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“Grady Bradford,” he says. “You can call me Grady. Or Deputy Bradford if you prefer, though that seems awfully formal for our purposes.”
“And what are those?”
“Friendly,” he says. Then he smiles. “Friendly purposes.”
I study the badge. It has a star with a circular ring wrapped around it. I want to run my finger around that circle, through the star, as if that will help me determine whether the badge is genuine.
“You’re a police officer?”
“A U.S. marshal actually,” he says.
“You don’t look like a U.S. marshal,” I say.
“And what does a U.S. marshal look like?” he says.
“Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive,” I say.
He laughs. “It’s true, I’m younger than some of my colleagues, but my grandfather was with the service, so I got an early start,” he says. “I assure you it’s been a legitimate one.”
“What do you do for the Marshals’ office?”
He takes his badge back and stands up, the bench rocking back and forth as it loses the weight of him.
“Well, primarily, I apprehend people who are defrauding the U.S. government,” he says.
“You think my husband’s done that?”
“I think The Shop has done that. But no, I’m not convinced your husband has. Though I’d need to speak to him before I could properly assess his involvement,” he says. “Seems like he doesn’t want to have that conversation though.”
That sticks to me for some reason. It sticks to me as not the entire truth, at least not Grady’s entire truth as to what he’s doing on my dock.
“Can I see your badge again?” I say.
“512-555-5393,” he says.
“Is that your badge number?”
“That’s the phone number for my branch office,” he says. “Give a call there, if you like. They’ll confirm for you who I am. And that I just need a few minutes of your time.”
“Do I have a choice?”
He gives me a smile. “You always have a choice,” he says. “But I’d certainly appreciate if you talked to me.”
It doesn’t feel like I have a choice, at least not a good one. And I don’t know if I like him, this Grady Bradford, with his practiced drawl. But how much would I like anyone who is about to ask me a bunch of questions about Owen?
“What do y
ou say?” he says. “I was thinking we could take a walk.”
“Why would I take a walk with you?”
“It’s a nice day,” he says. “And I got you this.”
He reaches under my rocking bench and pulls out another cup of coffee, piping hot, fresh from Fred’s. EXTRA SUGAR and SHOT OF CINNAMON are written on the side of the cup in large black letters. He hasn’t just brought me a cup of coffee. He’s brought me a cup of coffee just the way I take it.
I breathe the coffee in, take my first sip. It’s the first bit of pleasure since this whole mess started.
“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I say.
