station wagon. Is this piece-of-shit day never gonna end?”
Rule looked at him. “You’re going out there?”
“Hey. Like I got nothing to do, right?”
Rule knew what he meant. It had been a long day for both of them. Covitski had been out at the stream on the Gardner thing till six. They’d turned up nothing out there so it would all begin again tomorrow. Covitski had that to look forward to, plus probably half a dozen other cases and now this.
Like everybody else these days they were understaffed, work jammed into every one of them like meat into so many sausage casings.
“Covitski, my heart goes out to you. I’m two cases shy of an even dozen, you know?” He flipped some pages in the Wourmouth file. “And this one. I just love this one. Who the hell would ever think that a simple domestic dispute would blow up into so much goddamn paperwork?”
Covitski laughed. “It happens. When you got a husband, you got his wife, you got his girlfriend, two cousins and an eighty-year-old drunken grandaddy all doing the disputing.”
“I guess. Anyhow, good luck. Who’s the victim?”
Covitski consulted his pad.
“Morris, first name Deanna. Married. Husband’s name is Carl. Two, maybe three slugs in her. Blonde, late twenties. Driving a blue ‘91 Ford wagon.”
“Any leads?”
“Nah. Nothing.”
“Yeah. Well, like I say, good luck.”
“Uh-huh.”
He was just out the door when the phone rang—his line. Rule picked it up anyway.
Most of his attention was still with the Wourmouth file until he heard what the guy had to say.
The man’s voice was scared and jittery and Rule could read him instantly. The man wanted desperately to hang up. He couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. But he was working on it.
Which meant that Rule had to play this fish very carefully.
The man thought he saw a murder.
Or more precisely, the aftermath of one.
Rule took his name and number, coaxed it out of him slowly and gently, voice nice and even, soothing, got the location of what the guy had seen, a description of what the guy had seen, the time of day and all the details.
Once he’d calmed him down, the caller had a pretty good memory. Even took a partial, GO something, on the plate of a 1993 Volvo, color red, parked along the highway.
He described a thin, dark-haired man in a white shirt, medium build, early thirties, climbing into the back of the Volvo. There was another somewhat older man driving and a dark-haired woman sitting beside him. Thewoman wore her hair long. She was slim and attractive. The driver’s hair was thinning.
Rule wrote it all down even though calls were taped routinely. Thanked the man and arranged to get a written statement from him in the morning.
Then thought, well. What have we got here?
Covitski had a break. That much was certain.
And maybe so did he.
It didn’t quite add up. In fact it didn’t add up at all on the face of it but he had a feeling when the man was describing the couple, the man and the woman, riding in front.
He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, black and thick and nasty, into his Disneyland mug, souvenir of the Magic Kingdom, sunny California, and then he called Covitski.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I want to do another one,” Wayne said. “You want to help this time?”
Like he was talking about a second hand of gin.
“All I want to do is get out of here, Wayne,” said Lee. “That’s all either of us want. You know that.”
“Why? Look, we do one more and then I’ll drop you somewhere. I’ll go away. I swear.”
They sat in the McDonald’s lot and she was listening to them, not believing this conversation, not believing anything about it, Wayne talking through bites of his Quarter Pounder. The smell inside the car was sickening. Grease, onions. Meat.
She had the window open but there was no breeze. The night was still. The night cloyed.
Cars passed by on the way to the drive-through window.
Wayne sipped loudly through the straw. Iced
Rule looked at him. “You’re going out there?”
“Hey. Like I got nothing to do, right?”
Rule knew what he meant. It had been a long day for both of them. Covitski had been out at the stream on the Gardner thing till six. They’d turned up nothing out there so it would all begin again tomorrow. Covitski had that to look forward to, plus probably half a dozen other cases and now this.
Like everybody else these days they were understaffed, work jammed into every one of them like meat into so many sausage casings.
“Covitski, my heart goes out to you. I’m two cases shy of an even dozen, you know?” He flipped some pages in the Wourmouth file. “And this one. I just love this one. Who the hell would ever think that a simple domestic dispute would blow up into so much goddamn paperwork?”
Covitski laughed. “It happens. When you got a husband, you got his wife, you got his girlfriend, two cousins and an eighty-year-old drunken grandaddy all doing the disputing.”
“I guess. Anyhow, good luck. Who’s the victim?”
Covitski consulted his pad.
“Morris, first name Deanna. Married. Husband’s name is Carl. Two, maybe three slugs in her. Blonde, late twenties. Driving a blue ‘91 Ford wagon.”
“Any leads?”
“Nah. Nothing.”
“Yeah. Well, like I say, good luck.”
“Uh-huh.”
He was just out the door when the phone rang—his line. Rule picked it up anyway.
Most of his attention was still with the Wourmouth file until he heard what the guy had to say.
The man’s voice was scared and jittery and Rule could read him instantly. The man wanted desperately to hang up. He couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. But he was working on it.
Which meant that Rule had to play this fish very carefully.
The man thought he saw a murder.
Or more precisely, the aftermath of one.
Rule took his name and number, coaxed it out of him slowly and gently, voice nice and even, soothing, got the location of what the guy had seen, a description of what the guy had seen, the time of day and all the details.
Once he’d calmed him down, the caller had a pretty good memory. Even took a partial, GO something, on the plate of a 1993 Volvo, color red, parked along the highway.
He described a thin, dark-haired man in a white shirt, medium build, early thirties, climbing into the back of the Volvo. There was another somewhat older man driving and a dark-haired woman sitting beside him. Thewoman wore her hair long. She was slim and attractive. The driver’s hair was thinning.
Rule wrote it all down even though calls were taped routinely. Thanked the man and arranged to get a written statement from him in the morning.
Then thought, well. What have we got here?
Covitski had a break. That much was certain.
And maybe so did he.
It didn’t quite add up. In fact it didn’t add up at all on the face of it but he had a feeling when the man was describing the couple, the man and the woman, riding in front.
He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, black and thick and nasty, into his Disneyland mug, souvenir of the Magic Kingdom, sunny California, and then he called Covitski.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I want to do another one,” Wayne said. “You want to help this time?”
Like he was talking about a second hand of gin.
“All I want to do is get out of here, Wayne,” said Lee. “That’s all either of us want. You know that.”
“Why? Look, we do one more and then I’ll drop you somewhere. I’ll go away. I swear.”
They sat in the McDonald’s lot and she was listening to them, not believing this conversation, not believing anything about it, Wayne talking through bites of his Quarter Pounder. The smell inside the car was sickening. Grease, onions. Meat.
She had the window open but there was no breeze. The night was still. The night cloyed.
Cars passed by on the way to the drive-through window.
Wayne sipped loudly through the straw. Iced
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