with the
word “hairbrush”?

As you may have gathered, I did not grow up with this sort of mother. My mom wears bright red lipstick, has an excellent manicure,
and wears Chanel suits to court, where she makes sure rich people don’t go to jail; to her, “home cooking” means takeout.
My dad is a fairly high-powered history scholar at Williams who’s always on the prowl for some expensive gizmo that’ll make
his golf balls go farther. Frankly, both of them wonder when I got switched in the bassinet, and which Woodstock alumni are
raising their real kid. It’s a miracle we get along so well; it may have something to do with their great relief that I haven’t
followed all their friends’ kids into rehab.

I’m not sure what Mary Cody and my mom would make of each other, since they seem like products of such different times; imagine
June Cleaver having lunch with Ally McBeal. Anyway, I’m still not sure what Mrs. Cody made of
me
.

Cody’s car was in the driveway when I got there, and as I knocked on the door I hoped to hell she’d actually told him I was
showing up. She had, of course (I don’t think Mrs. Cody has a devious bone in her entire body), and for the next hour I watched
her dote on him while I ate the aforementioned oatmeal, plus a huge chunk of cabbage doused in real butter. It was not an
unpleasant way to spend an evening.

We were digging into the homemade strawberry shortcake when Mrs. Cody said good night, kissed the top of her son’s very large
head, and told us to leave the dishes in the sink.

“Wow,” I said when she was gone.

“Great food, huh?”

“I was talking about your mom.”

“What about her?”

“She’s a force of nature.”

He smiled and shrugged. “She’s my mom.”

“Cody, she’s a domestic goddess.”

“That better be a compliment.”

“Of course it is. She’s amazing.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Are your sisters like her?”

“A little. Not really, though. I’d have to say Maggie is more than Dierdre, since she’s got kids. But she still works, which
my mom isn’t too much in favor of.”

“She must have been pretty upset when you got divorced.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But the truth is, she had a party.”

“No way.”

“Yes indeed. She invited her whole Bible study group and cooked a big ham.”

“What? Why?”

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but my mom
hated
Lucy.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t imagine that sweet middle-aged lady hating anybody.”

“Yeah, well, she couldn’t stand her. Always said she was trouble.”

“Do you think that was part of the reason that…”

“That my marriage went bust? Not really. I just think my mom was right. She
was
trouble.”

“How so?”

“Well, the way my mom put it after we split was more or less that even if Lucy was with me, she always played to every other
guy in the room. And, great detective though I am, I never even noticed.”

“But if she’s such a churchgoer, didn’t she, you know, worry you were going to hell? Breaking the vows and all?”

“Well, first off, Lucy and I never got married in the church. She wasn’t even Catholic, and I pretty much dropped out of it
after high school anyway. I just go with my mom some Sundays to make her happy. But there’s also the fact that I was the one
who got dumped, which goes a long way toward expiating my sin.”

I picked up the dessert plates and started washing them, which seemed the least I could do in this temple to the domestic
arts. “Wouldn’t she disapprove of you and me?” I said over my shoulder. “I mean, nice girls don’t let good Catholic boys have
their way with them, do they?” The next thing I knew Cody was grabbing me from behind, and with my hands covered with dish
soap there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. “Cody, your mom…”

“Is sound asleep.”

I turned around and kissed him back. “Are you planning to nail me in your childhood bedroom?”

“I’d love to. But unfortunately, I didn’t grow up here.”

“I forgot. Too bad.”

“And besides, we should talk.”

“About what?”

“You tell me. I didn’t think you came all the way over here for my mother’s strawberry shortcake.”

“True.”

“So you want to tell me about Texas?”

I dried off my hands and sat back down at the kitchen table, narrowly stopping myself from putting my dirty sneakers on one
of Mrs. Cody’s chair cushions. “You already know a lot of it. Amy Sue Gravink, I mean.”

“How did you find out about her?”

“Anonymous source. Gave us her name and home address, so down we went.”

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah. You heard about what happened with her parents?”

“Two seconds after we called the local PD. The case is still fairly infamous down there.”

“Mad went to the house. Said it was really creepy.”

“That kind of crime changes a place. Takes a lot of good karma to change it back.”

“Karma?”

“Did I just say that?” He shook his head and sat down next to me. “This town must be getting to me.”

“Happens to the best of them.”

“Did you two find out anything else I should know about? Just between you and me?”

It was decision time, the very call Marilyn had told me to make in her office—and which I had dearly wanted to avoid. But
sitting there with him in his mother’s kitchen, it didn’t seem all that complicated. “What do you know,” I said slowly, “about
Amy Sue Gravink’s older brother?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Cody leaned over and kissed me hard. “What was
that for?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“So you already know?”

“We found out about Bobby Ray’s run-in with the
Houston SPCA when we started looking for Amy’s next of kin. Tracked it down as his last-known job, and one of my less incompetent
guys got the director to talk. It definitely got us thinking.”

“Did you hear about the house?”

“What about it?”

“Well, off the record, someone who will remain nameless may have taken a look inside. Apparently the place looks like a kennel—dog
food everywhere, and worse.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? Aren’t you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’d say so.”

“But, Cody, wouldn’t that… I mean, if you follow the logic, are we saying Bobby Ray Gravink murdered his own sister?”

“I suppose we are.”

“That’s… unthinkable.”

“I wish it were, Alex. But trust me. It isn’t.”

“But
why
? And why all those other girls? Why C.A.?”

“I can’t imagine. Even after all these years, I honestly can’t.”

“How are you going to find him?”

“The usual ways. We’ve got people on campus right this minute. Tomorrow morning we do a full-scale canvass. If he’s here,
we’ll find him.”

“Do you even know what he looks like?”

“State of Texas sent us his driver’s license photo, but it’s not great.” He pulled a paper out of his back pocket. It was
a photocopy of a fax, which made the image even murkier. What you could make out, though, was a very intense pair of eyes,
a meaty nose, and a head shaped like
a potato. “Taken when he was sixteen. May not look much like it anymore.”

“Christ, somebody must have a picture of this guy. Did you get your hands on the Sugarland high school yearbook?”

“One of our guys tried the school, but it turns out his picture was cut out.”

“I know. I saw it.”

“Doesn’t go a long way toward making him look innocent, does it? Anyway, we’re trying to run down another copy.”

“Can I use the phone for a second? I need to check my machine.” I dialed home, but there was no message from David Loew. I
hung up the phone and picked up the photocopy. “What are you guys going to do with this?”

“Well, since the vet clinic seems to be the center of it all, we’re asking around to see if anybody recognizes him. But as
I told you before, we have to be careful. The last thing we want to do is tip this guy off so he bolts and takes his show
on the road.”

“You know, I was thinking, have you considered looking into the animal-rights angle?”

“That Gravink might be one of those… what do you call them?”