“I think we’ll be on duty tonight,” said Henderson. “And poor little me, I was planning on going bowling.”

“He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Henderson. “He strikes me as someone who has every idea of what he’s gotten himself into.”

“I’m worried about him.”

“I know you are,” said Henderson. “It’s why you followed the lead he gave you and traced that number and found that Spangler and kept your eye on him all the while we were putting this operation in place. Because you were worried about him. This Byrne kid is not just a piece of a puzzle, is he?”

“No.”

“See there, Ramirez, now you’re making me cranky.”

“Why? Because partnering with me, you actually have to do some work?”

“No. I just get cranky when my expectations are confounded. And here all along I thought you’d never make it as a detective.”

CHAPTER 50

UNCLE MAX WAS SITTING at the bar of the Olde Pig Snout, smoking a cigarette, nursing a beer, watching the local news on the television as his life ticked away swallow by swallow. When the door opened, he palmed his cigarette and turned his head to get a look at who was walking in. He instinctively smiled when he saw it was Kyle. And then the smile froze on his face, as if something in his nephew’s eyes made it clear that this was not simply a sweet familial visit.

“Kyle, what a surprise,” said Max. “And in a suit, no less. Who died?”

“No one,” said Kyle. “Yet.”

“Want a drink?”

“We need to talk.”

“What, you dress like that just to break up with me?”

“Over there,” said Kyle, pointing to a booth.

“Sure thing, Kyle. No problem. Let me get us a round, first.”

Max waved Fred the bartender over. Fred smiled crookedly. “How you doing there, Kyle?”

“Not so good,” said Kyle.

“What happened?” said Fred.

“I’ve been betrayed,” said Kyle.

Max’s head swung toward Kyle as if his ear had been yanked, but Fred just kept on nodding and smiling. “Good, good. You still playing ball?”

“Not anymore.”

“Just keep swinging. Anything I can get you?”

“A beer.”

“Two,” said Max. “With a couple shooters.” Max glanced back at Kyle’s stone face. “On my tab.”

“Good,” said Fred. “So everything’s good, Kyle?”

“Yeah,” said Kyle. “Everything’s just swell.”

“Good,” said Fred. “That’s good.”

“Have you ever noticed,” said Kyle when they were in a booth with their drinks, “that no matter how terrible the news, Fred always tells you how good everything is?”

“That’s about the extent of his charm,” said Max, “but somehow I find it comforting. Everything’s always good at the Olde Pig Snout, except the food, the beer and the company. So what climbed up your butt?”

Kyle looked away, let his eyes harden, and then turned back to stare at his Uncle Max. “I want to know,” he said, his teeth clenched, his voice suddenly low and hard, “how you could do it to my mother. Forget about me, a twelve-year-old kid forced to go to his father’s fake funeral, forget about how your little trick twisted my life into knots. I want to know how you could do it to my mother, your sister, how you could do it to her.”

Max stared at Kyle for a long moment, lit a cigarette, took a draw, downed his shot while smoke leaked out his nose, and then promptly burst into tears. It was not a tidy little cry, it was red and wet and full of sob and self-fury. Max’s cheeks burned, his bulbous nose turned red and ran, his beady little eyes squeezed out bucketfuls, and in the middle of it he slammed his forehead on the table once and then again, before grabbing Kyle’s shot, downing that, too, and sobbing some more.

Kyle was unmoved.

“I thought,” said Max, his broken voice coming in gasps as the sobs stole his breath, “I thought . . . I was doing the . . . right thing.”

“How could a betrayal like that ever be the right thing?”

“Because . . . because . . . because he was no damn good for her,” said Max, catching his breath now between words. “Because he seduced her and impregnated her and then just left her there in that crappy little house. And she wouldn’t move on, she wouldn’t date, she wouldn’t do anything but wait for him. It broke my heart.”

“So you faked his death.”

“I helped him do it. Yeah, I admit it. But she was still pretty, still young. I thought with him out of the way, she’d find someone new. I thought you’d end up with a real father. I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

“I know. God, I know. But she deserved better. And so did you. You don’t know how many times I tried to set her up. She wasn’t interested. She did nothing but mourn the bastard. And you did nothing but mourn him, too. And every time I saw you both after that, it broke my heart.”

“Fuck you and your broken heart,” said Kyle.

“You’re right.”

“Just go to hell.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Good.”

Max pulled his cigarette to his lips with shaking hands, took a drag, and then wiped his eyes with his other palm. Kyle drank from his beer and looked away.

“Is that it?” said Max.

“No.”

“There’s more?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ. Okay, whatever you want, Kyle. I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you.”

“You can’t.”

“I know.”

“Damn right you know.”

“I was afraid you might find out when you started nosing around into what happened to your dad.”

“Then why’d you tell me to look?”

“Because I wanted you to know what he was really like, to take your blinders off.”

“You put them there when you fake-killed him.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know?” Pause. “How’d you find out anyway?”

Kyle searched for some suspicion in Max’s eyes, found nothing but Max’s own tortured memories. “A cop,” Kyle said.