Disorderly Conduct. Mary Feliz

      “Teddy—” I began, but stopped as soon as I realized Tess was speaking softly to her son while patting his arm.

      “It would be a waste of time,” she told him. “You know it’s not Dad. He wouldn’t have been running up there in the smoke. Not with the fire approaching. Not on the ridge. There were actual flames up there late last night. He’s smarter than that. Much smarter.” Mother and son looked into each other’s eyes, with a big, unspoken “but what if...” suspended between them.

      I interrupted. “Teddy,” I began. “Your mom is right. You need to stay here to answer the phone in case your dad calls. Or so you can text your mom to let her know if he turns up here.”

      What sounded like an entire cleat-shod football team of young men clomped across the redwood deck. It was Brian and David, along with Max and Paolo, a friend of the family and the youngest officer in the Orchard View Police Department.

      Brian and David burst through the door as usual, but then stopped quickly and took a step back. Both boys glanced from Teddy to their dad, as if terrified that losing a father was contagious. Max, thankfully, seemed sensitive to all the emotions in the room. He patted each of his boys on the back, then rubbed his hands together, stepped forward, and tossed his keys to Teddy. With an athlete’s instincts, Teddy deftly palmed the keys.

      “We need your help to unload the car, Teddy,” Max said. “Up and at ’em. You wouldn’t believe what’s packed in there. I’ve been tasked with taking you all to In-N-Out for lunch. Unless we start shifting the boxes, I’ll have no room for an extra passenger.”

      “Or unless we put Brian on the roof,” David added.

      Teddy grinned, looking reassured by Max’s action-filled agenda. He dangled the keys at the other two boys and said, “Where should we go? Is there a concert at Shoreline?” His teasing words clashed with the heavy dose of anguish in his voice, but my boys played along.

      “If we’re stealing a car, we’re heading to the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz,” David said. “Roller coaster here we come.”

      But Brian was impatient. “Hurry up,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out to the deck. “Where do you want the cats? Holmes and Watson will be super ticked off after the car ride. We got to get ’em out of there first.”

      The rest of the conversation trailed off as the boys moved toward the cars.

      Max gave Tess a quick hug, and Paolo held up his keys. “Stephen and Jason will stop by later, but they asked me to drive you to Santa Clara, using full lights and siren if needed. They’re thinking that with a police officer in tow, you’ll cut through any bureaucratic red tape as quickly as possible. We’ll go in, get it done, and get out in a flash. Let’s go.”

      Paolo turned, looking over his shoulder as if he expected us to troop behind him as ordered. His demeanor seemed rushed, impersonal, and not at all like Paolo. But then I realized…He was doing it on purpose—helping Tess by keeping her moving and preventing her from thinking too much. He’d apparently been thoroughly briefed by Jason Mueller, the current chief of the Orchard View Police Department and Paolo’s first partner on the force. A marine veteran with years of law enforcement under his duty belt, Jason knew how to care for the worried and bereaved. Stephen, Jason’s husband, had been injured in Afghanistan and now worked with human and canine survivors of America’s wars at the Veteran’s Administration in Palo Alto.

      But Tess looked hesitant to leave her home, where undoubtedly she still felt confident Patrick might walk through the door, apologizing for worrying everyone.

      “Come on, Tess.” I held her arm and pulled gently. “There won’t be room for us in here in a moment anyway. Stephen and Jason will bring Munchkin. With Mozart and Belle here, it’ll be like doggy day care. If we get a move on, we’ll beat the Sunday traffic as beachgoers get ready for work tomorrow.”

      Max followed us, blocking Tess from any means of retreat. “We’ve got our plan. First the car. Then a run for the dogs. And the boys. Then food. I’ll keep ’em moving ’til they drop. Your Teddy is in good hands.”

      Tess lifted her chin without responding, squared her shoulders, and stepped toward the door. I guessed it was the hardest move she’d ever had to make. I stayed glued to her side as we walked to the car.

      Chapter 3

      Become familiar with the emergencies most likely to threaten your area, especially if you’re new to the region. Annually, prior to the danger season, refresh your plans and your emergency supplies.

      From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

      Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

      Sunday, August 6, Morning

      Our journey south on Interstate 280 to the Santa Clara County medical examiner/coroner’s office went smoothly. In my efforts to focus on anything other than the matter at hand, I noted the windborne scent of burning vegetation and blinked my stinging eyes. Looking out the car’s rear window, I could still see billows of carbon-colored smoke, but I spotted no flames rising from beyond the ridge. I tore my gaze from the scene, forcing myself to concentrate on Tess. I could help her, but the fire was beyond my control.

      Tess sat in the front seat of Paolo’s Subaru with her hands clenching and unclenching on her thighs. I suspected she’d be bruised tomorrow, with no idea how those bruises had formed.

      No one spoke. I groped for conversation topics to distract Tess from her dreadful task. I’d shoved aside piles of athletic equipment to make a spot for myself in the back seat directly behind Paolo: Swim fins and a snorkel, bike helmet and cleats, a basketball, baseball glove, and catcher’s mitt were among the items I could identify, but there were many I could not. Though I’d known Paolo now for more than a year, I was still amused and delighted by the ever-changing array of athletic gear that graced the racks atop his car: bicycle, skis, snowboard, kayak, sailboard, and once, a stainless-steel beer-brewing vat that reflected the sun so sharply I’d had to look away.

      I had just opened my mouth to ask about what looked like a neon-colored bulletproof vest stuffed under the driver’s seat when Paolo took Tess’s hand and squeezed it before restoring his two-handed grip on the steering wheel. “I want to tell you what you can expect from the medical examiner.”

      Tess shifted toward the passenger door, leaning away from Paolo. “I’ll be fine. I’m not worried. I got this. It’s not Patrick.”

      Paolo squinted and frowned. Glancing at me in the rearview mirror, he straightened his shoulders and plowed on. I was sure he’d received training and instructions on what to say to grieving families. Paolo had joined the force hoping to use his computer expertise on forensic investigations that involved little contact with the public. But in Orchard View, the police department was small. Specialties were few. Officers and detectives wore many hats.

      “Bear with me, Tess,” he told her softly, leaning into the sweeping curve that took traffic from Interstate 280 to northbound Highway 17, an old county road that traversed San Jose. “Most people are comforted knowing that it won’t be like TV crime shows. We won’t take you into the morgue. You’ll be in a small conference room. A medical examiner will come out to you with a photograph. It will be a head shot. You’ll see blue medical drapes surrounding the head. There’s no rush. You can take as long as you want with every stage of the process—”

      “Process? What process? Don’t they just pull some stranger out of a freezer drawer, I look, and then tell them it’s not him?” Tess’s voice quavered, as if she was having trouble maintaining her belief that the man in the morgue was no one she knew. She hadn’t absorbed a word of Paolo’s description of the photo-identification process.

      “To preserve evidence, we no longer ask families to come into the”—Paolo swallowed hard and appeared to be searching for an appropriate word—“doctor’s work area. Identification happens with a Polaroid photograph, or more likely these days, a digital image on a tablet.” He glanced at Tess to see if she was processing his explanation. She nodded, which