Red Right Hand

3.

SPECIAL AGENT CHARLIE Thompson hovered awkwardly on the threshold of her parents’ kitchen. The dangly earrings her mother had gotten her for Christmas tugged uncomfortably at her ears. Pots bubbled on the stove. The air was warm and humid and redolent with spice.

“There must be something I can do to help,” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” her mother replied. “Kate and I have this well in hand. Why don’t you go bring your father a beer?”

Thompson’s face creased with worry as she watched Kathryn O’Brien mangle the onion she was trying to dice. “You sure you’re up to this?”

O’Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson and smiled. “You heard your mother,” she said. “Beat it!”

Thompson shrugged and grabbed two cans of Narragansett from the fridge. Then she headed out to the garage.

The overhead door was open, the cars, as ever, in the driveway. A workbench took up half the narrow space, and tools hung from pegboards above it. Thompson’s father crouched over a partially disassembled lawn mower, his hands blackened by grease.

Thompson popped the top on both beers and handed one to him without a word. Foam gathered on his mustache when he drank.

“You gotta work on this right now, Pop?”

“Is there something else I oughta be doing? Ain’t like your mother wants me in the kitchen.”

“Join the club-she just threw me out too. Asked Kate to stay, though.”

“You don’t look pleased.”

“A little leery, is all.”

“Why?” he snapped. “You think your mother’s gonna say something inappropriate and embarrass you?”

“No,” Thompson said carefully, “I’m worried Kate’s gonna take off a finger. Her knife skills leave a bit to be desired.”

“Oh.” He looked chastened. “I’m sure your mother will watch out for her.”

Thompson’s parents were Catholic. When she came out, they’d been as supportive of her as their faith allowed-but she’d never brought a woman home before. She’d been worried how her parents would react to O’Brien ever since they got serious last fall. It’s why she’d postponed the meet-the-parents trip three times already. It’s why she’d nearly canceled when the alarm went off this morning and then twice more on the drive from DC to Hartford.

She sipped her beer and watched her father tinker with the lawn mower. “You talk to Jess lately?” she asked.

Jess was Thompson’s baby sister. Four years out of college and trying to make it as an artist, whatever that meant. Near as Thompson could tell, it mostly meant couch surfing, binge drinking, and emotional breakdowns.

“Not since she and the new guy-Tree? River?”

“Leaf.”

“Leaf. Right. Not since they left for Costa Rica. You?”

“I Facebook-messaged her the other day. She said she’d be back in time to see us this weekend. Guess she was mistaken.”

“You know Jess,” he said gruffly. “Never been so good with schedules.” He removed the hex nut from the mounting bolts and yanked the mower’s carburetor free. Fuel puddled on the floor. “Son of a whore!”

“Something bothering you, Pop?”

“Yeah-I forgot to clamp the goddamn fuel line.” He rectified the error and pushed the mess around with a rag.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” It wasn’t like him to lose his temper. “Is this about me and Kate?”

Her father wiped his hands off on his pants. “It’s not my place to say.”

“Pop, I’m asking. What is it?”

“She’s your goddamn boss, Charlie, that’s what!”

Ah. There it was. She should have known.

Thompson’s dad was a captain with the Hartford PD. A real nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy. He’d joined the force straight out of high school. Climbed the ranks from lowly beat cop to head of precinct. To him, chain of command was sacrosanct.

“What’re you saying? You think your daughter’s fucking her way to the top?”

“I’m not saying it, but you’re a fool if you think others aren’t.”

“Let them talk. I honestly don’t give a shit.”

“No? You should. Some of them hold your career in their hands. And speaking of, you ever stop to think what happens when the two of you break up? She holds all the cards, Charlie. Odds are, you’ll wind up pushing paper in some shitty basement office in East Bumfuck.”

“That’s not gonna happen, Pop.”

“Yeah? How the hell do you know?”

“Because, goddamn it, Kate and I are getting married! So whatever you really think of her-of me-you could at least pretend to get on board.”

She hadn’t meant to snap. Hadn’t meant to tell him that way.

And she certainly hadn’t meant for Kate to overhear.

O’Brien stood in the doorway to the garage, one hand still on the knob. It was clear by the look on her face that she’d been there awhile.

Thompson struggled for words. A blotchy flush crawled up her father’s neck.

“Kate, I-”

“Later,” O’Brien said. “I just got a call from HQ. Something’s happened in San Francisco. We have to go.”