By nine-thirty, folding chairs were stacked against the community center wall and volunteers were carrying tablecloths into plastic storage tubs.
I stayed to help.
Partly because Denise needed the help.
Partly because going home meant thinking.
Samuel Reed stayed too.
So did Walt.
The two veterans had apparently discovered they knew three people in common and were now comparing assignments from decades apart as though solving a complicated family tree.
I was carrying a box of auction programs when Samuel caught up with me.
“Did I make things worse?”
“By recognizing me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Mercer used to talk about you.”
“That worries me.”
“It should.”
I smiled.
Samuel took the box from me.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
We carried it toward the supply room.
“What did he say?”
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Samuel thought about it.
“He said you were stubborn.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He said you asked better questions than most officers he knew.”
“That sounds less like him.”
“And he said you once talked an entire room out of making a bad decision by refusing to raise your voice.”
I stopped.
“When?”
Samuel smiled.
“He never said.”
“That story sounds suspiciously improved with age.”
