“I’ve got the whole night. You know I don’t stand on regular hours. I enjoy my time with you guys. When you need me, I’m there.”
Luis was the rock of their unit. Harper needed him as much as David did.
“Thanks.” He crouched by David’s chair. “Hey, buddy. I gotta go for a few, but I won’t be long. Is that okay?”
David’s fingers twitched. His type of paralysis—a C6 spinal cord injury—allowed for limited movement of his arms and shoulders, some of which the doctors tried to tell him were involuntary, but Harper refused to believe were anything but David wanting the reassurance of touch. He placed his hand over David’s and squeezed.
“I love you.” He kissed David’s cheek and readjusted his baseball cap. “I won’t be long.”
“I’m gonna make a baked ziti tonight. And we have ice pops for dessert. Cherry.”
“Yum, right, David?”
David licked his lips and made humming sounds. He left them and walked to Willow Street and up the steps to Colson’s town house. He knocked on the door several times and rang the bell, but no one answered. Knowing Colson had a video camera monitoring the entrance, Harper gazed directly into the lens and waved, then pointed to the door and knocked a second time.
Radio silence.
Well, looks like I fucked it up.
“Detective? Oh, Detective Rose!”
Bracing himself, Harper turned. Millie Johnson was waving to him from her stoop. While the last thing he wanted was to talk to the gregarious lady, he couldn’t ignore her. He schooled his face in a pleasant expression and crossed the street.
“Good evening. How are you? No more feeling as if strangers are watching you, I hope.” He stayed at street level, hoping against hope the conversation would be quick.
He should’ve known better.
“Come in. I have brownies. Just out of the oven.”
“Oh, no, I can’t. I have to get home.”
“You were going to spend time with Colson, but he’s gone. So now you can have a little visit with me.”
Damn she was sharp. Objecting was futile, and Harper heaved a sigh and trudged up the wide steps of the brownstone, again admiring the beautiful interior.
“How long have you lived here, Ms. Johnson?”
“Please. You must call me Millie. And I bought the house in 1965 for a laughable amount. It wasn’t the hot spot it is now, but Brooklyn Heights has always been home to bohemians and entertainers. The creatives. Did you know Truman Capote lived just down the block? The poet, W.H. Auden had a home on Montague Street. And Norman Mailer lived on the next block, Columbia Heights.”
“Yes, lots of authors and artists.” He stood in the kitchen. “You said Colson was gone? Did he go out for the day?”
“He stopped by to ask if I needed him to get anything for me before he left. He’s such a nice man, always thinking of others.” She set a cup of coffee on the island with the plate of brownies. “Come and sit.”
Unable to refuse, Harper did as told and pulled out a stool. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Well, no.” She thought for a moment. “He said he’d be gone for a few days but couldn’t be sure.”
He sipped the coffee. “Did he happen to tell you where he was going?”
Millie peered at him over her reading glasses. “Detective, is there a problem with Colson? Are you investigating him?”
He drummed his fingers on the island. “Well, no,” he admitted. “His case has been closed.”
A twinkle lit her eyes. “Then I’ll assume this is personal.”
Jesus, she should be on the force, the way she so smoothly picked him apart. “Uh, I don’t—”
“Detective. You shared the intimate details of a life I think has made you a hard man. But from our meetings, I can tell you’re also a good person. And very kind.”
