Page 36 of The Grave Artist

“You know, going out? Dating? Or, I don’t know, living together?”

He found himself blurting a quick denial. “No, no, no. We just work together.”

“She’s divorced, right?”

Jake said, “My understanding.”

“I hear her ex was an asshole.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“She seeing anybody?”

Surprising himself, surprising himself a great deal, he was suddenly reluctant to answer with the truth—that, no, she was not.

“Couldn’t tell you much about her personal life.”

Tandy was nodding. “You’re new to this. After a month or two, walking or riding a beat, you get to know everything about your partner. I meaneverything. Lot of times more than your wife or husband.”

Jake said, “Well, I’m new. Like you said.”

“So you don’t know if she’s interested in anybody, or anybody’s interested in her?”

“Not a clue.”

They shook hands and, as Jake walked through the park, he was thinking of one of the questions he would ask his students in class: Did anyone know what type of intrusion was both the most common and the hardest to detect?

Typically no one raised their hand.

He always paused a beat before giving the answer. “Lying.”

Chapter 19

Having changed into a light-gray windbreaker, jeans and a cap, Damon Garr was walking through the park, north of the cemetery, looking at a bench where three nannies sat talking. Before them were strollers, which they ignored as they chatted and scrolled on their phones.

The scene brought back Miss Spalding’s hoarse yet oddly melodic voice, drifting to him from the past. “They don’t love their little ones the way I love you.”

Ten-year-old Damon and his governess were passing through a park. She walked him back from school, which was an embarrassment, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Gesturing at several similarly indifferent nannies, she had spoken loudly enough to be overheard. “See, they’re not paying any attention. A stroller could roll down the hill and then who knows what might happen?”

Here, the three women in front of him weren’t paying any attention either, but then there were no hills and, besides, strollers were considerably safer nowadays, having been designed by lawyers as much as by engineers. Runaway babies seemed unlikely.

After her observation about the negligent caretakers, Miss Spalding had paused and turned, bending down—only a bit, as he was a tall child—and said, “Come here, my Little Pup. Give me a hug.”

And young Damon had endured the embrace, the way he endured the coddling walk home, and all the talk about baby carriages.

He endured a lot from Miss Spalding because there were other benefits.

Thinking of the den where her Little Pup would spend many of his afternoons.

And this reminded him of something else, something certain to distract him from the troubles caused by the officers determined to destroy him. He thought of his den behind the secret door, in his house in Malibu.

And who awaited him there.

Her . . .

And the delightful razor blades, sharpened on stone and honed on leather.