Yeah, I do. Sometimes. Yes. I do ...
Angie’s thoughts turned to Tiffy, and how she’d failed the child. To Hash, and how she might have failed him, too, and how much she missed him. She thought of the anguish and accusation she’d witnessed in Lorna Drummond’s eyes, the wailing sound that came from her throat as she’d slid down to the floor. The weight of it all was suddenly heavy on Angie’s shoulders.
“Where are we going?” she asked again, more quietly.
“To drop Jack-O off—Buziak is springing for pizza tonight while we debrief, and I finally found another sitter, one of the old guys at the marina who’ll take him at least until this case winds down a bit.”
“Marina?”
“West Bay. I live on an old schooner there. Trying to renovate it. Without much luck, I might add. Every time I fix something, a new problem comes up. It’ll be easier when the weather warms again—I hope.”
“So, you sail?”
He gave a soft snort. “It was always a retirement dream of ours, for after Ginn left home—me and the wife on a boat. Sailing up the coast, stopping at whatever little inlet took our fancy. Kayaking, fishing.” He was silent for a few blocks. “Then our marriage fell apart. This job can be hell on a relationship.”
Curiosity won the better of Angie. “You separated?”
“Going through a real messy divorce. Maybe that’s another reason the dog is growing on me—dogs don’t quit on you.” He fell silent again, and Angie felt as though she’d just glimpsed a very personal, private part of this cop. Too personal. She didn’t want to know more. She didn’t want to care, to feel the things she was beginning to feel, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the next question.
“Why do you still wear the wedding band?”
“For Ginn. I put it on before we went out for brunch Sunday. To show her ... I don’t know, to show her that I was still trying to make it work. She blames me for breaking up the family.” He gave a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Sometimes I think a shrink would have a field day with me trying to salvage things that I know are irreparably broken—that old boat, that retirement dream, that old notion of family I once had.”
Angie’s heart beat hard in her chest. So he hadn’t removed the wedding band to make a conquest at the club. He’d just put it back on for his kid, right before he got called to a murder and embroiled in this case.
“This is why you should have let me drive my own vehicle,” she said crisply. “I could have gone back to the station myself while you went and did ... whatever personal thing you need to do with that mutt.”
CHAPTER 29
As Maddocks turned onto the road that would lead them down to the harbor, the Mount Saint Agnes institution loomed suddenly into view. Angie tensed and checked her watch. Her mouth turned dry as she fought herself. “Wait!” she said suddenly as they neared the gates. “Turn in here, please.”
Maddocks glanced at her, slowing his Impala as he neared the entrance to the institution with its high walls and big iron gates. “Why?” he said.
“I ... there’s someone I promised to visit today. I only need about thirty minutes—you can drop your dog off in the meanwhile, then pick me up after.”
Maddocks shot her another glance and wheeled his vehicle slowly in through the entrance to the Mount Saint Agnes Mental Health Treatment Facility. He drew to a stop under the portico in front of the double doors. Angie hesitated and rubbed her knee, nerves suddenly biting at her. As much as she loved her mom, part of her was afraid to face squarely up to what was happening to her mother’s mind. And she knew this anxiety was in part because she feared the illness was beginning to manifest in her, too. This big concrete building with its stone walls and gates and white-coated orderlies possibly lurked on her own horizon in the not-too-distant future.
“Who’s in there?” Maddocks said, regarding her with an intensity that made her feel naked.
“It’s personal,” she said crisply. She reached for the door. “I’ll be no more than thirty.”
“Take more time if you need it.”
“I won’t.” She opened the door, got out, slammed it shut, and did not look back as she strode toward the entrance.
A nurse showed Angie into a large room where several tables and chairs had been positioned in groups. A few patients occupied some of the chairs, some fidgeting and muttering, others looking totally vacant and alone. An orderly stood by the wall, watching over them. In front of one of the windows a Christmas tree glowed with soft lights.
“She’s over there, by the bay window,” said the nurse, pointing to a bent figure sitting motionless in a cane rocking chair, facing her own reflection in the dark windowpanes. Shock dropped through Angie. Her attention shot to the nurse.
“Why is my mother in here? Why isn’t she in her private room, with all her things?”
“I’m afraid she had a bit of an episode, being left alone for the first time. It happens—the unfamiliarity in a new place, the fear of not knowing where she is, who everyone is. She’s here under observation for a while.” The nurse paused. “Your mother has been heavily medicated, Ms.Pallorino. She’s not terribly lucid, but seeing a familiar family member might help. If she does get upset, however, please just step away quietly and alert the orderly.”
“Who authorized the medication, the dosage?”
“Her doctor, in consultation with her next of kin—her husband was here most of the day.”
Emotion, guilt, slammed into Angie with such blunt force that it stole her breath and she had to concentrate on inhaling. “Thanks.” Slowly, she made her way over to the window. Her mother’s whitening hair looked more pastel orange than the deep strawberry blonde it once was. A white bathrobe draped her bony shoulders, and her mom was devoid of her customary makeup. Her skin looked blotchy, dry, lined. It seemed as if her mom had aged decades in the hours since Angie had last seen her.
