Burn Out (27 page)

“Monday. Hy and I are flying to the ranch tomorrow. We’re having a delayed Thanksgiving with Sara, Ramon, and Amy tomorrow night. They’re all pulling together, doing better, but today’s got to be gloomy for them, and they’ll need cheering up. And Saturday afternoon we have to greet the next member of our family. We’re having a palomino delivered. To keep my horse, King, company.”

“
Your
horse? You hate horses!”

“Let’s say I hate horses as a breed, but love them on an individual basis.”

“I don’t believe this: you’re backing off on the business, and you’re in love with a horse?”

My cell rang. I checked to see who the caller was. Kristen Lark. I excused myself and went inside. There were still enough people there to make talking impossible, so I went down the hall to where the glass-block elevator—a classic from the thirties—stood, its doors open. Inside I sat down on the floor before I called Lark back.

“It’s Sharon,” I said.

“Happy Turkey Day.”

“Thanks. Same to you. What’s happening?”

“Nothing bad. Our perp is comfortably residing in the psych ward.”

“The case will never to go trial.”

“No. Save the county a lot of money. Philadelphia—where Davey Smith went to Wharton for his BA in finance—is looking at him concerning a series of rapes in the area when he was a student, and New York State is also interested. Recidivism of sex offenders . . .”

“Yeah. And how’re you doing?”

“. . . Better.”

“Meaning?”

“All that drinking—which I’m sure you noticed? It was partly because of the pressure of the case, but mostly because the Rabbitt was being strange and distant, so I figured he was having an affair.”

“And?”

“He wasn’t. He’d been brooding and trying to decide how to tell me he wants to leave the department and go to law school.”

“How d’you feel about that?”

“Happy. He’s got the GPA to get him into a lot of good schools on at least a partial scholarship. And I can get a job I’ll enjoy almost anywhere.”

“So this is a happy Thanksgiving for both of you.”

“The best yet.”

We chatted for a moment or two about her turkey that had turned out well and her pumpkin pie that had burned. Then we promised to keep in touch and broke the connection.

I sat there for a while, savoring the peace and happiness of one perfect holiday. The elevator doors closed, and the car began its slow downward descent. When they opened Hank Zahn, Anne-Marie Altman, and their daughter, Habiba Hamid, stepped in. They hadn’t been able to make dinner because of a previous family obligation, but had promised to stop by later.

I looked at them and smiled. They were the perfect blended family: Hank, wire-haired and Jewish; Anne-Marie, blonde and WASPish; Habiba, with the beautiful dark-skinned features of her Arab forebears.

It was all about family, really—and I had such a huge one that seemed to be expanding all the time. A few years ago I’d embraced—albeit tentatively—both branches of my birth family. This fall I’d added the Perezes and, of all things, a horse.

But the family that was closest and dearest were all assembled in this building. I closed my eyes and sighed, grateful that I’d decided to come home to them.

Hank asked, “You all right, kiddo?”

“Better than I’ve been in a long time.”