Palindrome by E. Z. Rinsky Page A

“Absolutely.”
    â€œSo bottom line, this Beulah Twelve shit—­which frankly I think is just that. This guy probably read about the Beulah Twelve on the news just like you. I guarantee this dude’s freakout happened when this was big news—­but this shit doesn’t really change anything. We still gotta check out the crime scene, and we still have to get in to talk to Silas to figure out where the hell he stashed this alleged tape.”
    â€œAnd,” Courtney adds, “you still need to call your friend.”
    I’ve been staring at my cell phone for the last half hour, trying to psyche myself up to call a girl. I feel like I’m back in high school.
    â€œYou’re being ridiculous,” says Courtney.
    â€œYou don’t understand human relationships, do you? It’s been ten years since I’ve talked to her. I didn’t even have Sadie last time I saw her.”
    â€œWell we need her help. We still know almost nothing about Greta Kanter.”
    And so here we are, blazing through what’s evolving into a torrential sleet storm to the scene of the murder, me trying to psyche myself up enough to buzz an old flame that I kind of screwed the pooch with. Helen Langdon. A colleague from my days at the NYPD, who’s since been promoted to Detective Second Grade. She could run a background check on Greta—­is it just a coincidence that the deceased girl’s sister is a total screw job?
    â€œCall,” says Courtney.
    â€œMaybe we could have gotten a little more out of Orange about Greta’s visit if you hadn’t run your fucking mouth back there, genius,” I say. “What happened to patience?”
    Courtney shakes his head, still peering out into rain-­stained, inky darkness. “I think he appreciated someone being straight with him.”
    I snort. “Are you a sociotard? One of those ­people who can’t pick up on subtle cues, like how someone threatening to force-­feed you glass means they aren’t happy?”
    â€œCall,” says Courtney.
    â€œI will. Hold your horses.”
    â€œCall now.”
    I stare out into the dark night through the rain-­streaked windows. Can just make out silhouettes of pine trees and highway signs. “I was such an idiot,” I say. “I’m so embarrassed. It makes me cringe just thinking about it.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I know Courtney couldn’t care less. Just knows that indulging me is a necessary precursor to getting me to dial.
    I breathe out slowly. Courtney cranks the speedometer past 100 to pass a red minivan, executes it with the precision and impassivity of an electric can opener.
    â€œI sorta cheated on her.”
    â€œSorta?” Courtney cocks his head in amusement but doesn’t take his eyes from the road for even a moment.
    â€œShe was working a night shift. I went out with some old law school friends after work. I got trashed and hooked up with some floozy I met at the bar.”
    â€œHow did she find out?”
    â€œI told her,” I sigh.
    Courtney actually seems impressed. “That’s admirable.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what she said. But also that it meant I must not really want to be with her. Subconsciously. We’d been dating for about three months then. I told her she was wrong, that it was just a stupid mistake, that she was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. It was true. She was a real fucking gem. A hard-­ass, a real tough cookie, that’s for sure—­you have to be to survive as a female officer. Especially in the city. But a gem once you dug beneath all that. Anyways, she didn’t cry or anything. Just looked at me real hard and said, ‘I guess that’s it.’ God, I felt so ashamed.”
    â€œSo you’re upset that you told her? Or that you did it.”
    â€œShut up.” I open the glove compartment and root around for the trail mix