Into the Dark. Rick Mofina

at the watercolor flower framing a photograph of Becky, when she still had beautiful hair. This latest piece of art was created by Samantha Tanner, Age 6, according to the artist’s signature. It was titled “My Mommy,” and was fastened to the door with a banana magnet, next to Samantha’s paintings of a polar bear, a house—“Our House”—and a smiling stick man and smiling stick girl holding hands, titled “Daddy and Me.”

      Tanner tucked his tie into his dress shirt, draped a dish towel over his shoulder and started scrambling eggs. While they cooked he went down the hall calling to his daughter.

      “Come on, Sam! You’re going to be late for school!”

      “I can’t find my socks, Dad!”

      “Laundry room! Let’s go!”

      Back in the kitchen he poured two glasses of orange juice and checked on the eggs. Then he flipped through yesterday’s mail: junk, a few bills and a letter from a local charity he’d supported after they’d lost Becky.

      Dear Mr. Tanner:

      As someone personally affected by the disease, we’re hoping we can once again count on your participation to make this year’s fundraising event...

      Sure, he thought, he’d be there. He set the mail aside and checked the eggs when the phone rang. It was Kim, his sister.

      “Joe, do I pick up Sam today, or tomorrow?” she asked while munching. Sounded like an apple.

      “You know I hate it when you do that.”

      “Do what? Help my little bro?”

      “Chew in my ear, wiseass.”

      “Somebody’s tense. So—” she kept chewing “—is it today?”

      “Hang on.” He consulted the calendar on the fridge. The notation “Sam—dentist checkup” occupied the next day’s square.

      “It’s tomorrow. Sign her out of school at one, and thanks.”

      “Got it. Then I’ll take her shopping for new clothes, just us girls.”

      Tanner wedged the phone to his ear and served eggs from the frying pan onto two plates, then made toast.

      “Oh,” his sister added, “my friend Remmie is wondering if you’re ever going to call her?”

      “Stop trying to fix me up.”

      Everybody in his circle had a desire to see him paired, including his relic of a partner, Harvey Zurn. “I keep telling you Joe, you should meet my cousin Linda, recently divorced with a little boy. She’s ex-military, a good cook with a good figure.”

      On the other end of the line, Tanner’s sister sighed.

      “You need to meet some women, Joey.”

      “I’m fine— Sam, breakfast! Listen, Kim, I love you for helping me and looking out for me but my new unit’s keeping me pretty busy. Don’t forget, tomorrow at one. Thanks, sis. Please finish eating before calling people. I love you. Bye.”

      As he set the plates down, Samantha entered the kitchen and before getting into her chair, pulled up her pant legs to reveal one blue sock and one pink sock.

      “See? Everybody’s doing it, Dad.”

      She had Becky’s eyes and her curls. At times, he could hear her voice.

      “You’re a weird little kid.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Eat up.”

      Afterward, while Samantha brushed her teeth and her hair, Tanner went to his small study for his badge. He then opened his gun safe for his weapon, clipped on his hip holster and collected his files.

      During the drive through North Downey to Samantha’s school, he stole glimpses of her in the rearview mirror, sitting in the backseat in her booster seat.

      “So how are you doing today, Sam?”

      “A-OK, Dad.”

      “Anything on your mind? You said something was bugging you?”

      “How much longer do I have to sit in this seat for babies?”

      “Two more years.”

      “Two years? That’s like forever!”

      “Don’t be in too big a hurry to grow up.” He grinned.

      When they arrived at the school drop-off zone, Samantha climbed out of her seat and the car. Then she appeared at his window, her backpack strapped on. She drew her face to his and he leaned out to hug and kiss her.

      “Love you, Daddy.”

      “Love you, kiddo.”

      He watched her enter the school, thinking how much she was like Becky. Then he looked at the files on his passenger seat and the summaries of several unsolved homicides. The first had happened ten years ago.

      A wave of sadness rolled over him.

      He could measure his life against these cold cases.

      He couldn’t stop his wife’s killer, no one could. His challenge now: Would he be able to find the monster behind these slayings? He didn’t know if this meeting and what he needed to do were smart moves. Given the issue of timing, dates and some long-shot theories, it looked like his only option.

      He picked up the stack of folders and the note affixed to it.

      Mark Harding

      Reporter

      AllNews Press Agency,

      Los Angeles Bureau.

       10

      Commerce, California

      “I’m Mark Harding, here to see Detective Joe Tanner.”

      The receptionist at the Homicide Bureau of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department greeted him with a weak smile and a cool assessment.

      Harding stood just over five and half feet tall and was sensitive to his height and slight overbite.

      “Good morning, Mark. And you’re with...”

      “I’m a reporter with the AllNews Press Agency.”

      Charmed, her smile broadened. “Are you British?”

      “Yes.”

      “I love your accent.”

      The receptionist typed on her keyboard, spoke softly into her headset then looked to Harding. “You’re a bit early. Please have a seat. Detective Tanner will be here shortly.”

      The lobby’s cushioned chair gave a vinyl squeak as Harding pondered how he’d come to be here to see Tanner. He didn’t know the guy and had never heard of him until a few days ago when Tanner called him.

      “We understand you’ve been inquiring about doing a feature on homicides for your newswire service. Would you be interested in talking about some older, unsolved murders?” the detective had asked.

      Tanner had been cryptic during the brief call, declining to get into details over the phone. Still, Harding had said yes because any reporter worth a damn knows that when a homicide cop invites you to a meeting, you don’t say no. At the very least, he might leave with a new source.

      God knows I need new sources and a kick-ass story.

      He’d been working at the L.A. bureau for a few months, but in that time the pressure to break a major exclusive was mounting. Since he’d relocated back to California, he hadn’t hit anything out of the park.

      You blink and nearly all of your life goes by.

      Harding was thirty-seven and grew up in Birmingham. He’d worked for several tabloids in London before getting a green card and landing a job with the Los Angeles bureau