the Philadelphia Police Administration Building. It almost looks like a plush resort, or multiplex stadium for games and concerts. But inside, whether or not the curved walls covered with corrugated paneling made for efficient use of space, as touted, there was a definite lack of graciousness, and you’d never confuse it with a pleasure palace. I had a choice between a hard chair squeezed between file cabinets and detectives, or a bench in the municipal court waiting room. The latter at least had a little more elbow room and a view through a dirty window of people being booked.
I found and read an ancient, tattered Sports Illustrated. I paced. I managed to feel both mentally agitated and brain dead. What did everything mean? I was no longer positive about Laura’s innocence, although more than ever I wanted it to be true so that she could get on with her life and healing.
Still, if that brief glimpse of what she’d lived through made me feel homicidal, how could I not allow her the same impulses? I was no longer positive about Alice or Peter, either.
More time passed. I thought wistfully and irrationally about how cigarettes had once helped make blank times like this bearable, serving as little measuring rods.
This would have been an eleven-cigarette wait.
Mackenzie appeared, rubbing his neck and sipping something that resembled crude oil. It was different, seeing him on the job. Once upon a time, when we met and I was a suspect, Mackenzie had been attractive, but less than endearing. Now, watching from the innocent sidelines, I realized there was something breathtakingly elemental about his methodical search for truth and justice. If I squinted, I could almost see him atop a white horse, plumed helmet, pointed lance and all.
And that’s one way women get seduced into unworkable, undefinable and mangled social lives. Not me. I blinked three times and Lancelot turned into one tired cop slouching over a Styrofoam cup.
“What a mess,” he said, sitting down beside me. “And how’d it come to be my mess, anyway? It’s not even my case.”
“I thought you all helped each other out. One for all and all for justice, or something.” I patted his free hand. “Feel flattered. Those kids trust you. And Alice trusts those kids.”
“Damn depressing,” he said. “Inconclusive. Infuriating. Any one of them could have done it. There’s motive, opportunity…”
“But do you think so? Do you really?”
“Three different versions, but not a one mentions how it was done—and we don’t know ourselves.”
“When will you?”
“It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet,” he said, looking stunned by my foolishness.
“Still, you told me they have all those snazzy tests, computerized equipment. They’ve had two whole days. What have they been doing?”
“Mandy, there are usually clues to tell you where to start. Marks or discoloration. You kind of know whether he was clubbed, or stabbed, or poisoned. But here…” He shook his head and slumped on the bench next to me. “Wouldn’t you think a guy like Santa, who has to go down chimneys, would wear a flameproof suit?”
Alexander Clausen must have ignited like a torch.
“Anyway,” Mackenzie said, “his skin’s…well, they have to start from zero. I mean they’ll figure it out by internal evidence, but some tests take a week or more. Plus—”
“I know. It’s the holidays.”
“Even cops deserve a personal life. You wouldn’t believe how angry some women get when we have to work nights,” he said gravely.
I sniffed; disdainfully, I hoped.
He finished his coffee. A gritty triangle of grounds stained the side of the cup. “I don’t know, I thought maybe Peter hit him with something. But we checked the fireplace poker, and it’s clean. No hair, no blood, so I just don’t know.”
I enjoyed concepts—murder, guilt, weapon—more than particulars like hair and blood. I wanted, inappropriately, to change focus. It was, after all, the
I found and read an ancient, tattered Sports Illustrated. I paced. I managed to feel both mentally agitated and brain dead. What did everything mean? I was no longer positive about Laura’s innocence, although more than ever I wanted it to be true so that she could get on with her life and healing.
Still, if that brief glimpse of what she’d lived through made me feel homicidal, how could I not allow her the same impulses? I was no longer positive about Alice or Peter, either.
More time passed. I thought wistfully and irrationally about how cigarettes had once helped make blank times like this bearable, serving as little measuring rods.
This would have been an eleven-cigarette wait.
Mackenzie appeared, rubbing his neck and sipping something that resembled crude oil. It was different, seeing him on the job. Once upon a time, when we met and I was a suspect, Mackenzie had been attractive, but less than endearing. Now, watching from the innocent sidelines, I realized there was something breathtakingly elemental about his methodical search for truth and justice. If I squinted, I could almost see him atop a white horse, plumed helmet, pointed lance and all.
And that’s one way women get seduced into unworkable, undefinable and mangled social lives. Not me. I blinked three times and Lancelot turned into one tired cop slouching over a Styrofoam cup.
“What a mess,” he said, sitting down beside me. “And how’d it come to be my mess, anyway? It’s not even my case.”
“I thought you all helped each other out. One for all and all for justice, or something.” I patted his free hand. “Feel flattered. Those kids trust you. And Alice trusts those kids.”
“Damn depressing,” he said. “Inconclusive. Infuriating. Any one of them could have done it. There’s motive, opportunity…”
“But do you think so? Do you really?”
“Three different versions, but not a one mentions how it was done—and we don’t know ourselves.”
“When will you?”
“It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet,” he said, looking stunned by my foolishness.
“Still, you told me they have all those snazzy tests, computerized equipment. They’ve had two whole days. What have they been doing?”
“Mandy, there are usually clues to tell you where to start. Marks or discoloration. You kind of know whether he was clubbed, or stabbed, or poisoned. But here…” He shook his head and slumped on the bench next to me. “Wouldn’t you think a guy like Santa, who has to go down chimneys, would wear a flameproof suit?”
Alexander Clausen must have ignited like a torch.
“Anyway,” Mackenzie said, “his skin’s…well, they have to start from zero. I mean they’ll figure it out by internal evidence, but some tests take a week or more. Plus—”
“I know. It’s the holidays.”
“Even cops deserve a personal life. You wouldn’t believe how angry some women get when we have to work nights,” he said gravely.
I sniffed; disdainfully, I hoped.
He finished his coffee. A gritty triangle of grounds stained the side of the cup. “I don’t know, I thought maybe Peter hit him with something. But we checked the fireplace poker, and it’s clean. No hair, no blood, so I just don’t know.”
I enjoyed concepts—murder, guilt, weapon—more than particulars like hair and blood. I wanted, inappropriately, to change focus. It was, after all, the
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