She brought a plate over to the small, peeling-laminate table. The meat was gray with flecks of brown, surrounded by a haphazard fall of half-cooked onion. The bread and fake butter perched on the side.
“All I got’s water,” she said.
“Water would be lovely,” Scarrey said with a big, goofy grin. “Most important nutrient there is. Hydration.”
As she got a glass from the tap, Scarrey tucked into the meat as if it were the best thing he’d seen all day. Mason made a point of not noticing that Anna had wiped the water glass clean before she filled it. When she handed it to him, Scarrey nodded his thanks. Anna sat across from him, her lips pressed thin, as if offering them food had exposed her weak spots and she regretted it now.
“I know it’s an odd question,” Scarrey said around a mouthful of sausage and onion, “given everything you said about him, but I have to ask. With all the fear and the reaching out and letting go, all the brief attachments to people and causes and so on, did he strike you as hopeful?”
Anna furrowed her brow.
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a weird way to put it, but . . . Yeah.”
“Ah,” Scarrey said, and his smile left him looking satisfied.
“WHAT DID YOU MEAN, THE MYSTERY, NOT THE PUZZLE?” MASON ASKED. They were driving down Central toward the university. The afternoon traffic was starting to thicken, the distant early warning of rush-hour gridlock.
“Have you ever considered the difference between them?”
“Can’t say I have,” Mason said.
“You should. It’s important, given what you do.”
“Solve mysteries?”
“Sometimes,” Scarrey said. “But more often, I think, puzzles.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the difference?”
A van moved up beside them, gunned its engine, and tried to pass. Mason sped up just a little to stop it, and the van slowed back.
“Puzzles have solutions,” Scarrey said. “Do you have a napkin? My fingers are . . .”
“There’s some wet wipes in the glove box,” Mason said.
“Thank you. Puzzles have solutions. The lock opens. The wine bottle comes free.”
“You figure out whodunit,” Mason said. “I get that.”
“Mysteries aren’t like that. With them, there’s an element of judgment. Guesswork. Not just to reach the solution, but within the solution itself.”
“That sounds really deep,” Mason said, “but I don’t know what the fuck it means.”
“Which makes it a mystery,” Scarrey said. Mason laughed.
Back in the office, Anderson was at his desk, grinning and high-fiving everyone who passed by. His wide-set face and too-handsome looks didn’t have the haunted look they’d acquired in the past few weeks. Mason grinned.
“Good to see you finally showing up for work, slacker,” Mason said.
“Smoked all my dope,” Anderson said, returning the joke. “Figured I’d better come in, hit up the evidence locker, eh?”
From across the room, Diaz growled.
“Take it outside. I’m trying to work here.”
Mason lifted his eyebrows, but Anderson shook his head and pointed to the door. They paused in the hallway, Scarrey looking from one to the other in confusion.
“What’s up?”