As Ed paused, Sara glanced over at the table where John Fiske’s medal for valor sat. A little piece of metal for all that pain.
“I tell you all this so you’ll see Johnny doesn’t really have the same goals as you and me might. Never got married, never talks about having no kids of his own. Everything is sped up for him. He figures if he makes it to fifty, he’s the luckiest man on earth. He told me that himself.” Ed Fiske looked down, his voice catching. “Never figured I’d outlive Mike. I hope to God I don’t outlive my other boy.”
Sara finally found her voice. “I appreciate your telling me this. I realize it was hard for you. You don’t really know me.”
“Depending on the situation, sometimes you can know a person better in ten minutes than someone you’ve crossed paths with all your life.”
Sara rose to leave. “Thank you for your time. And John really needs to hear from you.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’ll do that.”
As her hand touched the doorknob, Ed spoke one last time. “You still love my son?”
Sara walked out without answering.
* * *
At the small café down from his office building, Fiske bought his coffee and sat down at an outside table. McKenna did the same. At first Fiske chose to completely ignore the hovering FBI agent and idly watched the passersby while he drank his coffee. He slipped on his sunglasses as the sun cleared the top of the building across the street and drew both men’s shadows across the bricks. McKenna silently munched on some crackers he had bought and fingered his Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“How’s the gut? Sorry I had to punch you like that.”
“The only thing you’re sorry about is that you didn’t hit me harder.”
“No, really. I saw the shotgun and got concerned.”
Fiske looked up at him. “I guess you thought I might be able to somehow open the car door, pull the shotgun out, swing it around and get off a shot before you could blow me away from a distance of, what, six inches?”
McKenna shrugged. “FYI, I read up on your police record. You were a good cop. Right up until the end, anyway.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
McKenna sat down at the table. “Nothing, other than there being some questions about that last event in your record. Care to fill me in on it?”
Fiske took off his glasses and stared at the man. “Why don’t you put a bullet in my head instead? I think that would be more fun for me.”
McKenna leaned his chair back against the side of the building and lit up a cigarette. “You know, if you’re so anxious to prove your innocence, then you might want to start being a little more cooperative.”
“McKenna, you’re convinced I killed my brother, so why should I bother?”
“I’ve worked a lot of cases over the years. Half the time my original theory didn’t turn out to be right. My philosophy is: Never say never.”
“Boy, you really sound sincere.”
McKenna assumed a friendlier tone. “Look, John, I’ve been doing this stuff a long time, okay? Nice, neat little cases aren’t the norm. There are twists on this one and I’m not ignoring them.” He stopped and then added as casually as he could, “So why was your brother interested in Rufus Harms, and what exactly was in the appeal?”
Fiske put his sunglasses back on. “That doesn’t fit into your theory of me killing my brother.”
“That’s only one of my theories. I’m down here following that up by looking for your suddenly vanished nine-millimeter. While I’m waiting on that, I’m looking at it from another angle: Rufus Harms. Your brother took the appeal, it looks like he visited the prison.”
“Chandler told you that?”
“I have a lot of information sources. You and Evans have both been snooping around into Harms’s background. He escaped from a prison in southwest Virginia. And you two took a chartered plane to that area last night. Why don’t you tell me about that? Where’d you go and why?”