Free Against The Odds (Anna Dawson #1) by Mara Jacobs

pouring a cup. “Cream? Sugar?” he asked Ben over his shoulder.
    “Black,” both Ben and I said at the same time. The man didn’t turn to me; he must have heard the detective in the hall addressing me. But Ben looked up, relief rushing across his face, his hand reaching for me.
    I went and sat in the seat next to him, clasping his cold hand in mine. The other man sat Ben’s coffee down in front of him. “Coffee?” he asked me.
    “No, thank you.”
    “Ms. Dawson, this is my partner, Detective Frank Botz.”
    He leaned across the table and held out his hand. “Ma’am,” he said.  
The ma’am made me feel ancient even though he had to be in his fifties. He had thinning hair and a bit of a gut that pulled his shirt slightly at the buttons. There was a stain on his Betty Boop tie that looked like mustard.
    His eyes were kind, his small smile of greeting was warm, and his face was lined at his eyes and the corner of his mouth like he laughed a lot.
    “Detective,” I said, shaking his hand with my free one—Ben still clung to my left.
    “We’ve had a change in plans,” Jack Schiller said.
      “Oh?” I said, trying to sound calm, but all I could think of was Lorelei’s phone call about the boys. Did Ben now have to identify four bodies?
    Ben’s hand tightened on mine. Was he wondering the same thing? I squeezed his hand, trying to send strength. Or maybe trying to receive it.
    “We don’t need you to identify the body any longer, sir. But you’re welcome to view it if you’d like.”
    Ben looked to me. “Do you want to, Ben?” I asked quietly.
    He thought for a moment then softly nodded. “Yes. Yes, I want to see my friend. I need to see my Danny.”
    I nodded, understanding. “Why don’t you need Ben anymore?” I asked the detectives.
    “Somebody else was able to make a positive ID,” Detective Botz said.
    Just as Ben and I both asked, “Who?” Detective Schiller asked, “How long have you known Mr. O’Hern, Mr. Lowenstein?”
    He didn’t seem to acknowledge our question, just waited for Ben’s answer.
    “I’ve known Danny O’Hern for over forty years,” Ben said with something like pride in his voice. “A kinder, sweeter man you’d never meet.”
    Detective Schiller took a seat at the table, directly across from Ben and to my right. Detective Botz went back to the wall and leaned against the sideboard. He pulled a notebook out of his suit pocket.  
    In my foggy mind I found it odd and slightly amusing that he used the same kind of notebook Ben did—all the boys did—to make book.
    He wrote something in it, then folded his arms across his chest and looked at Detective Schiller, giving him just the slightest of nods. Detective Schiller turned back to us.  
    Something about their movements seemed so practiced, as if they’d done this over and over.
    Suddenly a shiver of fear went through me. These were homicide detectives and this was some kind of make-shift interrogation room.
    “Why are you—” But again, before I could get my question answered—or even asked this time—Detective Schiller said, “Is that a bit of New York accent I detect, Mr. Lowenstein?”
    “Bronx,” Ben said, pride definitely in his voice now.
    “Did you know Mr. O’Hern in New York?”
    “No. No. I didn’t meet Danny until I was out here. I’ve been here for over sixty years, but I guess I still have a bit of the old neighborhood in me.”
    “Nothing wrong with that,” Detective Botz said, heavy on an accent of his own which I hadn’t noticed until now.
    “Philly?” Ben said to the man who chuckled.
    “That’s right. Good ear. You spend much time in Philly, Mr. Lowenstein? Or Pennsylvania at all?”
    “No. None. I just have an ear for accents. And around here, sooner or later you hear all of them.”
    “Mr. O’Hern? He was from the East Coast, too, originally?” Detective Schiller asked, drawing Ben’s attention back to him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Detective Botz write