“Weren’t a lot of people there, considering all the Judge’s criming,” Bible said. “But Judith’s friends from art school showed up by the boatload. Damn, those people can drink.”
Andrea smiled. Drinking was in fact the only reason to go to art school.
She asked, “Did she talk about what happened with Nardo and Ricky?”
“Well, Judith, she’s a practical lady,” Bible said. “Not much of a surprise that her father was a bad man. As for Ricky—you know, I got no idea. Judith is glad the ol’ gal’s copped a plea and is going to prison for the rest of her life. I think it gave Esther some peace to finally know. And if Esther was happy, then that usually means Judith was happy.”
Andrea thought that sounded a lot like Judith. For all of Judge Esther Vaughn’s indomitable, intimidating, illegal activity, she had always loved Judith. At her core, she had been nothing more than a lost old woman whose daughter was murdered and whose husband used to beat her.
“Partner, you should’a seen the spread they laid out. You ever had hasty pudding? It was the judge’s favorite.”
Andrea only knew about it from the worst ear-worm song ever. “What makes it hasty?”
“Hell if I know. Probably named after some Yankee farmer who liked pudding,” Bible said. “Tell you what, I hoovered up so much of that stuff I’m gonna have to give up bread for the rest of the month. You know what they say—”
“The skinny Marshals love their wives,” Andrea finished. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”
Bible chuckled. “You know they make you take that physical fitness test once a year. Used to be they could fire you if you got a little on the tubby side. They can’t do that anymore on account of it being discrimination, so now if you pass the test, you get two weeks off to spend with your beautiful wife. Or husband, if that’s the case.”
The inducement sounded familiar. Gordon had created a PowerPoint presentation to highlight important details from the USMS employee handbook. Andrea’s only response had been that Citibank would probably take her last student loan payment out of her burial insurance.
“Hey, partner,” Bible said. “You good?”
“I’m good,” Andrea said, though she wouldn’t be completely good until Dean Wexler’s deal was signed off and the psychopath was in prison.
They couldn’t prove he’d done anything to Emily Vaughn. Fortunately, tax fraud, tax evasion, wire fraud and various other tax-adjacent crimes were crimes that the United States government took very seriously. The best deal Wexler could get was twenty-five years in a federal prison. He was sixty-five years old. Even with good behavior, by the time he got out, Wexler would be in his eighties.
Andrea had been glad to hear that part of the agreement ensured that he wouldn’t end up in a cushy Club Fed the same as Clay Morrow had. Wexler would serve his time at FCI Berlin in New Hampshire, a medium-security institute with dormitory housing and a nationwide federal staffing crisis that made everything more dangerous. Wexler would have to wear a prison uniform, mop the floor and clean his own toilet, subsist on processed foods, wake at 6 every morning and have his bed made by 7:30. All his mail would be screened. His phone calls would be recorded. His visitation would be limited. Nothing he had would be his own, not even his free time.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
The only consolation Andrea could give herself was to remember Wexler’s happy pronouncement while they were riding in his old Ford truck the day that Alice Poulsen’s body had been found. Wexler was bragging about how charmed his life had become after leaving his teaching position. If life really did make you pay for your personality, Dean Wexler would never raise his eyes and see an endless expanse of sky ever again.
Andrea cleared her throat. She got to the hard part. “How are the girls doing?”
“The girls,” Bible repeated. This part was hard for him, too. Every other day, they talked about whatever assignment they were doing and the weather forecast and Cussy and the boss, but eventually, always, they got back to the girls on the farm.
After Wexler’s arrest, ambulances had been on standby to take the girls to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Only three of the twelve had accepted the offer. One of them had passed away after failing to thrive. One had walked out of the hospital. The other was so malnourished that an expert from the CDC had been called in to manage her care.
Star Bonaire had rallied the remaining volunteers. She had somehow become their de facto leader. They were at the courthouse every time Wexler made an appearance. When he was taken back to jail, they would return to their own prison at the farm.
Bible said, “You know, Cussy, my wife, she was over there this morning with Melody Brickel talking to Star. They were letting the girls know they got options when the government finally seizes the place. A group home, maybe, or they all got family somewhere. The Boss says she and Melody are banging their heads against the wall trying to get through to them, but I think it makes ’em feel better.”
“I’m sure it does.” Andrea heard footsteps on the stairs.
Mike held up a bottle of wine.
“Sorry, Bible. I need to go. Take care of your hand, bird brain.”
“Aw, don’t make another parakeet joke, partner. That’s a cheep shot.”
Andrea laughed as she hung up. Mike sat behind her on the stairs. She leaned against his leg as she looked up at him. “Mom and Gordon are unpacking my books.”
Mike looked wary. “How’s that going?”
“Gordon offered to make a spreadsheet. There’s already been a heated discussion about whether to alphabetize or group by section.”
“They ask your opinion?”
“Nope.”
“You gonna organize them by color once they’re gone?”
“Yep.” She kissed him on the mouth. Her fingers scratched into his beard. She playfully tugged at his cheek. “Don’t fuck with my mom.”
“Baby, you know I would never do that.”
Andrea knew he would do exactly that, but there was no reason to delay the inevitable.
The motion detectors triggered the lights as they walked down the long hallway. Her new apartment was smaller than her previous one, but at least it wasn’t above her mother’s garage. It wasn’t above anything. Andrea had only been able to afford a basement unit in SOBO, which was what the locals called South Baltimore. The landlord had cut the rent when she’d found out that Andrea was a Marshal. Even with that, Andrea was going to be eating ramen noodles until she collected social security. If social security still existed when she was finally able to retire.
Andrea shot Mike a final look of warning as she opened the door.
He saw her parents and said, “Oh, look, Mom and Dad are here.”
Laura clutched a book in her hands.
Gordon cleared his throat.
Mike plastered on his stupid grin as he walked around the room. “Nice place you got here, Andy. This is clearly the first time I am seeing it and I have no idea where the bedroom is.”
Laura’s nostrils flared.
Gordon cleared his throat again.
Andrea grabbed the bottle of wine. She couldn’t do this without alcohol.
Her tiny kitchen was just off the living room and backed up to her even tinier bedroom. The bathroom was so narrow that the door scraped the toilet. She had exactly three windows. The one over the kitchen sink was long and skinny and offered a prime view of the footwear worn by the people traversing the sidewalk on the other side.