The Cradle Will Fall

Mark snagged a file folder off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car into the swirling snow. The frigid air stung his cheeks, scraped his throat like little bits of ice. The cold wind blew back the flaps of his black wool coat; frozen crystals crunched beneath his shoes as he made his way up the walk and ascended the small flight of stairs.

Stamping his feet on the welcome mat, he rang the bell. When the door swung open, it took him a second to realize the sandy-haired uniformed cop whose broad shoulders nearly blocked the entire doorway was Brandon McCall.

“Well, well, the Great Santini. I hate like hell to admit it, but it’s damn good to see you.”

Mark grinned. Of Grace’s three brothers, he had taken a special liking to Bran. “Damn good to see you, too, McCall. As much as I hate to admit it.”

Chuckling, Bran swung the door open wider and Mark stepped inside. He was instantly hit with the warm aroma of cinnamon and baking bread.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Bran asked.

“Like heaven.” Mark tucked the file folder under one arm and pulled off his gloves. He realized with a start that his mouth had begun to water, a sensation he barely remembered. Too bad his stomach could no longer deal with anything but the blandest food.

“I about fell over when Grace mentioned you were in town.” Bran took a sip of coffee from the thick-handled mug he carried. “Didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on your ugly face again.”

“I had to come back to Oklahoma City to see if you still lose every game of touch football you play,” Mark countered as he shrugged out of his coat.

“Typical Fed. Got nothing stored in your head but useless information.” A smirk tipped up the right corner of Bran’s mouth as he examined Mark’s gray silk suit. “I see you’re still wearing those pretty-boy suits and ties.”

Mark sent a pointed look at Bran’s sharply pressed gray uniform shirt and navy pants. His leather gun belt had a polished gleam, and the silver lieutenant bars on his collar points shone like beacons beneath the light. “At least one of us looks good while fighting crime.”

Bran barked a laugh at the insult. “I would never try to compete with you in the clothing department, pal. Grace has coffee ready. We’ll drop off your coat in the living room on our way to the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

Mark trailed Bran down the wood-planked hallway, noting the rooms they passed were typical of an older house—small, with high ceilings and plenty of tall, narrow windows that let in the hazy winter light.

Bran paused at an arched doorway. “Just toss your coat over the couch.”

Mark stepped into the room filled with furniture upholstered in calming neutral tones. The wood was dark and polished, the accent pieces in shades of deep rose and smoky gray. Lush green plants speared out of colorful pots that sat on tables and the floor. Across the room a towering Christmas tree wrapped with twinkling white lights and tinsel filled one corner. Packages tied with red and gold satin ribbons pooled beneath its branches.

Mark stared at the tree. His mother had never bothered with Christmas decorations. Or presents. Not when buying them would cut into the money she spent on her precious booze. Even after he bought his condo in Virginia, he’d never once considered putting up a tree. No reason to, since he spent most Christmases at locations where crimes had occurred.

Mark laid his coat over the couch’s back. Nearly a year ago, Bran had e-mailed him with news that he had eloped with a private investigator. Mark was about to ask Bran how married life was treating him when he noted the folded quilt and bed pillow sitting on one of the cushions. A paperback by an author whose books he remembered Bran liked lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. Mark narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the cars he’d seen parked in the driveway. The OCPD black-and-white had the same amount of snow covering it as the other three cars. Which meant it had been parked there all night. Since it looked as though Bran had sacked out on the couch, asking about his wife probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

“Nice house,” Mark commented instead.

“Yeah,” Bran agreed. “Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it was a dump when Carrie and Morgan bought it.”

“I thought this was Grace’s place, too.”

“Not originally. Carrie and Morgan bought it the day before Ry got killed.” Bran angled his chin. “You ever meet Ryan Fox while you worked here?”

“No. I understand he was a good cop.”

“One of the best.” Bran’s expression darkened, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Grace found him just seconds after that drugged-up car thief shot him. It about killed her when she lost Ry and…” He closed his eyes. “Anyway, Grace sold the house they owned, and bought into this one. Renovating the place turned into a project for the entire family. Did us all good to spend that time together.”

Family. Mark had never fully understood the depths of that kind of bond, but he’d witnessed the strength of the link that existed between the McCalls.

Bran checked his watch. “Wish I wasn’t in a rush, but I have to make lineup at eight. I want to grab one of Morgan’s cinnamon rolls to take with me.”

He led Mark past a small dining room, turned left when they reached a steep wooden staircase at the end of the hall, then stepped into the kitchen where copper pots and pans hung on a rack over a small butcher-block island. Gray slate topped the counters; small pots of what Mark guessed were herbs lined the windowsill. Beyond the wide pane of glass, powdery flakes swirled in the gray morning light.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just as Grace stepped through a doorway on the opposite wall. She wore a snug cherry-red sweater, pegged black trousers and practical low-heeled boots. A gold badge and holstered Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic were clipped to her waistband. Her sleek, shoulder-length hair, now devoid of yesterday’s gray streaks, looked as black and shiny as the satin lapel of a tuxedo.

“Morning, Mark.” Her voice sounded the way he knew her flesh felt—warm and comforting, like water over a smooth stone.

“Morning.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the long-legged stools on one side of the island where an oversize poinsettia bloomed in a brightly painted pot. He noted that her stunned look of yesterday was gone; now she gazed at him with dark eyes as calm as a convent.

“Thanks.” He settled onto a stool while Bran drained his coffee mug, then reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a cinnamon roll the size of a manhole cover.

“Want one?” he asked Mark. “They’re fresh out of the oven.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” Bran dropped a kiss on the top of Grace’s head. “Thanks, sis. Tell Carrie and Morgan I’ll see them later.”

“Sure.” When Grace looked up at her brother, Mark saw the quick shadow that passed across her face. “You’ll take care of yourself?”

Bran tweaked her chin. “I promise to eat my vegetables, Mom.”

“You’re a good son,” she said sweetly even as she jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

Grinning, Bran turned and gripped Mark’s hand. “How long you planning to be here?”

“That depends on what Grace and I find out today. I’m just not sure.”

“Let’s try to squeeze in time to grab a beer while you’re here.”

“You’re on,” Mark said, then watched Bran head out of the kitchen. He looked back at Grace. The shadow that had crossed her face had settled in her eyes. “I get the distinct impression you’re worried about your brother.”

“I am. He and Tory split up before Thanksgiving. Bran puts up a good front, but inside he isn’t handling things too well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Bran sent me an e-mail to let me know he’d remarried.” Mark paused, thinking about Bran’s shy, unassuming first wife who’d died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. “Is Tory anything like Patience?”

“The exact opposite. Which I suspect is one of the problems with the marriage.” Grace picked up a dish towel, laid it back down. “Bran rented this god-awful apartment. Has electric-blue paint on the walls, green wall-to-wall shag and day-glo orange countertops. He wakes up in that place with a hangover, the glare will kill him. The only furniture he has is a bed, a ratty recliner and a TV.”

“Maybe he’s hoping it’s all temporary. That he and Tory will get back together soon.”

“That’s what we’re all hoping.” Grace raised a shoulder. “I keep an eye on him, try to make sure he eats right, but it’s a losing battle.”

Mark rested his forearms on the counter. “I see you’re still looking out for everyone.”

Her mouth tightened as she stared at the door through which Bran had disappeared. “Not the easiest thing to do when you’re dealing with a man who’s a blockhead.” She pulled a mug out of one of the cabinets, then looked back at Mark. “Coffee?”

“Actually, I’m more into tea these days,” he said as he reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat.