River’s End

This time when that image tried to form, he blocked it out. He couldn’t, and wouldn’
    t, channel his work because of a blighted love affair.
    An exclusive series of interviews with Sam Tanner. They’d have to be exclusive, Noah thought as he got to his feet to pace. He was going to make that a condition from the get-go.
    He’d need a list of everyone involved, even peripherally. Family, friends, employees, associates. Excitement pumped through his blood as he began to outline his research strategy. Court transcripts. Maybe he could track down some of the members of the jury. Police reports.
    The thought of that brought him up short. His father. He wasn’t at all sure his father was going to be happy with the idea.
    He headed to the shower to clean up. And to give himself time to think. The Brady house hadn’t changed a great deal over the years. It was still the same pale rose stucco, the lawn nicely mowed and the flowers on the edge of death. Since his father had retired from the force the year before, he’d piddled with a variety of hobbies including golf, photography, woodworking and cooking. He’d decided he hated golf after the first nine holes. He’d also decided that he had no eye for photography, no affinity for wood and no skill in the kitchen. Six months after his retirement, Celia sat him down, told him she loved him more than she had the day they’d married. And if he didn’t find something to do and get out of her house she was going to kill him in his sleep.
    The local youth center saved his life and his marriage. Most afternoons he could be found there, coaching the kids on the basketball court as he’d once coached his son, listening to their complaints and triumphs and breaking up the inevitable fights and squabbles.
    Mornings, after Celia had gone off to work, he spent puttering, doing crosswords or sitting in the backyard reading one of the paperback mystery novels he’d become addicted to since murder was no longer a part of his daily routine. That’s where Noah found him, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he relaxed in a lawn chair under a stingy patch of shade.
    He wore jeans, ancient sneakers and a comfortably wrinkled cotton shirt. His hair had gone a shimmering pewter gray but remained full and thick.
    “Do you know how hard it is to kill geraniums?” Noah glanced at the withered pink blooms struggling along the back deck. “It almost has to be premeditated.”
    “You’ll never convict me.” Pleased to see his son, Frank set aside the latest John Sandford novel.
    Merely shaking his head, Noah unwound the hose, switched it on and gave the desperate flowers another shot at life.
    “Didn’t expect to see you until Sunday.”
    “Sunday?”
    “Your mother’s birthday.” Frank narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t forget?”
    “No. I’ve already got her present. It’s a wolf.” He turned his head to grin. “Don’t panic, she doesn’t get to keep it here. She gets to adopt one in the wild, and they keep tabs on it for her. I figured she’d go for that—and the earrings I picked up.”
    “Show-off,” Frank grumbled and crossed his feet at the ankles. “You’re still going out to dinner with us Sunday, though?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it.”
    “You can bring that girl if you want, the one you’ve been seeing.”
    “That would be Caryn, who just left me a message on my machine calling me a pig. I
    ’m steering clear of her.”
    “Good. Your mother didn’t like her.”
    “She only met her once.”
    “Didn’t like her. ‘Shallow,’ ‘snooty,’ ‘stupid’ I believe were the three words she used.”
    “It’s annoying how she’s always right.” Satisfied the geraniums would live another day, Noah turned off the hose and began to wind it back on its wheel. Frank said nothing for a moment, just watched while his son carefully aligned the hose. Carefully enough to make Frank’s lips twitch. “You know, I was a pretty good detective. I don’t think you came here to water my flowers.”
    When he couldn’t use the hose to stall any longer, Noah slid his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I got a letter this morning. Guy in San Quentin wants me to tell his story.”
    “And?” Frank raised his eyebrows. “You get fairly regular correspondence from criminals these days, don’t you?”
    “Yeah, most of it’s useless. But I’m interested in this case. Been interested in it for a while.” He took off his sunglasses, met his