Free The Judas Glass by Michael Cadnum

jewelry she ever wore.”
    It was a nugget of silver. Unrecognizable. My gift to Rebecca was distorted, destroyed. But at the same time it still existed, was still what it always had been. Only the craftsmanship, the hand-worked echo of nature, was gone.
    â€œI want you to keep it,” I said.
    I wondered if this was something he would understand. Some people would be greedy for a lump of precious silver, others indifferent to it.
    â€œShe was nervous about the recording studio,” he said at last. “She said she had a friend who would be there to give her confidence.” He opened the car door, and got in. He put the gnarl of silver on the passenger seat beside him.
    The Berkeley Police Department is housed in what looks like a prefabricated office building with dozens of windows. You can look in and see nothing of interest, and the cops can look out and see the busy traffic of Martin Luther King Junior Way. In the park across the street there were so many drug arrests the police had almost surrendered, turning to handing out leaflets warning about the dangers of dirty needles.
    Chief of Police Joe Timm was coming down the stairs, laughing. When he saw me he walked toward me, his arms spread. He hugged me, hard. The man had been a quarterback for Cal, and had played twelve years for Saskatchewan in the CFL. He squeezed most of the breath from my body.
    â€œThank God you’re all right,” said Joe.
    â€œTell me everything you can about the Pennant case,” I said, aware that I sounded like someone in a detective movie. Just the facts .
    â€œWe’ll find him. And I’m sorry about your personal bad news. I was reading her obituary—”
    â€œHe’ll do it again,” I said.
    He crinkled his nose dismissively. “We think he was probably someone she knew—”
    â€œMaybe her brother. Maybe her father. Maybe I’m still a suspect.”
    Joe shook his head. “Someone from her past,” he said.
    â€œIt’s not a matter of building more gas chambers, Joe. And it’s not a matter of making sure everyone has an AK-47 under their bed, either.”
    He turned to gesture to his two companions: this would only take a minute. Then he turned to me, and his full attention was a little fearsome. “What do you suggest, Counselor?”
    â€œTell me what I can do,” I said.
    He spoke without any conviction. “You can sit down with a detective and tell us everything you know about her past. Old boyfriends, maybe even an ex-husband.”
    There was so much I didn’t know about Rebecca, and would never know. “This is just going be another open case, until nobody cares about it any more.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do, Richard?” he asked gently. “Find this guy all by yourself?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    We both laughed, without any humor. Timm had a Ph.D. in Criminology, and as a former athlete had an undeniable macho edge over me. “Was that why you were tampering with the site of the crime?”
    â€œHow is that patio of yours?” I asked. There is nothing quite so effective as an oblique response.
    He leaned against the banister. “Cracked.”
    â€œOf course it’s cracked. Why do you think most people put in redwood decks? You put in concrete slab patio and the earth’s movement jams the patio against the foundation. You get cracks, you get spalling. You still have a lawsuit, Joe. The contractor should have known all the real estate in the hills is slowly moving northwest, maybe an inch every three years. That patio is just a big unreinforced pudding. You were what we call in legal terms cheated.”
    â€œMaybe, but what are they going to do, tear up all that cement?”
    Why not, I nearly said, but then I thought about it. I imagined jackhammers in the Chief’s Japanese garden, boots and hard-hats among his bonsai maples. “If that’s what you want.”
    â€œMy wife