The Witness

father brought home at least twice a week.
    Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.
    “No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.
    He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.
    The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft yellow.
    He could smell fresh bread, and the allure of whatever she stirred on the stove while she sang along with Fergie. She gave Fergie a run for her money, Brooks thought.
    As far as he was concerned, his mother could do damn near anything, and everything.
    She had her hair, a gold-streaked brown, braided down her back, with silver beads dangling from her ears. Her bare feet tapped to the beat.
    A peace symbol tattoo on her right ankle announced her sixties sensibilities.
    “Hello, gorgeous.”
    She gasped, then turned around with a laugh, eyes warm and brown. “Hi, handsome. I didn’t hear you come in.”
    “You can’t hear anything. How many times do I have to tell you kids to keep the music down?”
    “It helps the creative process.” But she picked up a remote and muffled Fergie. “What’s up with you?”
    “This and that. Where’s Dad?”
    “He had a meeting with parents. He’ll be home soon. Stay for dinner?”
    “Whatcha got?”
    “Minestrone, rosemary bread and a field-greens salad.”
    “I’m in.” He opened the fridge, got out a beer, waggled it.
    “Well, if you insist.”
    “I do.” He got out a second beer, opened them both.
    “Now.” She gave him a little poke in the belly. “What’s up? I know your face.”
    “You gave it to me.”
    “And a fine job I did. You got troubles, sweetie?”
    “Not really. Sylbie came by the station this afternoon.”
    She took a swallow of beer. “Mmmm.”
    “And I know your mmmms. She wanted to hook up tonight.”
    “Yet here you are in your mother’s kitchen, opting for minestrone over sex.”
    “You make really good minestrone. I lied to her.”
    “And you are that rare creature, an honest cop.”
    Now he poked her. “You’re just holding on to your flower child’s disdain for authority. Anyway, it’s one thing to lie to a suspect, that’s the job. It’s another just to lie. I don’t like it.”
    “I know. Why did you?”
    “To avoid a scene, I guess, which is just stupid, as it’s just postponingit. I don’t want to go back to high school. Been there, done that, got the letter jacket. And she doesn’t want me; she wants somebody. The sex is really good, but nothing else is.”
    “So you’re looking for more than sex.” Sunny wiped an imaginary tear away. “My boy’s growing up.”
    “Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want it with Sylbie. I’m hoping for the easy way. Somebody else catches her eye and she loses interest.”
    “I thought you didn’t want to go back to high school.”
    “Yeah. I know I’ve got to fix it, and I should have when she came in today. Pisses me off that I didn’t. So I will.”
    “Good. She’s not a happy woman, Brooks. She equates her worth with her looks and sexuality, and she won’t be happy until she doesn’t. I think she could be happy, and make someone happy, once she realizes she has more to offer. You just remember you can fix the problem, but you can’t fix her.”
    “You’re right. I’ll work on it.”
    “Now, what else. Something else in there.” She tapped his temple.
    “I met, officially, Abigail Lowery today.”
    “Oh, now, this is good. This is sit-down-and-relate-every-detail good.” She settled down at the breakfast counter, patted the next stool. “I’ve been dying to pin that one down. What’s she like?”
    “At first I’d’ve said rude, abrupt and downright unfriendly, but with a little more exposure, I have to put it down to socially awkward.”
    “Poor thing.”
    “The poor thing carries a Glock on her hip to