The Bones She Buried

Twenty-Three

“It’s like I don’t even know who he is anymore,” Josie complained to Gretchen. The two sat across from one another at a table inside Komorrah’s Koffee, which was just a few blocks from the police station. Josie finished off her third cheese Danish and sipped her coffee.

Gretchen picked up a pecan-crusted croissant and put it on the plate in front of her. The moment Gretchen saw Josie, she had decided it was a dozen-pastries type of day and promptly ordered an entire box for them to share. “Well,” Gretchen told her. “People process grief differently. You and I—we lock it away, push it down, and throw ourselves into work.”

“True,” Josie said.

“Some people become very depressed and stop functioning. Some people get angry and lash out. Sounds like Noah is just lashing out.”

Josie put her coffee down and sighed. “But it’s so unlike him. He’s always so… even-tempered and reasonable.”

Gretchen laughed. “Oh, I know. When everyone else is losing their shit, he can walk into a room and diffuse things pretty damn quick.”

“It’s his gift,” Josie agreed. “I wish Chitwood would let you off the desk. Then I could be home with him more and it wouldn’t necessarily have to be me asking the tough questions.”

Gretchen took a bite of her pastry and chewed slowly, her expression thoughtful. After she swallowed, she said, “I don’t know that anyone else asking the questions would make it easier on him.”

“You’re right,” Josie said.

“My third or fourth year in homicide, I caught a case where a woman’s grandson was shot to death. He was only a teenager. She was raising him so it was just the two of them. She was devastated, that was obvious, but she didn’t want to know anything about our investigation. Not until we caught the killer and even then, all she wanted to know was that he was behind bars. Most families are calling six times a day for updates. But there were always one or two who needed to distance themselves from all of it—the murder, the details, the investigation. It’s too much, too painful. That’s where Noah is at the moment. The pain is too big for him right now.”

“He’s so angry.”

“It’s not at you,” Gretchen assured her. “He’s angry at the whole horrible situation. He’s just taking it out on you.”

“Great,” Josie said drily. She picked up her fourth cheese Danish and took a big bite, thinking she’d need to take a run later to burn off all the calories she was consuming. Since she stopped drinking, she’d been doing a lot of stress-eating.

“He’s never lost anyone really close to him, has he?” Gretchen asked.

Josie shook her head. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Well, there’s no blueprint for these things—you know that. He’s going to be in pain for a long time.”

“Do you know if Mettner talked to Mason Pratt’s mother?” Josie asked, changing the subject. Gretchen was right. When she was hurting, work made it better.

“Yeah, she’s never heard of or seen Colette Fraley.”

“So that’s a dead end.”

“Afraid so. I put in a request to the prison where Patti Snyder’s incarcerated, but the warden warned me that she never talks to cops or reporters.”

“Sounds promising,” Josie muttered.

The door at the front of the coffee shop swooshed open and then came the sound of Chief Chitwood’s voice booming across the dining area, making them both wince. “Quinn! Palmer!”

Gretchen gave a small wave and he strode over toward them. He looked at the table. “What the hell is this?”

“Sir?” Josie said.

“I thought they had cheese Danishes here? What’s this crap? Pecan?”

Josie glanced across the table at Gretchen who fought to keep a smile from breaking across her face. “Don’t,” Josie said under her breath.

Gretchen blurted, “Quinn ate them all. They’re her favorite.”

Chitwood gave Josie a look. “No shit. Well, we have something in common.”

“Shocking,” Josie muttered.

“Move over,” Chitwood told her, squeezing his tall, thin body into the booth beside her before she even had a chance to move. His bony elbow knocked against hers as he picked up one of Gretchen’s pecan-crusted croissants and sneered at it.

“Sir,” Gretchen said. “Would you like me to get you something from the front? Coffee? Cheese Danish?”

“No,” Chitwood said. “Thanks.”

Gretchen said, “You didn’t come here for a cheese Danish.”

Chitwood rubbed at the spotty facial hair on his chin and gave Josie a sideways glance. “No, I’m here because Patti Snyder, who hasn’t talked to anyone in law enforcement the entire time she’s been in prison, has agreed to talk to Quinn.”

“What?” Josie and Gretchen said in unison.

Chitwood turned his head and gave Josie a long, penetrating look. Josie made sure he looked away before she did. “Quinn, do you know this woman?”

“No, sir. Never met her.”

“She specifically said she would only talk to you. Not Mettner. You. Why the hell is that?” Chitwood’s voice held more wonder than contempt, which was a welcome change.

Josie said, “I don’t know, sir.”

Chitwood put the croissant back on the plate in the center of the table and sighed. “It doesn’t much matter, does it?” His face twisted into a grimace, as though what he had to say next pained him deeply. “Good job, Quinn. She can see you this afternoon. I set it all up with the warden. Muncy prison is about two hours from here so you better get going. We need to get a handle on this Pratt thing yesterday. I’ll only be able to keep the press off this for a short time, and there are spies in the Department of Corrections. Soon as word gets around that Snyder met with a cop after all these years, the vultures will be circling.”

Gretchen’s phone chirped. She pulled it out and looked at it. “Mettner’s headed over to the morgue for Beth Pratt’s autopsy. I’m going to work on the alibi for her girlfriend. We’ll meet and regroup when you get back.”