Ant Farm (A Seamus McCree Mystery)

Chapter 3

“Before we finish,” I said, “there’s something else I need to talk with you about.”

“Pray tell?”

In a one-breath burst, I told him about Skyler Weaver and how Lt. Hastings had surprised me by agreeing to meet before I had a chance to pass it by him. When I came up for air, his only comment was that he would await contact from the Cincinnati Police Department before considering the issue further. I figured he thought the chances were too small to waste his time over. I apologized again, thanked him, and signed off.

Because I was one of two people in the world without call waiting—I never understood the reason to put on hold someone I wanted to talk with in order to answer a call from someone I might not want to talk with—I checked to make sure Paddy hadn’t called while I was talking with Rand. He hadn’t. I considered calling him again, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Paddy knew how to check his voicemail. Instead I called Wright.

“Detective Wright.” His voice rumbled, low and gravelly. Abraded vocal chords from twenty years of cigarette smoke? I introduced myself.

“Shay-mus?” he said. “That’s how you pronounce it?”

“I thought about changing it to Bob, but I never got around to it.”

I had hoped for a chuckle. Instead I sensed anger in his statement, “Tell me what you’re gonna do to help me.”

Having CIG’s help was clearly not Wright’s idea. “Until we talk,” I said. “I honestly don’t know. How about I drive up from Cincinnati tomorrow? Whenever’s good. We can discuss your case and how CIG might assist.”

He gave me directions to Sue’s Home Cooking, where he agreed to meet for breakfast. He wanted to “get it out of the way before he started his workday.”

I had between now and tomorrow morning to worry about how I could disarm land mine number one without blowing me or CIG up in the process.

I checked voicemail: still nothing from Paddy.

 ◊◊◊ 

The unique clatter of Paddy’s Civic pulling into my driveway clued me in that my son was visiting. Once out of the car, he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, stretching muscles and showing off his well-developed pecs. We’re the same height and had weighed the same 185 pounds until he traded soccer for crew. Rowing added fifteen pounds and filled out his lithe frame with practiced muscle.

“This is a surprise,” I said, rushing out to meet him. “You look great.” We embraced in a quick squeeze and multiple back slaps. Slapping his back was like patting a pommel horse. Never had my muscles felt that strong.

“You don’t look bad yourself ... for a relic from the Mesozoic Era.”

“So now you think I lived with the dinosaurs? I returned your call. I assume it was to tell me you were coming? How long are you here for?”

He shrugged. “Probably until school starts.”

“Really? I don’t have food for you and—we have stores. I can get some. It’s been a while since we’ve had much time together.” I blathered away to cover my concern about why he was here instead of at his mother’s.

Paddy grabbed two plastic bins containing his clothes and personal items. Two cats tumbled out and followed their Pied Piper into the house. I brought up the rear with a litter box, food dish, and cat food. In our second trip, we emptied the trunk of a laptop, color printer, scanner, and four speakers—better quality than those in my stereo system—and settled everything into his bedroom on the second floor.