Family Law by Gin Phillips (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

fault that he never had any actual news. He’d tell her that sooner or later something would likely turn up. He’d tell her to let him know if she saw any signs of trouble at home or work.

“Yes,” he said now. “I have an update. We’ve found him.”

As soon as he said it, Lucia realized she’d stopped expecting this phone call. She’d stopped even hoping for it.

“You found the shooter?” she asked.

The buzzing from the stove continued, a low steady distraction. She pressed her ear against the receiver.

“He was arrested two days ago for firing several shots at a neighbor,” Chris said. “Apparently the neighbor crossed into this man’s backyard, looking for a cat, and the man pulled out his twenty-two rifle. He clipped the neighbor in the arm. Nothing serious, but it’s still assault with a deadly weapon. The gun is the same one fired at your house.”

“You’re sure?”

“We’re sure. His name is Jerry Mackintosh.”

Lucia considered. The stove hummed along.

“He hasn’t been in town long,” Chris continued. “He moved here at the end of last year, right around the time of the shooting at your place. He rents an apartment over by Eastdale Mall. Works at AmSouth as a loan officer.”

“The name isn’t familiar,” she said.

None of it was familiar. It had occurred to Lucia, of course, that the shooter could be someone she hadn’t met, someone she’d seen only across a courtroom or as a name on a document. But she had expected the name to mean something. She’d expected that if someone ever gave her that much, she could start making sense of it all.

“Mackintosh,” repeated the lieutenant slowly, as if maybe enunciation had been the problem. “Maybe someone in his family?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I’ll check my records. I’ll check with my secretary. I’ll see if anything comes to me.”

She wasn’t sure if his next sound was a yawn or a sigh.

“We need to tie him to you, Lucia,” he said. “You know the gun isn’t enough to get a warrant. No way to prove that it hasn’t changed hands a dozen times since the shooting at your house. I’ll sit down and talk to him and see what I can get, but if he doesn’t offer up anything—you didn’t get even a glimpse of the shooter?”

“You know I didn’t.”

“After I talk to him, I’ll check back with you. We could try a photo lineup, too, and see if that sparks anything. In the meantime, you check your records, okay?”

“I will.”

“Listen,” Chris said, “he’ll likely get out on bond tomorrow, unless we magically come up with something. Since he hasn’t made any move toward you since December, I can’t imagine he’d risk coming near you now. But keep an eye out. His court date for this incident with the neighbor is set for next month. April twentieth.”

Her ear hurt from pressing it against the receiver. She switched the phone to her other ear, the cord tangling. She spun, lifting the cord over her head, and, hell, the buzzing was definitely getting louder.

“This one will likely be a felony,” Chris said. “He’s got a previous arrest for assault in Georgia. Even if we can’t make a case for the shooting at your house, he’s looking at maybe five years.”

When Lucia hung up, she stripped off her pantyhose and settled her briefcase more firmly on the counter. She should feel relief, shouldn’t she? She finally knew the gunman’s name, and he was in jail, at least for the moment, and whatever legal i’s needed to be dotted and t’s crossed, this was surely the man. If they couldn’t tie him to the crime—well, they would. They would, and even if they didn’t, the man would spend time in prison. She should feel something more than the desire to lie down and close her eyes.

She tugged at the zipper of her briefcase, which had snagged on a loose piece of paper. She worked a fingernail into the metal teeth, prying loose a Post-it note, and she scanned the few words taken down in Marissa’s neat cursive: Jake from Louisville. No message, but a number where she could reach him.

Lucia slid the note in a circle, enjoying the rasp of paper on the countertop. When she flicked the little square toward the trash can, it missed by a few inches, floating to the tile.

She couldn’t think with the buzzing.

She propped her elbows on the stove, avoiding the burners, and considered the logistics. Did they actually need to call a repairman? She couldn’t remember which electrician they had used last—Had they called him for the igniter in this same stove? The fluttering in the overhead lights?

“So?” she heard Evan’s voice say.

Her husband was standing in the den, not five feet away. She wondered how long he’d been there.

“I thought you were in the bedroom,” she said.

“I was,” he said. “Who was it on the phone?”

“Chris Sanderson,” she said. “I’m guessing you heard at least part of it?”

He lowered himself to the middle of the couch. “They found out something?”

Lucia knelt down and picked up the yellow sheet of paper, wedging it inside the trash can underneath an empty roll of Scotch tape.

“They think they’ve found the guy who shot at the house,” she said. “He shot at someone else, and the gun matched the bullets they found here. I’ve never heard of the guy. Jerry Mackintosh. He lives over by Eastdale Mall. He moved here in December, apparently. Nothing about him sounds familiar.”

“Did he move before or after the shooting?” Evan asked.

“I didn’t ask.”

“So why did he do it? What has he said?”

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said. She watched him from across the countertop. “They haven’t questioned him yet. They just got the results about the bullets. And the bullets alone aren’t enough to—well, they’re still working on it. That’s all I know.”

“Did you ask any questions at all?”

“I asked plenty,” she said, exasperated. “God, Evan, it came out of the blue. I’ll try to compile a more thorough