REG TOOK his cue and came between them. He convinced Reuben to cool his jets outside, and focused his attention on the now sobbing psychiatrist. Sandy directed him to a bottle of Cognac in her kitchen cabinet. He fetched it and sat beside her on the loveseat.
"Forgive my partner. This case has tweaked more than a few noses."
"No reason for him to disrespect me in my home,” she said, after a second sip of Hennessy.
Reg allowed the cognac to do its work and finished what they came for.
***
"You lost it back there."
"I pictured little Maria and Isabella in those cages … and what if this twisted freak decides not to limit himself to prostitutes? Gloria sometimes works the late shift with her cleaning company—"
"I get it," Reg stopped him before he got riled up again, "but losing your cool didn’t help. Moving on."
"Thanks for covering," Reuben said.
"Not the first time, and knowing you, won’t be the last."
"Says Casanova. Did you get any info we can use, or was the writing I saw you doing in your pad her phone number?"
Reg craned his neck away from the passenger seat. "What have you been drinking, partner?"
"Puh-leese. I saw your face when she opened the front door. And when I shot you a quick look in the middle of her tirade, you had heart shaped stars in your eyes."
"Now, now, Rube, I’m a married man."
"Which reminds me, remember I wanted to talk to you about something outside of Quarterman's place?”
“Uh-huh,” Reg said, peeking cautiously at Reuben. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like what was coming.
“Gloria is throwing a little dinner party Saturday night. You’re invited.”
Reg made a mental note to trust his feelings more often. Gloria Garcia only threw little dinner parties to play matchmaker. Usually, between a fellow officer spiraling toward singular eternity, and one of Gloria’s sundry girlfriends. The few he and Carol attended crashed and burned.
"I’ll be straight with you because we’re partners. Gloria is concerned you might be going over the edge, with Carol leaving and all."
"Gloria is concerned, huh?”
"Yes, and so am I. You haven’t been out since she left, you use your spare nights to patrol alleys, and you’ve been doing a lot of praying lately, if you know what I mean."
It was 5:30 in the evening. The sun emitted its descending orange glow in the West. Reg cast a melancholy eye at the sinking ball of fire, and because of Garcia concerns, wondered anew if Carol was ever coming back.
"My birthday party last year, a woman named Abigail. You took one look at her camouflage painted nails, and asked who let G.I. Jane in, remember?"
Reg did remember. He also recalled a husband overseas.
"Why would—?" The answer dawned on him before he finished the question. A husband overseas and a war going on were not conducive to lengthy unions.
"Aw, Rube, the woman's husband is dead. If he was alive last year, she can't be over it yet. She’s probably still a basket case.”
"It happened a week after the party, and no, she is not still a basket case. Thanks to Gloria, she is adjusting well, and finally ready to date again."
Reg raised a discerning eyebrow. "Put the sob stories together and hope they wipe each other’s tears, is that it?"
"Two souls coming together at a time of need for them both can be a beautiful thing. You disagree?"
Wow, Reg thought. That last comment sounded like it came straight from the mouth of Mrs. Gloria Garcia, Matchmaker Extraordinaire. Obviously, the kids weren’t the only part of his new family exerting their influence on his partner.
"If I promise to think about it, can we drop it?"
"If you promise to stop by for a drink, even if you don't eat, we can drop it."
Reg sighed and nodded defeat.
"8 PM, Saturday night, it’s a date … er, I mean dinner," Reuben said.
"You said it right the first time. You strong-armed me into a date."
"Gloria will be thrilled. And now that the dirty work is over, what says our Boot Lady?"
"Nice to know that my sex life is not the only thing on your mind,” Reg said.
Reuben laughed. Reg didn’t.
“After a few sips of Hennessy, our Boot Lady said that around the time of his eighteenth birthday, Johnathan was killed in a traffic accident. It really shook her, because they had been making excellent progress. With a medication regiment, she managed to eliminate Jeremy's influence.”
“Eighteen, huh?” Reuben said.
“Yep, and coincidentally, eighteen is when her sessions with him would have ended. She refers clients to one of her colleagues at age of consent. However, it did strike her as odd, when she visited Johnathan’s family to pay her respects, the mother had no idea he was dead.”
"I was right. This guy could be our killer,” Reuben said.
"Not so fast, Sherlock. She said she attended the funeral, and plain as day in the casket was Johnathan-slash-Jeremy Fare."
"Oh, well, I’ll send her a gift basket."
"Not so fast, Columbo.”
"Have you been watching the sleuth channel again?" Reuben said.
"Nope, just like watching you squirm.”
Reg laughed. Reuben didn’t.
“She also said that a year after Johnathan’s death, a doctor C. Hilliard, if I am remembering the name correctly, called her for any files she might have on Fare."
"How does that prove me right or wrong?" Reuben said.
Reg swerved the SUV onto the Interstate entrance ramp. "Doesn’t either way, but I’m not sure I buy Hilliard’s story."
Reuben propped an elbow on the passenger door frame. He leaned his cheek into his fist. "Hmpf. Sounds pretty straight forward to me."
"You said it yourself, Rube, in your own not-so-subtle way. Johnathan is the perfect suspect."
"Yeah, Reg, but unless you are suggesting some type of wraith killer, our perfect suspect doesn't fit. What am I missing?"
"The sleuth channel, probably. But, seriously, I would like to have a word with this Dr. Hilliard."
A word indeed, Reg thought, and a look into Hilliard’s eyes. His working theory was that KIWI didn’t have the killing gene. The cover up gene, for sure, every conglomerate had one of those—Cold Hard Cash.
But if you wanted someone dead, you killed them. You didn’t pay them to keep quiet, or scare them away from therapy. And you certainly didn’t give in to a hundred and thirty pound children’s specialist, who threatened to expose you if anyone came asking.
Johnathan himself was the convincer. He was the biggest threat to the cover-up. Why let him be processed through the system and live to almost eighteen?
Reg admittedly had no counter for the funeral, but that is why it was called a working theory. He needed to talk to Hilliard, get a look into his eyes, and he needed to do it soon. There were only two days left until he had to hand over what he knew to Prick Kowalski.