Nightlife by Thomas Perry

experience.”
    “But?”
    “But. It’s time to cut you loose.”
    “It is?”
    “Yes. You’ve helped me to clarify a whole part of this case in my mind, and saved me quite a bit of time. I’m now convinced that this didn’t have anything to do with Hugo Poole. At the same time, having a person acting as Hugo Poole’s representative in this investigation isn’t going to help us when we have to go into court for a conviction. So you’ve got to go.”
    “I understand.”
    “You don’t sound surprised.”
    “I’m not. Does Mike know about this yet?”
    “Mike Farber? My captain?”
    “Yes.”
    “I told him this morning that this was what I was going to do.”
    “And he agreed?”
    “He agreed that it was my case, and that I had the right to make the decision. I made it, not Mike Farber.”
    “Then I guess I’ll try to stop and say good-bye to him before I leave. I wish you the best of luck on the case, and after watching you work, I have confidence that you’ll handle it.” He held out his hand and she shook it. He smiled. “See you,” he said, and he walked out the door and closed it.
    Catherine remained perched on the table for a full minute, sipping her coffee and thinking. She knew that this decision had been inevitable and right, and she was relieved that it had gone so smoothly. She was also just a bit regretful, and she wasn’t sure why.
    She had to admit that was not exactly true. During the investigation she had begun to forget the imposition that Joe Pitt represented, and become used to having someone she could talk to about the case—not just some other cop who had a dozen cases of his own to think about, or a superior who had administrative details clogging his mind. When she had talked to Pitt she could talk in shorthand, and he knew exactly what she meant. She could test her ideas on him, and expect him to have ideas of his own.
    Catherine tried to analyze her feelings. When Mike Farber had first called her in to tell her he had assigned her to work on a murder with Joe Pitt, she had felt insulted. If her captain thought she was so incompetent and inexperienced that she needed help from some out-of-town retiree, then she should get out of homicide. A moment later, when she had heard what a hotshot Joe Pitt was, she had wondered how it could be anything but an insult to her sex. Would Mike Farber have expected one of the men to serve as tour guide to a visiting potentate? No, it had to be the woman, the pretty face to please the visitor, and because the visitor was so great, all the hostess really needed to be was pretty. Joe Pitt would solve the case.
    She had tested Joe Pitt—maybe tormented him a bit—and found that he wasn’t so bad. She had come to feel comfortable with him. Why was she putting it like that? She had liked him, felt attracted to him. Maybe that was the worst thing about him. She couldn’t afford to have him around any longer.
    She jumped down, took her coffee to the break room, and poured it down the sink, then walked back to her desk in the homicide office.
    Catherine’s telephone rang. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was Tanya Starling. “Homicide. Hobbes.”
    “Hey, Hobbes. This is Doug Crowley in San Francisco. Has Tanya Starling called in yet?”
    “Not yet.” Hobbes had been near her desk almost the whole shift. “Mrs. Halloran said that Tanya promised she would call, but she doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do it.”
    “Well, I have something else that might be useful. The DMV has a hit on the roommate, Rachel Sturbridge.”
    “What is it?” asked Hobbes. She sat at the edge of her chair and pulled her yellow pad toward her.
    “It’s her car. She’s sold her car.”
    “Her too? They both sold their cars? When and where did she sell it?”
    “Los Angeles, about two weeks ago. The new owner just got around to registering it with the DMV. It was already registered in California, so she didn’t think there was any hurry—she wouldn’t get