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12-Jan-2018 05:10

The killer—his file said he was Monte Scanlon, but there was no way that was his real name—might have done likewise had his hands not been cuffed. His specialty was prosecuting corrupt politicians—something of a vigorous cottage industry in his home state of New Jersey—but three hours ago, Monte Scanlon, a mass executioner by any standards, had finally broken his silence to make a demand. ”Scanlon looked like an aging playboy who might have squired a Gabor sister in the fifties. His graying hair was slicked back, his teeth cigarette-yellow, his skin leathery from midday sun and too many long nights in too many dark clubs. When captured, his passport read Monte Scanlon, an Argentinean national, age fifty-one.

Linda Morgan, the United States attorney, leaned against the back wall trying to give off the ease of Sinatra against a lamppost. Next came Max with his arm stretched up to pick a Gala apple. There were several more shots of Grace and the children with a variety of apples, trees, baskets. Near the middle, one girl, a blonde, had—God, what the hell was that about? She was sure, however, that she recognized the other man.

His fingerprints had not popped up in the NCIC computer banks. attorney assigned to you.”“This has nothing to do with her.”“And it does with me? “What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “will change your entire life.”Part of Scott wanted to wiggle his fingers in Scanlon’s face and say, “Ooooo.” He was used to the captured criminal mindset—their serpentine maneuverings, their quest for an edge, their search for a way out, their overblown sense of importance. She touched one of the beefy guards on the shoulder and gestured for them to leave. Tell me, does rule two have anything to do with not putting out until the third date? ”Scott shrugged as if the answer was obvious.“You don’t respect my rules? “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but the men I’ve killed were scum.

Facial recognition software had come up with a big goose egg.“We need to speak alone.”“This is not my case,” Scott said again. Linda Morgan, perhaps sensing his thoughts, shot a warning glare across his bow. Rising from his seat, Scanlon’s lawyer spoke for the first time. They don’t escape from handcuffs in the middle of a high-security federal penitentiary.

You can talk to him then.”Grace chose not to protest. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched. Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner—veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Emma did her homework—too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.“That was the most brilliant poem I’ve ever heard ever ever,” Jack said. “It’s only the first two verses.”“That was the most brilliant first two verses I’ve ever heard ever ever.”“I’m going to write a hockey one tomorrow.”“Speaking of which ...”Emma sat up.

Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. She cleared her throat and began:“Basketball, basketball, Why are you so round? Tennis ball, tennis ball, Why are you so fizzy, When you’re hit with a racket, Do you feel kind of dizzy? When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, “Whoa.”Emma made the face she makes when she’s proud of herself but doesn’t want to show it. “I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday.”Emma, part of the “jock” group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. They discussed the team’s recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild.

Monte Scanlon, she’d told him, had worked for various connected families for the better part of thirty years. So here Scott was.“Your boss,” Scanlon said, gesturing with his chin at Linda Morgan, “she hopes for my cooperation.”“You’re going to get the needle,” Morgan responded, still trying to give off the scent of nonchalance. They were, as one would expect, black and shiny and cruel. “Anything he says is off the record.”“Stay with them,” Scanlon ordered. The Beef Brothers, Scott knew, would be behind the one-way glass.

Scanlon was playing a head game, trying to keep him off balance or some such nonsense. Nothing he had “revealed” about Scott’s family was surprising. We were totally covered.”Scott was about to mention that this total coverage had eventually landed Scanlon’s ass in jail, but he decided to save it. ”“I’m getting to that.” Scott could see that Scanlon was warming up to his own tale. The images flooded in: Geri’s contagious smile, the unruly hair, the braces, the way she stuck her tongue out at him during family gatherings. One of those wrap-around-low headphones snaked around the back of his neck. The roll was from last week’s annual trip to Chester for apple picking. The first image was of Emma, their eight-year-old daughter, and Max, their six-year-old son, on the hayride, shoulders hunched, their cheeks reddened by wind. Feelings of, yes, maternal warmth, both primitive and evolutionary, rocked her back. You could see it in his eyes, his slow shuffle, the missed spots when he shaved. Max made his way down the stairs, adjusting the backpack up his shoulders. The best art tweaked reality to show the artist’s world, what she saw or, more precisely, what she wanted others to see. It was often more provocative, uglier maybe, more gripping and magnetic. You might enjoy a beautiful setting sun—but Grace wanted you immersed in her sunset, afraid to turn away from it, afraid not to. The picture looked as if it’d been snapped when the subjects were not quite ready, in mid-gather. He was standing in the middle, next to the blonde with the X through her face.... “The sign on the door says you develop all the pictures on site.”“That’s right.” He petted the large machine behind him. ”“I picked up the photos a little before three o’clock. “Josh had a family emergency.”“What kind of emergency? If you want the four by sixes, there is a small surcharge.”Grace ignored his outstretched hand. ”“It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six.”Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin? Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”“Hey, Kitten, how was school? Max came out of his room, stark naked.“Ready for your bath, mah man? He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. “We need to take a ride.”•••Fuzz Pellet was not at the Photomat. I just want to know who developed my roll.”He took a look at the envelope. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect.

Scanlon was playing a head game, trying to keep him off balance or some such nonsense. Nothing he had “revealed” about Scott’s family was surprising. We were totally covered.”Scott was about to mention that this total coverage had eventually landed Scanlon’s ass in jail, but he decided to save it. ”“I’m getting to that.” Scott could see that Scanlon was warming up to his own tale. The images flooded in: Geri’s contagious smile, the unruly hair, the braces, the way she stuck her tongue out at him during family gatherings. One of those wrap-around-low headphones snaked around the back of his neck. The roll was from last week’s annual trip to Chester for apple picking. The first image was of Emma, their eight-year-old daughter, and Max, their six-year-old son, on the hayride, shoulders hunched, their cheeks reddened by wind. Feelings of, yes, maternal warmth, both primitive and evolutionary, rocked her back. You could see it in his eyes, his slow shuffle, the missed spots when he shaved. Max made his way down the stairs, adjusting the backpack up his shoulders. The best art tweaked reality to show the artist’s world, what she saw or, more precisely, what she wanted others to see. It was often more provocative, uglier maybe, more gripping and magnetic. You might enjoy a beautiful setting sun—but Grace wanted you immersed in her sunset, afraid to turn away from it, afraid not to. The picture looked as if it’d been snapped when the subjects were not quite ready, in mid-gather. He was standing in the middle, next to the blonde with the X through her face....

“The sign on the door says you develop all the pictures on site.”“That’s right.” He petted the large machine behind him. ”“I picked up the photos a little before three o’clock. “Josh had a family emergency.”“What kind of emergency?

If you want the four by sixes, there is a small surcharge.”Grace ignored his outstretched hand. ”“It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six.”Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin? Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”“Hey, Kitten, how was school? Max came out of his room, stark naked.“Ready for your bath, mah man? He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page.

“We need to take a ride.”•••Fuzz Pellet was not at the Photomat.

I just want to know who developed my roll.”He took a look at the envelope. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect.

And though Jack denies it's him, he disappears that night, taking the photo with him. But today, with this well-shackled prisoner, even these guys were on edge. Either way, it would pay to keep Scanlon talking.“You are Scott Duncan. Grace still remembered the way her father, wearing blue slacks and a gray sweater-vest, had answered the phone with his customary musical hello, how his face had drained of color, how he suddenly collapsed to the floor, his sobs first strangled and then silent, as if he could not gather enough air to express his anguish. It was the same size, fitting neatly in with the others, though the backing sheet was somewhat flimsier.