Page 72 of The Homewreckers
He opened the browser bar on his desktop computer and typed in “Cardinal Mooney Catholic High Football team, 2004.” There were dozens of citations. He learned that the Knights had gone undefeated and won the state championship that year, and that Frank Ragan had been named Georgia High School Coach of the Year, and that two of his senior players, André Coates and Holland Creedmore Jr., had been named to the all-state first team.
He found a photo of the team’s two standouts, grinning and holding their all-state plaques. Coates was a beefy-looking defensive lineman, and Creedmore Jr. was, not surprisingly, a tight end. The article accompanying the story said that Coates was headed to Florida A&M, while Creedmore had signed to play at Wake Forest.
“Wake Forest, huh?” He studied the photo of an eighteen-year-old Holland Creedmore. His blond hair grazed his shoulders, and he was dressed in a white dress shirt, striped red tie, and blue blazer. Clear-eyed, handsome, every mother’s son.
Makarowicz scrolled through other stories until he found an article from theSavannah Morning Newsextolling Cardinal Mooney’s 2004 senior football players. Eight of the championship team’s members had been seniors and were highlighted in the article. He printed out the story and read on.
Thirty minutes later, he had a folder of printouts and some thoughts. On his way out of the building he stopped by the office of the city’s code enforcement officer, Howard Rice.
Rice was on the phone, so Makarowicz leaned in the doorway and scrolled through his phone messages. He’d already heard from Hattie Kavanaugh about her run-in with the man she referred to as Inspector Gadget, but he wanted to see the photo of the flaming dumpster for himself.
“Something you need?” Rice was off the phone now.
“I’m Detective Al Makarowicz,” Mak said. “Only been with the force a few months, so I guess that’s why we haven’t met. I’d like to talk to you about that fire on Chatham Avenue last night. I understand someone sent you a photo of the dumpster yesterday?”
“That’s right,” Rice said. “A concerned citizen.”
“Does the citizen have a name?”
“No,” Rice said. “The citizen preferred to remain anonymous. We have a municipal tip website that allows citizens to directly report these kinds of violations.”
Mak sighed. He’d dealt with this kind of self-important bureaucrat many times in his law enforcement career. They were almost invariably wannabe cops eager to demonstrate the power of whatever badge they wore.
“Can I see the photo you showed Hattie Kavanaugh?”
Rice hesitated. Makarowicz sensed he was trying to find a reason to refuse his request.
“I’m going to meet the fire marshal over at the house this afternoon. That photo could be evidence that the fire was deliberately set.”
“This is a code violation—” Rice started.
“Not interested in code-breakers. I’m interested in arsonists,” Mak said, holding out his hand. “The photo, please.”
“Have you been avoiding me?”
Hattie was sitting on the edge of the seawall, looking out at the Back River. Mo had called for a lunch break, and she’d grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and was enjoying the light breeze barely ruffling the surface of the water.
She’d been contemplating walking out onto the dock to check out the dock house. The planking was decaying, boards missing and sagging in other places. Should she risk it? Was there enough money in the budget to rebuild the dock?
Trae sat down beside her and bit into a peach. “I’m definitely getting the keep-away vibe,” he repeated. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “It’s just… awkward. I thought our dinner last night—you know—”
“Are we talking about the kiss? Because it didn’t feel awkward to me.”
“You know what I mean. That was a private moment. But thosephotos on that website. Everyone has seen them. They’re plastered all over the internet. It makes me feel kind of dirty. Like we were doing something shameful.”
“It was just one kiss. Between consenting adults.” With his fingertip, he traced the curve of her cheek, and Hattie shivered, involuntarily. “Although I think you know I wish it had been more.”
“How do you stand it?” she asked abruptly. “And I’m being serious.”
“What? Being young and semi-rich and semi-famous? I love it. I’m living my dream. I get to pick and choose my clients and my projects. I get to travel and see new places and meet new people. Like you. How is that a bad thing?”
“But I don’t want to be famous,” she blurted.
“What do you want?” He rested his chin on her shoulder.
“I don’t want to be spied on. I don’t want strangers gawking at me, or sticking cameras in my face. I don’t want my private life out there on the internet. I want to do my work and make enough money to do… whatever I want.”
