Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [55]
“I know.” Libby held up one palm. “But the divorce is final, and I got the best custody deal I could.”
“I like seeing the kids. Justin needs guy-time.”
“Milwaukee’s not that far. It’s time to go back, Roelke.”
Roelke poured himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the table. “You know what? I’m getting tired of everyone telling me how much I want to move back to Milwaukee.”
“I don’t want to keep you from doing what you wanted,” Libby said soberly.
“You’re not.”
“Just think about what I said, OK?”
He put his tea down untasted. “Did it ever occur to you that I just like being near you and the kids?”
“So drive out on your days off—”
“Dammit, Libby!” Roelke scrubbed his face with his palms. “What don’t you get? Everyone else is gone. My folks. Your folks. It’s just you and me.”
“That not quite true,” she said quietly. “Patrick—”
“Patrick doesn’t count.”
“He’s your brother, Roelke.”
Roelke leaned over, elbows on knees, and stared at the ground. A headache was starting to pinch the back of his skull.
“You need to deal with Patrick,” Libby said. “I’ve heard you talk about kids you meet on the job. You always say that a person’s first encounter with a cop can determine their future, and how that goes is up to the cop. If you can give strangers a second chance, why not Patrick?”
“Because it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Maybe Patrick is his father’s son. But you’re Uncle Joe’s son, too.”
“Yeah,” Roelke said, watching an ant hauling a crumb three times its size. “And sometimes that scares the crap out of me.”
“You need to work on that.”
Right, Roelke thought. Just like that. He hated this know-it-all streak of Libby’s. She’d perfected it by age six.
Libby got up and disappeared into the house. A moment later she emerged with a small plate holding several brownies. “I need chocolate,” she said, holding out the plate. “Here.”
He didn’t need chocolate, but he took one anyway. “Thanks.”
They ate in a silence. Roelke wished Libby had kept her mouth shut about his job, and about Patrick. Especially about Patrick.
“So.” Libby propped her bare feet on the iron patio table. “You said you were headed somewhere?”
Hallelujah, a new topic. “La Grange. Someone broke into Chloe’s house last night—”
“What?”
“She ran the guy off. But she’s pretty shook up.” That was a lie, but a believable one. “I thought I’d run down and make sure she’s OK.”
“A burglar, you think?”
“I’m not sure.” Roelke began beating a rhythm on the arm of his chair with one thumb. “Possibly just some punk kid, looking for a stereo or something. Possibly not. Remember that old lady who had a heart attack and crashed her car? She’d been visiting Chloe to see about some old Norwegian bowl-thing, which evidently went missing at Old World before Chloe started. You know how some people get around antiques. There’s a chance someone might think Chloe found it.” The rhythm increased. “I just want to make sure she’s OK,” he repeated.
Libby looked at him pensively.
“What?” he demanded. “What now?”
“We-ell,” she said slowly, “are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”
“Mixed up in what? I’m just doing my job.”
“No you’re not. You’ve met a pretty lady who’s been threatened. That always does a number on you.”
“Shut up, Libby.” Roelke glared at her. Now he definitely regretted stopping by.
“I worry about you. That goes two ways, eh? You worry about me, I worry about you.” Libby pressed her hand over his, stilling his thumb. “Stop doing that. You’re making me nuts.”
A lawnmower roared to life two or three yards away. “I thought you liked Chloe,” he said.
“I do like her. But I think she’s got a lot of stuff going on right now. Stuff that has nothing to do with prowlers and missing antiques.” Libby squeezed his hand gently. “Just be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
Roelke considered that admonition as he backed the truck out of her driveway a few minutes later. Be careful. What did that mean? He was always careful. He was trained to be careful.
At the stop sign, he turned left toward La Grange.
____
Before Roelke turned into the driveway,