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—
Cooper came tothe door to meet them; another woman sat in the living room, on a pale green velvet couch, holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.
Cooper was tall and angular, but moved with a trained actor’s grace; her dark brown hair was touched with auburn, either naturally or by a skilled hairdresser. Her hazel eyes were her most striking feature, not because of the color or set, but because of the sadness that lived there, along with a touch of wildness, fear, and loathing; the sadness extended to her mouth, which was wide and mobile.
She was wearing a gray silk blouse that chimed with her eyes, and black slacks; she was barefoot.
“Agent Flowers,” she said to Virgil, extending a hand to shake.
Virgil took it and tipped his head at Lucas: “This is Lucas Davenport, a deputy U.S. Marshal that I work with sometimes.”
She shook Lucas’s hand and said to Virgil, “I know. When you called, I looked you up on the Internet and found pictures of you both, about that terrible shooting on Long Island. And I read you’re a novelist now.”
“I am,” Virgil said.
“You were both shot,” she said to Lucas. “You the worst.”
Lucas lifted his cane: “It’s getting better. I’m terribly sorry about what happened with your family, Ms. Cooper.”
“Thank you. And... it’s Maggie. To everybody.”
“Are you all right?” Lucas asked.
“No. I’m a long fuckin’ way from all right,” Cooper said. Her face reflected that: she was without makeup, still pretty, but with a crinkling around the eyes that looked harsh and recent.
“It’s the hardest,” Lucas said.
“Yes.” She had almost begun to vibrate, then suddenly seemed to relax, and showed a bit of a smile: “Well. Enough of that. Come in, tell me what you’re doing. All the other officers seem quite capable, but from what I read on the Internet... you’re the A-Team.”
—
The house waswarm and smelled vaguely of cooking, fading scents of lunch. The woman on the couch was Cooper’s opposite, short, round and blond, pink cheeks. She was dressed in a brown cashmere sweater, fashion blue jeans, with cordovan dress boots. She said, “I’m Ann Melton, and this”—she lifted the baby in her arms—“is Chelsea Sand.”
Virgil reached out and touched Chelsea’s nose and said, “I’ve got a couple of these, a little older, boy and girl. Fraternal twins. The girl’s just learned how to bite when she gets in fights with her brother.”
“Good for her,” Melton said.
Virgil leaned closer. Like all babies, Chelsea looked basically like a loaf of bread, with hazy blue eyes. She looked incuriously at Virgil, and blew a bubble: Virgil said, “Mmm, Gerber’s turkey with gravy.”
Melton smiled and said, “You know your Gerber’s.”
Cooper sat on the couch next to Melton and pointed Lucas and Virgil at easy chairs. “I’ll tell you anything I can and I won’t lie about anything, no matter how painful. I told the same thing to the B-Team.”
“We appreciate that,” Lucas said, settling into a chair. “We’d like to talk with both of you, now, but we’d also like to talk to both of you individually, before we go.”
Cooper looked at Melton, then back to Lucas: “I tell Ann everything. Even if we talk privately, I’ll tell her about it.”
“I’d do the same thing,” Melton said.
“You can do what you want,” Lucas said. “We’d still want to talk to you individually.”
Melton said nothing. Cooper nodded. “Okay.”
Whatever their relationship, she was in charge, Lucas thought.
—
Virgil: “We’ve readthe investigation reports. These guys are good, meticulous—but they couldn’t find anyone who would want to murder your husband out of revenge for his activities as a judge. You know, sending people to prison....”
