Southern Lights: A Novel

“And there’s nothing in between?” Alexa wondered if he had a point. She knew she was bitter herself, about Tom, and men in general. She had vowed never to trust any man again, and she hadn’t, even those she had gone out with, rare as it was. Her walls were a mile high.

“Nope,” Jack confirmed. “Hookers. But I’m too cheap to pay for sex.” They both laughed at that, and he paid for their lunch as Alexa thanked him. “Don’t say that I don’t take you to the best places. If the theory about getting laid in exchange for a good dinner holds, you should probably kick me in the shins for lunch. How’s your stomach holding up after that salad? Feeling sick yet?”

“Not yet. It usually takes about half an hour.” The jokes about the deli were legion, but it was just as bad as they all said, and worse. All the cops swore the jail food was better, and it probably was.

They walked back into the building together, and Jack said he’d keep her posted on the latest developments about Quentin. The press was taking a major interest in him, and they were all being extremely careful about what they said. Reporters had already tried to interview Alexa and she declined. She was leaving that to the DA.

Alexa spent the rest of the afternoon in meetings, worked on her file for the grand jury, and left work earlier than usual, at six o’clock. Her mother and Judge Schwartzman were coming for dinner, and Savannah had just put a chicken in the oven when she got home. She looked pretty and fresh and had played volleyball that afternoon. She was elated that they’d won against a rival school. Alexa tried to get to her games whenever she could, but it wasn’t as often as she liked. And she was struck again by the resemblance between her daughter and Luke Quentin’s victims. It made the death of all those young women seem that much worse to her.

“How’s your big serial killer case coming?” Savannah asked her as they stood in the kitchen. Alexa was making a salad, and they had just put baking potatoes in the microwave. Her mother and Stanley Schwartzman were due in half an hour. They could chat, as they always did, until dinner was cooked.

“It’s coming along,” Alexa answered. “I have a grand jury hearing on it in two days. How are the applications coming? Did you finish any more? I want to see them before they go out,” she reminded her, but Savannah wrote excellent essays, and her grades and board scores were high. She was going to get in everywhere. Alexa had done her job well, and Savannah was a bright girl.

“I finished Princeton and Brown. I still have Stanford and Harvard to do. I don’t think I’ll get in anyway, they’re both too hard. GW would be okay too. And Duke.” Going to college still seemed unreal to her, like a dream, but she was excited about it. She was looking forward to talking about it with her dad when they went skiing.

Alexa and Savannah chatted in the kitchen, as they set the table and finished making dinner, and then the doorbell rang. It was Alexa’s mother and Stanley. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking, vibrant man, despite his age, and exactly what a judge should look like. He was serious, conservative, but he had a great sense of humor and a twinkle in his eye.

The chicken was delicious, and everyone pretended not to notice that the baked potatoes were overcooked. The conversation was lively, and the three generations of women always had a good time together, and Stanley enjoyed being with them. Alexa reminded him of his own daughters, and Savannah of his favorite granddaughter who was the same age, and at Boulder, having a ball. They talked about Savannah’s applications, and a funny case Stanley had heard recently, a suit brought by a man who had sued a co-worker for sneezing on him constantly and making him sick. The case had been dismissed for lack of malicious intent or tangible damages, and no damages had been awarded.

“Once in a while you have to ask yourself if people are all crazy,” he said as he finished a dish of ice cream. “What are you working on these days, Alexa?”

“The big serial killer case that’s been all over the press,” Muriel answered for her, and he looked impressed.

“Those cases are always hard. They’re very emotionally disturbing. Cases like that always haunt me for months.” Alexa nodded. It was already starting to do that to her. She knew in every detail the faces of each dead girl, and their lives. The one she knew the least about so far was the defendant, how he had done it, when and where, and what made him tick, but she’d get there. She always did.