Palindrome by E. Z. Rinsky Page B

we bought at the last gas station.
    â€œUpset that you weren’t thoughtful and patient enough?” Courtney asks, unable to contain a note of glee.
    â€œGo fuck yourself.”
    â€œCall. I listened to your stupid story, now call.”
    My heart is pounding. I enter what I sort of hope isn’t still her cell number—­I’ve switched it to every new phone I’ve gotten. I Google her once in a while, too, just to see what she’s up to, if she’s married and so on. Best I can tell, she’s not. I hit call and pray nobody picks up. Two rings.
    â€œHello?”
    Shit, shit, shit.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œThis . . . is this Helen?”
    â€œWho is this ?”
    My chest heaves. I put a hand on the dash to steady myself.
    â€œIt’s Frank. Lamb.”
    A long pause. Courtney looks at me like so?
    I bite my tongue. I don’t know where she is, on the other end, but I know what she’s doing: She’s got a pen out, doodling little geometric shapes on a pad of sticky notes. I never saw her answer a phone without her pen and pad ready, breaking from the drawing only to chew thoughtfully, desperately, on the end of the pen, like it’s leaking some vitamin she’s deficient in.
    Just when I think maybe she’s hung up she says:
    â€œFrank. Wow. How are you?”
    â€œI’m fine. Okay, I guess. How are you?”
    â€œSame.”
    Another pause. Courtney gestures: Come on!
    â€œUm, look I know this is a little weird, but I need some help. On an investigation.”
    I’m a little relieved to hear her laugh softly on the other end of the line.
    â€œHelp, huh?”
    â€œYeah. You’re still in the department, right?”
    â€œWhat do you need, Frank?”
    â€œA girl named Savannah Kanter was murdered five years ago. Her sister hired me to look into a little detail of the crime, and I have a feeling she might have a record. At the very least, something weird is going on with her.” I clear my throat. “Her name is Greta Kanter. K-­A-­N-­T-­E-­R. Also, obviously, anything about the crime itself would be just super.”
    Another awful silence. The splatter of the rain on the windshield picks up a little.
    â€œFrank, I can’t.”
    â€œI can pay you.”
    â€œStop it. You know I’m not supposed to do that. I could lose my job.”
    â€œJust think about it,” I plead.
    I can hear her huff. I hear a click that I know is her tapping the end of her pen against her front teeth.
    â€œWas it in the city?” she finally asks.
    â€œNo. Rural Maine. Outside Bangor.”
    â€œThat means I’d have to call and request files—­”
    â€œI know. Look, if you can’t do it, fine. Just know I’m desperate here. This woman walked into my office and gave me $15K up front. C ash. The bounty is huge. I don’t know a damn thing about her. What would you do?”
    â€œNot tell an NYPD detective, for one thing,” she says. “What do you think the chances are that that money is clean?”
    She’s not making this easy, that’s for sure. Courtney has had one hand fiddling with his ponytail since he realized this wasn’t going well. I think he’s also picked up the speed. Rain crashes down in sheets on the windshield.
    â€œCan you at least run her driver’s license?” I ask.
    I hear her breathing on the other end and consider saying something to evoke the magic we had for at least a two-­month stretch, an inside joke or something.
    â€œGoddammit,” she sighs. “I’m not gonna make you beg me. Just a sec. Lemme get into the system remotely. I’m at home. What’s the number?”
    I respell the name and feed her the license number. Hear the distant clicking of her fingers on the keyboard. Are they painted? She used to paint them bright colors; a weird habit that always seemed incongruous with