With Malice. Rachel Lee

eternal silence. Crowds around a playground where a drug deal gone sour had ended in gunfire. Crowds around a bar where fists and bottles had flown in the wake of angry words. Always the crowds. Always the same faces. Always the same questions.

      Karen shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was late and she was tired. This was no time to let herself get spooked. These weren’t phantasms. They were just people. Curious, worried people.

      Sliding her hands into the pockets of her slacks, she ambled in their direction. The houses here were on large lots that were carefully landscaped to provide the illusion that the residents were alone in the universe. These people might or might not have been friends and acquaintances before, but right now they were drawn together by a tragedy.

      “Hi,” she said as she reached them. They had gathered by the tape barricade, politely out of the way. “I’m Detective Sweeney.”

      “What happened?” one of them asked her, a man who was probably in his midforties, with the well-coiffed, well-built look that came from a combination of money and the time to spend with a personal trainer.

      “Who are you?” she asked him.

      “Wes Marlin. I live across the street. And I want to know what happened.”

      “I’m sure you do.” Karen gave him a polite smile and pulled out her pad and pen, scrawling his name. “Phone number?”

      “Why? I didn’t see or hear anything. I’m just worried. I have a wife and kids, you know.”

      “Yes, of course. I can get your phone number, you know.”

      So he gave it to her, along with his address. Then she turned to the others. “Did anyone hear or see anything at all?”

      Most of the heads shook negatively, almost in unison, as if the crowd had become one entity. Muted calls of “What happened?” rippled out, indistinguishable one from the next.

      Then another man spoke. “I heard a car,” he said.

      Immediately Karen’s gaze snapped to him. “Your name?”

      “Art Wallace. I live next door.” He pointed over his shoulder to the right. “The Lawrences are like family to me. We’ve been friends for ten years, at least. Our kids play together. So could you please just tell me if Abby is okay?”

      “Abby?”

      “The nanny. Oh, hell, she’s not a nanny anymore, she’s part of the family. Grant took the girls to D.C. with him, so she’s the only one home. Is she all right?”

      He was a good-looking man in his midforties, a little thin in the hair, and wearing an expensive pair of glasses, but he had the kindest face among all the plastic faces around him. “Do you know Abby well?”

      “Of course! Like I said, she’s part of the family.”

      “When did you hear a car?”

      “Hell, I’m not really sure. I was asleep and woke up a bit. It had one of those noisy mufflers that some people like so much. I remember thinking that if the driver lived around here, I was going to have some words with him. Then I fell back to sleep until I heard all the commotion out here. What about Abby?”

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Wallace.”

      He looked at her; then his face seemed to crumble. “Oh, God,” he said, his vice tight. He turned away and walked off into the darkness.

      Karen let him go for now. She looked at the others. “Did any of you hear a noisy muffler?”

      She was answered by more shakes of the head. She could see the crowd wasn’t really attending her anymore, though. They were—it was—thinking about the fact that a neighbor had been murdered. Piece by piece, person by person, the crowd broke apart and melted into the dawn.

      Grant eased Belle, his six-year-old daughter, into his father’s arms. Behind him stumbled his nine-year-old, Catherine Suzanne, carrying Belle’s teddy bear and her own secret vice, a fuzzy blanket from her babyhood. Both children were utterly exhausted, having been rousted out of their beds at three in the morning to catch a red-eye flight home.

      Belle had finally fallen asleep fifteen minutes before landing, running out of the nervous energy of excitement at the strange situation. Cathy, older and a little wiser, seemed to sense something was wrong, but so far she hadn’t asked. And she hadn’t slept. But that was Cathy. She kept things inside, not exactly brooding, but more reflecting and waiting.

      Bryce, Grant’s father, reached out with an arm and squeezed Grant’s shoulders before accepting the small burden of the sleeping Belle. “What have you said?” he asked Grant, his eyes filling in the unspoken, what have you told the girls?

      “Nothing. Later. The girls need sleep, Dad.”

      Bryce nodded, hugging Belle tightly to his chest. He smiled at Cathy. “How’s my pumpkin doing?”

      “Fine, Grandpa.” The answer, tired as it sounded, carried Cathy’s usual reserve.

      “Well, let’s get you home and snuggled into your comfy beds,” Bryce said heartily. “And later, Grandma’s planning pancakes.”

      Melinda Lawrence drew her son aside as Bryce tucked the girls into the car. Her eyes were red-rimmed, too. Abby had been as much a fixture in their lives as she had in his, and they felt her loss every bit as deeply. He felt his face sag.

      “Mom.”

      She drew him into her arms. It was a familiar embrace, despite the media stories of his having grown up at the shadowy fringes of his parents’ glittery world. Yes, Abby had raised him. Yes, his parents had worked long, grueling hours, often on location, producing films. They’d wanted him to have the stability of attending the same school, living in the same house, replacing Lego castles with posters of sports figures and, eventually, his own high school trophies. Of having a home. So Abby had always been there.

      But they’d been there, too, in their own ways, and as often as they could. As Grant had entered his teens, his parents had cut back to a movie every other year, telling the media they wanted more time to devote to each project, when in fact they simply wanted more time with their son. His mother’s embrace had never been uncomfortable, had never been unfamiliar. And now he found some tiny measure of solace in her arms.

      “Abby’s learning angel songs,” his mother whispered in his ear.

      “And teaching them how to make corn bread.”

      “Yes, son. And teaching them how to make corn bread.”

      She held him at arm’s length and studied his face. “You need sleep, too, Grant.”

      He nodded sadly. “I know, Mom. But I also need to know what’s going on. Jerry’s holding down the fort, but I need to…I need to see.”

      Her grip on his arm tightened a bit. “Jerry Connally can see for us. He’s a fine man. You come home and get some breakfast, at least.”

      He started to speak, but she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. None of us is hungry. But you need food, son. And by God, you’re going to eat.”

      The glint in her eye told him it was okay to smile, that he didn’t have to fall and keep falling forever. He struggled to make the corners of his mouth lift a bit.

      “No, Mother. I’m going to the house first. I’m going to speak to the police first. Then I’ll come over and talk to the girls. In the meantime, make sure they don’t see or hear the news.”

      She nodded, giving him the space to make his own decisions, which she still sometimes found hard to do.

      He watched them drive away, then went back into the terminal, heading for the taxi stand.

      Action was what he needed now, more than food, more than sleep. Even if action would save no one and nothing.

      Karen Sweeney recognized him the minute