“You got it,” says Carol. “You might want to consider making lures as a career.”
Braedon smiles. “I don’t know what I want to be yet.”
“What about a professional soccer player like your dad?”
“I don’t think so,” says Braedon. “I’m not good enough.”
Sue enters the room and says, “You’re not good enough for what?”
“Playing soccer,” says Braedon. “At least for a job. But I might want to be a police officer like my grandpa.”
“We’d love to have you down at the station,” says Sue. “Get you a uniform, maybe your own police bike. You can wear a helmet with a siren on top.”
Braedon laughs. “Maybe someday. It just seems like a job where you get to be out doing stuff all the time. Talking to people. Looking for bad guys. Don’t have to be in one place.”
“That’s the way it used to be,” says Sue.
“Used to be?” says Braedon. “It’s not anymore?”
“Technology has changed things. Most police officers nowadays have their face in front of a computer more than they do real people. They can get more done that way. When I startedout—this was back before your dad was born—if the police were looking for a suspect, they had to drive around and talk to people all day and all night. Now the first place they check is Google. In less than an hour, they can accomplish what used to take a whole week.”
“Like, what do you mean?” says Braedon as he coats the head of the lure in UV resin.
“Well,” says Sue. “Let’s say someone robs a gas station. And a security camera captures their picture. In the old days, the police would take that picture all over town, show it around, maybe have it printed in the newspaper or broadcast on the TV, and they’d just hope someone would recognize and identify the culprit. But today, all the police have to do is a reverse-image search online. If that person’s image exists on the internet, either on social media or maybe on their workplace’s website, or maybe they appear in someone else’s post and they’re tagged… Then it’s over. The police have their suspect.”
Braedon shines a UV flashlight on the resin and says, “Really? Police just look at their computer all the time?”
“Not all the time,” says Sue. “They still go out on patrol. But a whole lot of their investigative work is done online now. All I’m saying is if you want to be a police officer, I hope you have a comfy chair.”
Clay’s night finally ends at 11:15AM. If he had heard Sue’s speech to Braedon about investigative work being done online, he would beg to differ. Clay hopes to sleep until five o’clock or so, then he’ll pick up Braedon, make dinner, watch a little TV, then getto bed before midnight. He used to pull all-nighters all the time. Soccer by day. Slip out of the team’s hotel to moonlight for the US government, then another day of soccer. He’d catch up with little naps where he could. Flying to the next city. Riding on the team bus. During an hour or two of quiet time in the hotel before heading to the stadium.
But now he’s out of practice. Or maybe he’s simply forty-two years old and can’t do what he used to. Clay brushes his teeth and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He can’t stop picturing Teddy on Miller’s Bluff. Maybe Teddy slipped and hit his head and, when he came to, had amnesia. In his confusion, he took off his earring and hoodie. But that doesn’t explain the sawzall and glove. Plus Clay has seen amnesia a lot in TV shows and movies, but in all his experience in the army, on the soccer pitch, and as an intelligence agent, he knows of plenty of people who hit their head one way or another, but not one forgot who they were.
Another possibility is Teddy thought he was under suspicion for a crime. Either a crime that Clay doesn’t know about or he’s involved with the thefts up at Dorset-Cornwall or the recent spate of catalytic converter thefts. Maybe Teddy’s hiding out on Miller’s Bluff until things settle down. Maybe he doesn’t want to put Deb in the position of having to lie for him, and that’s why he hasn’t contacted her. Or Judd. Or Clay, for that matter. Or maybe he’s just ashamed.
It’s all plausible but something doesn’t feel right, and Clay’s too tired to figure out what that is. He goes into the kitchen and drinks a big glass of water in an attempt to dilute the salt and sugar in his blood from his first and second breakfasts, then walks into his bedroom when the doorbell rings.
The house is not large but, in Clay’s sleep-deprived state, the walk to the front door feels like a mile. He opens the door and says, “Steph.” It sounds stupid but he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Hi, Clay. I’m sorry about Thomas. I can’t believe he did what he did.”
Clay says, “It’s hardly your fault. Come on in.”
Steph Becker steps into Clay’s home for the first time. She wears her blond hair long and unbound. It falls like curtains on the front of her shoulders. She scans the open, modern house and says, “Nice place.”
“Thank you. And I apologize if I sound a little out of it—I haven’t slept yet.”
Steph walks from the foyer into the living room and sits on a leather lounge chair. Clay follows and takes the couch.
“Can I get you anything?” he says.
She shakes her head. “Listen. I’m sorry this is so weird. I can’t believe Thomas was involved in a fake kidnapping plot. And that he just stood there and did nothing when that Graham pulled a gun on your son.”
“Yeah,” says Clay, “I’m not crazy about that either.”
“I hate that Graham,” says Steph. “Whenever Thomas gets in trouble, Graham’s somehow involved. I hate to think a fifteen-year-old boy is rotten. But I’m getting pretty close with that one.”
“Appreciate that. And I appreciate your commiseration.”
