Free Last Lie by Stephen White

Lucy Davenport, Sam's detective partner in the Boulder Police Department, and "33rd" was 33rd Street, home of the Public Safety Building.
    Hope it's nothing is what I texted back. But I knew that if it were nothing, Lucy wouldn't have called Sam in on a Saturday morning. A senior detective pair catching a routine call on a day off? Not a chance. Either something big had happened, or Sam and Lucy were being punished for something.
    Although I couldn't rule out the latter hypothesis--neither cop was renowned for rule-following inclinations; Sam's recent history of transgressions was much worse than Lucy's--I was wondering if Boulder had suffered a rare homicide.
    Ha was Sam's texted retort to my good wishes.
    Breakfast at the Village had been Sam's idea, not mine. I gave up my parking spot and headed up Canyon to 14th Street in the direction of Lucile's.
    I knew that the line would be out the door at Lucile's, too. But my kid was doing interpretive dance and cartwheels, so I had time to waste. I lucked into an angled parking spot near my lawyer Cozy Maitlin's office across from the Colorado Building on the other side of the Mall. I hoofed it from there. What breeze was left from the night before was still from the north, so I could smell chicory and beignets wafting in my direction the moment I opened the car door.
    I grabbed a seat at the communal table and ordered eggs and grits and toast and coffee. And a beignet. While I ate, I read an article in the Daily Camera 's sports section about how the Buffs were about to rescue their disappointing season by surprising some ranked football foe. I was thinking I'd read an annual version of the same story every fall for at least a decade.

    I STAYED IN TOWN ALL MORNING. Soccer practice followed dance class for Gracie. I had her back home, as I promised Lauren I would, in time to get her ready for a one thirty birthday party. Gracie had a full social calendar.
    Jonas, on the other hand, was still looking for his social niche. Through no fault of his own, his path in life was a difficult one. He'd lost his father to a homicide when he was still too young to realize what had happened. Then, only the previous year, he had lost his mom to a bomb in a cowardly battle in a decades-old foreign war. Jonas had taken shrapnel in his leg from the same explosion that took his mother. His emotional wounds were more visible to me than were his permanent physical scars.
    From the moment I flew to Israel to retrieve him after the terrorist bombing, I was determined to be a good card in his bad hand. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I was determined to succeed as his parent.
    He and I had plans to go to a movie later that afternoon. Jonas and I went to a lot of movies, often late on weekend afternoons. He tended to choose adolescent fare that I considered too lurid or too lusty for him, or childish flicks that seemed to provide some regressed comfort. I assumed he was working out something with his attraction to the violence. I usually went along with his choice. With the blood and guts, my consent was usually reluctant. On the lusty side? I didn't care if he saw an exposed breast or two.
    I wasn't sure about many things as a parent, but I was completely certain that no child had ever been harmed by gazing at a boob.
    On rare occasions, Jonas would ask me to pick the movie. Those times, I'd take him to a film at the university or to a theater playing classics I'd really liked--movies I wanted to share with him. He had loved The Sting. And the first Indiana Jones. The Great Escape. The Godfather. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. He'd thought Bridge on the River Kwai was "weak." I defended it, but I couldn't bring him around to my way of thinking.
    I had no idea what that afternoon's choice would bring.
    But first I had that meeting with Raoul. He had an investment opportunity he wanted Lauren and me to consider. Something about Walnut.

8
    L auren called me into our bedroom while the kids