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Mary Lancaster was Decker’s former partner in the Burlington Police Department in Ohio. A while back she’d been diagnosed with early onset dementia.
hyperthymesia, or perfect recall; and synesthesia, which caused him to pair certain things with unlikely colors.
Decker’s longtime FBI partner, Alex Jamison, had been transferred to New York and found what looked to be love with a Wall Street investment banker. His old boss at the FBI, Ross Bogart, had retired and was learning to play golf—badly, he had heard—in Arizona.
“Amos Decker, meet your new partner, Special Agent Frederica White,” said John Talbott in a voice that sounded like a game show host introducing a new prize. The massive Decker looked all the way down at the five-foot-three-inch Black woman, and she looked back up the mountain at him. It was unclear which one was more surprised by this announcement.
Decker knelt down and checked the suit label: Armani. He looked at the watch on his wrist: Cartier. The shoes: Ferragamo.
“I’m not sure I appreciate the allegations in your questions,” Kline said irritably. “That’s okay. People never do.”
“But with her not here, I’m not sure I can keep my shit together anymore.” “Any time you start thinking that, think about all the things your mother did to get you ready for life. It was worth it to her, so it has to be worth it to you. It shows respect.”
“We’ve all lost somebody close, Tyler. It’s how we deal with it that counts, because if you mess that up nothing else really matters.”
“You’re no quitter, you’ve never been a quitter. When shit got tough, you just brought a bigger shovel and left scorched earth in your wake.”
“Because you’re trying to take something away from yourself that was taken away from them without their consent.”
That was the thing about life. You actually had to spend time living it.
