Justice(64)

I rest my head against the cool window, watching my city go by. The airport is on the mouth of the river where it meets the ocean, though Justin has his own hangar across the street from the real airport. To my left is the urban jungle, to my right the dark water of the Andalucía River with huge boats parked at the docks. Longshoremen in yellow hard hats unload crates with cranes and mill around chanting to their colleagues and drinking coffee. In the distance, a line of trucks wait to leave the port terminal. Overhead planes begin the descent, engines roaring. If I didn’t already have a headache, the noise alone would give me one. Lucy presses her temples to help assuage hers. What a pair we are. Justin would be better off with a hyena to comfort him.

Dobbs pulls into the private airport with my police escort following behind. The guard at the gate lets us pass. Justin does a lot of traveling and gives a mean Christmas bonus, so they all know the car. The rich people airport, as I think of it, is nothing more than five hangars, two air strips, a small terminal where they bring your plane to the door, and tiny access roads. Normally we’d wait at the terminal, but since the plane’s only here to refuel we drive toward the hangar itself. It’s fairly deserted except for the fuel trucks, tiny prop planes, and bigger private jets scattered around with mechanics tinkering on them. The hangar that Justin shares with the Pickering and Lockwood’s is the last on the tarmac. We’re just in time as Justin’s jet lands when we pull in.

“Should I tell him or do you want to?” I ask Lucy.

She takes off her sunglasses, revealing red eyes. “Want is in no way is associated with this endeavor.” She places the glasses into their case. “We’ll play it by ear.” Dobbs opens Lucy’s door, but I don’t wait for him.

This isn’t the first death notification I’ve done. They come with the job. Ask any officer what their least favorite part of the job is, and they’ll say death notification. You become the most important person in the worst day of their life. Some people burst into hysterical tears. Some throw things. Some just stare blankly as if you’re speaking a foreign language. You never can tell.

I remember my first. It was around three in the morning when I heard the knock on our apartment door. At first I thought it was Mom in the kitchen looking for another bottle, but the second knock woke me fully. I got up thinking Pop had forgotten his keys, but when I saw the two officers in the hall my stomach dropped. I’d seen enough detective shows to know something bad had happened. The patrolmen were both young, early twenties if that, and visibly uncomfortable. Sands and Webb were their names. I made it a point to remember them in case they were lying. I’d sue their butts if they were. I was grasping at straws, working very damn hard at denial at that moment. When I joined the force I sought them out. Sands had quit, but Webb was a fraud detective. He remembered me after a little prompting. Like I said, it’s hard to forget your first notification.

Sands, the taller of the two, asked if my mother was home. Too stunned to talk back, I ran into her bedroom. Mom was asleep, or should I say passed out on the top of the bed. I shook her for a few seconds to no avail. She’d fallen off the wagon a week before for no conceivable reason, and would never climb back on again. This was an especially bad night for her. Pop threatened to leave her, taking me with him, if she didn’t start attending meetings again. I was overjoyed. We’d finally be free of her drama and bullshit. Before I went to bed I got the newspaper and began circling possible apartments we could move into.

After slapping her face, she jerked awake. I told her the police wanted her. Still half asleep and drunk, she stumbled to the front door. The officers exchanged a glance, one I’d seen on neighbors and family members’ faces when she was like this. They asked if she was Maeve Fallon, wife of Sean Fallon. When she asked why, they ignored her, asking if there was anyone else at home. I found out later this is standard in case one person flips out, there’s another there to calm or comfort her. Otherwise the officers could be there for hours, especially with a fainter. Mom said no. Having no choice, they told us what happened. Pop was shot three blocks from the apartment in an apparent robbery.

“I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”

Mom clutched her stomach as if stabbed, gasping and doubling over. The officers helped her to the couch as she burst into tears and wasn’t able to stand on her own anymore. Until that moment I thought she hated him. They fought constantly, especially after she’d been drinking. I can count on one hand the times I saw them be loving to each other or even hug. I think the only reason they married was because of me. But in her way she loved him. After his death she never seriously dated, instead choosing one night stands with other alcoholics. She was so distraught she couldn’t even handle the funeral arrangements.