Page 63 of The Family Cross

“He’d get hammered and curse God and everyone who believed in Jesus. All Christians, you know.”

“I get it,” I said, thinking about Dylan Sentinel. “Have you ever seen Choir Boy get violent?”

“Saw the son of a bitch when he was on a bender damn near kick a dog to death because it knocked over his booze and stole some food,” O’Hare said. “He did not care, that’s how low he goes. You’ll see what he’s like.”

Sampson said, “You know where we can find him?”

The man smiled. “I know where he’ll be right before six o’clock. Would that information help square things between us, Detectives?”

“Depends on how good your information is.”

“Man, I would not steer you wrong. Ask around. I’m a straight shooter.”

I fought the urge to look back at Boog, who’d given us a different appraisal of the vet. “Where will Choir Boy be just before six?”

“Where he always is at that time on Tuesday,” O’Hare said. “Outside St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, waiting for them to open. It’s lasagna night, and he loves that lasagna almost as much as he loved that Corey girl.”

56

I CHECKED MY WATCH. It was a quarter past one.

Colin O’Hare was right about several things. The doors at St. Anthony’s kitchen opened for evening meals at six on the dot. And Tuesday night was always lasagna made by Lorraine and Stella D’Angelo, Italian twin sisters in the parish, and it was very, very good. Even Nana Mama thought so. She had tried to pry the recipe out of them, to no avail; all they said was “It’s a secret.”

My phone alarm went off. I pulled out my cell, puzzled, then remembered that my track-star daughter had a meet coming up.

“Jannie’s race is starting soon,” I said to Sampson. “Shall we let him walk?”

“C’mon, I just put Choir Boy in your lap,” O’Hare said to Sampson.

“Tell you what,” Sampson replied. “You come meet us at St. Anthony’s at quarter of six. Point him out and we’re good. If you’re not there, we’re coming back for you.”

“I’ll be there. I like lasagna,” the vet said. “Five forty-five. See you men soon.”

He did not wait for a reply, just hurried back toward the Bridge to Nowhere. We stood there watching as he paused in front of Boog and said something to him; the teen just shrugged and balled up his McDonald’s bag.

O’Hare said something else and disappeared down the path. Sampson gave Boog a thumbs-up, and the kid hesitated and then returned it.

“Isn’t he supposed to be in school today?” I asked.

“Yep,” John replied. “I’m calling child protective services as soon as we get to your house to watch Jannie’s run.”

Twelve minutes later, we hurried up my front porch steps.

My aunts were heating up leftovers for lunch. Damon was in the kitchen on his laptop, as was Bree, who was still trying to learn more about what Frost and Lear was doing with its real estate holdings.

Sampson and I brought her up to speed on the day’s developments. “So Choir Boy is going to be at St. Anthony’s later?” she said. “Good to know.”

“Tuesday lasa,” Nana Mama croaked from her bed as I went into the great room to check on her.

“That’s right. Lasagna night at St. Anthony’s. How are you, old lady?”

“Don’t know,” she said, and I looked at the day nurses.

One of them, a tall woman named Shirley Mason, said, “She’s had a couple of spells where her heart’s gotten a little wobbly, but then she bounces back and she’s okay. Dr. Ames says that her head wound is healing beautifully, and her appetite’s strong.”

“Hungry,” Nana said. “Food.”

“Right here,” Aunt Hattie said, coming out of the kitchen with a tray. “You get a little of everything. Including the last of yesterday’s peach pie.”