The Bodies Left Behind

politician killed himself.
    “Then,” the labor boss continued, “she had another case that was curious.” A glance at Jasons, the king of information and sources, apparently.
    He said, “A products liability case involving a new hybrid car. A driver was electrocuted. The man’s family sued Emma Feldman’s client, a company in Kenosha. They made the generator or electrical system or something. She was hard at work on the case but then all the files were pulled and nobody heard anything more about it.”
    A dangerously defective hybrid? Something you didn’t hear about much. In fact, never. There’d certainly be big money involved. She’d found something she shouldn’t’ve?
    Maybe.
    And Kenosha rang a bell. . . . She’d have to look at her notes from the past few weeks. A call to be returned. Somebody was interested in some of Emma Feldman’s files. Somebody named Sheridan.
    Mankewitz continued, “But we couldn’t come up with any particular leads. You’re on your own now.” He waved for the check, paid, nodding at Brynn’s unfinished soup. “I didn’t pay for that. Appearance of impropriety, you know.” He pulled his coat on.
    The associate remained sitting but he fished a business card from his pocket. It contained only a name and phone number. She wondered if the name was real. He said, “If you need me for anything, if I can be of any more help, please call. It’s a voice mail only. But I’ll get right back to you.”
    Brynn nodded. “Thank you,” she said again to both men, tapping her backpack.
    “Think about what I told you,” Mankewitz said. “Seems like you and the FBI and everybody else’s been looking in the wrong place.”
    “Or,” the skinny man said, sipping from his glass as if the soda were a vintage wine, “looking for the wrong who.”

    THE POLICE LINE bunting on the front porch had come undone; it wagged like a bony yellow finger in the breeze.
    Brynn hadn’t been back to the Feldmans’ vacation house on Lake View Drive since that night, now almost three weeks ago. Oddly, in the afternoon daylight, the house looked starker than it had then. The paint was uneven and peeling in many places. The angles sharp. The shutters and trim unpleasing black.
    She walked to the place where she’d stood beside her car, nearly hyperventilating with terror, in a shootingstance, waiting for Hart to rise from the bushes and present a target.
    From that memory, her thoughts slipped back naturally to the school counselor’s report that Mankewitz had given her, now indeed both shredded and burned in the backyard barbecue. The counselor had transcribed the incident pretty much the way it happened.
    The night was also in April, curiously. She pictured herself blinking in horror as Keith, just home from a long day of patrol, sat at the kitchen table and his anger slowly unraveled. She didn’t know what had sparked the outburst; often, she couldn’t remember. Something about their taxes and money. Maybe she’d misplaced some receipts.
    Small. It was usually something small.
    But the incident had escalated fast. Keith, getting that crazed look in his eyes, so terrifying. Possessed. His voice was low at first, then cracking, rising to a scream. Brynn had said the worst thing she could: “Calm down. It’s no big deal.”
    “I’m the one who’s been working on it all day! Where’ve you been? Handing out parking tickets?”
    “Calm down,” she’d snapped back, even as her heart stuttered and she found her hand protecting her jaw.
    Then he’d snapped. He’d leapt up, kicking the table over, tax forms and receipts flying through the air, and charged her, beer bottle in hand. She’d pushed him away, hard, and he’d grabbed her by the hair and muscled her to the floor. They’d grappled, knocking chairs aside. He’d dragged her toward him, balling his fist up.
    Screaming, crying, “No, no, no.” Seeing his massive hand rearing back.
    And then Joey was charging into them, sobbing himself.
    “Joey! Get back,” Keith raged, intoxicated—though, as usual, not from alcohol but anger. He was completely out of control, drawing back his huge fist.
    She tried to twist away, so the terrible blow wouldn’t shatter her jaw again. Trying to protect Joey, who was stuck in the middle, screaming right along with his mother.
    “Don’t hurt Mommy!”
    Then: Crack.
    The bullet struck Keith directly in the center of the chest.
    And the boy began screaming once more. The five-year-old had