Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [91]
The corners of her mouth turned up in a sad, tight smile of recognition. She had to assume that Bernard Hugo was Robbie’s father and that he hadn’t gone to Colorado after all. “Craig, you are the best. I am taking you on a drinking binge as soon as I get back to New York.”
“Cool. When are you in town?”
Paramedics came in through the garage door, and Jeffrey moved away from Greg as they approached.
“Soon, honey. I have to run, Craig. You’re the best.”
“ ’Bye, Lydia.”
“You’ll break his heart,” said Jeffrey.
“Let’s go,” she answered.
“Shouldn’t we call Morrow?”
“No. Fuck that guy.”
“We should call,” Jeffrey said as they got in the car, Lydia in the driver’s seat. He dialed the number.
“The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not available,” said the recorded message.
chapter twenty-two
There was time to turn around and do this the right way. All he had to do was to pick up his cell phone and make a call. Chief Morrow sat in his prowler and looked at the front door of the house. He could tell it was empty. Empty houses gave off an aura of abandonment and most cops could see it. At least they hoped they could.
He should have called Jeffrey Mark by now. He should have at least brought backup. But it was just a hunch. He was just checking up on a hunch. If it was nothing, then it was nothing. If it was something, well then, either he would be dead or he would be the hero cop who saved the day. He was banking on the latter.
Lying in bed this morning, he had finally remembered Bernard Hugo. He remembered Hugo’s grief. After Robbie Hugo had died, the church and the community had rallied around them in a way Morrow remembered as remarkable. And at the gathering at the Hugo home after Robbie’s funeral, which Morrow had attended in his official capacity, the house had been filled with people. Robbie’s mother Jennifer had been strong, hosting her guests with grace and smiling bravely. Bernard Hugo had sat in a corner staring blankly out the window, his face ashen and tight, eyes glazed. Morrow remembered his face as the very embodiment of grief.
There had been whispers, he remembered now as it all came back, about Bernard’s mental illness and whether he could bear up under the strain of grief. Simon Morrow guessed that he hadn’t been able to. He wondered what he would find inside. He hefted himself out of the car and walked to the front door. He noted that the lawn was overgrown and the house needed a coat of paint. When he knocked, the door pushed open. Morrow stepped inside. From the door he could see the living room and the kitchen. A hallway leading to the bedrooms was to his left.
“Bernard Hugo,” he called. “Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The house answered with silence and he heard his voice echo lightly in the nearly empty room. Most of the furniture he remembered was gone. There was just a television, a recliner, a rickety old card table. He took another step inside and pulled out his gun.
The odor assailed him. Garbage, beer, general filth, and something else. Some other odor lingered, mingling with the others. He pulled a surgical glove from his pocket and deftly slid it on his left hand while still holding his weapon with his right. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. The door had pushed open, so he felt it was within his rights to enter. He wouldn’t touch anything. Just look around. If he found anything, he’d call it in right away. At least he would be the first on the scene.
Keeping his back to the wall, he walked down the hallway and looked in the master bedroom, where a bed was the only piece of furniture. The bed was bare except for a crumpled-up beige-and-green top sheet. There was little else to see except a closet that stood open where a few items of clothing were sloppily hung on wire hangers and old shoes cluttered the rack that hung on the door.
The door across the hall was closed and Morrow tried to push it open with his foot, keeping his back to the opposite wall, but he couldn