Whittaker. That's who I want."
"You'll have him,
sir. I promise that."
• •
Zamorra was at his desk
when Merci walked back into the pen. His face looked tired but his eyes were
oddly hopeful.
"Moladan
checks out at the Bay Club," he said. "Pond scum sticks
together."
"McNally
went to dinner that night. Friends. They'd become best of friends."
Zamorra
looked at her, shaking his head. There was lipstick on the collar of his white
shirt.
"How
is she?" asked Merci.
"Tomorrow's
the day. Tomorrow morning, at six."
"I'll
say a prayer then, Paul."
"There's
a chance it could work."
The prayer or the
"experiment," Merci wondered. Whatever that was. If Paul wasn't going
to talk, she wasn't going to pry.
She sat down and
glanced at the list of johns that Moladan had given them. More names for Gary
Brice to run, she thought. She looked for a note from Coiner or O'Brien, hoping
they'd lucked out with AFIS or CAL-ID on one of the latents. It would be nice
to know somebody else had been to Aubrey Whittaker's home, other than her own
alleged boyfriend. Boyfriend. She'd always hated the word. Ex-boyfriend sounded
even more preposterous. What in hell was he? Ex-something. At any rate,
no note.
"I'm going to
make another pass through Whittaker's place," she said. "Check the
closets and dry cleaning against the fibers Gilliam found."
"I'm
in."
Merci was happy for
that. For one thing, she thought partners came up with more than singles. Two
pair of eyes, two minds, all that. Two guns, if it went that way.
But more, she hated
the idea of being alone, especially in a place that wasn't hers. She had felt
this way ever since the Purse Snatcher had fooled her. In the end, she'd taken
his life, and he'd taken her courage. She could always feel the fear inside,
humming along her nerves, a simmering anxiety that could rise to panic in a
couple of beats of her heart. The panic brought coldness to her bones, weight
to her muscles, a haze to her vision. It made her feel slow and helpless.
It was tripped by
things that would have embarrassed her if she'd told anyone about them—dark
rooms, elevators, parking structures. Cars at night or early morning. Baths.
Using the bathroom. Bathroom fans that whirred on when you hit the light
switch. Showers. The walk from her bedroom to Tim's room late at night. The
walk back. The ocean. Trees without leaves.
Anything she did
alone, or anything she looked at that made her feel alone.
She
had plenty of antidotes: security lights in the yards; double-checking the car
before getting in; a gun hidden safely in every room; one .32 backup strapped
to her ankle and another under the seat of the Impala and her own Trans Am;
nightly courtesy patrols of her by Sheriff Department deputies; an expensive
alarm system installed in her old orange grove house; more hours on the range
with the nine jumping in her hands, again and again and again.
Having
her father move in was partially an antidote.
Seeing
Mike had been partially an antidote.
Socializing
after work once a month on Thursdays was an antidote.
None of them worked.
It was still there inside, ready to flare up, like a gastric virus picked up on
some exotic vacation. Much worse that, actually. More like a freezing river
that would take you with it, shut you down, sweep you under forever where it
was too cold and dark to breathe.
She called Roy
Thornton up in Arrowhead. Personnel had dug up the number for her. He said he'd
talk tomorrow if she wanted to, gave her directions, told her to bring her snow
chains. They already gotten feet, much more to come.
He also asked her to
bring the old file to help refresh him, to jar the memories "out of this
tired old gourd."
Then
she called her father to say she'd be home late.
"SUDS
Club?"
"Yeah."
The Sheriff's
Unsocial Deputies Society—named by Evan O'Brien, who had an eye for a good
acronym—met on the second Thursday each month, 7 p.m . at
Cancun Restaurant.
"Keep
Tim warm and dry," she said. "I miss
"You'll have him,
sir. I promise that."
• •
Zamorra was at his desk
when Merci walked back into the pen. His face looked tired but his eyes were
oddly hopeful.
"Moladan
checks out at the Bay Club," he said. "Pond scum sticks
together."
"McNally
went to dinner that night. Friends. They'd become best of friends."
Zamorra
looked at her, shaking his head. There was lipstick on the collar of his white
shirt.
"How
is she?" asked Merci.
"Tomorrow's
the day. Tomorrow morning, at six."
"I'll
say a prayer then, Paul."
"There's
a chance it could work."
The prayer or the
"experiment," Merci wondered. Whatever that was. If Paul wasn't going
to talk, she wasn't going to pry.
She sat down and
glanced at the list of johns that Moladan had given them. More names for Gary
Brice to run, she thought. She looked for a note from Coiner or O'Brien, hoping
they'd lucked out with AFIS or CAL-ID on one of the latents. It would be nice
to know somebody else had been to Aubrey Whittaker's home, other than her own
alleged boyfriend. Boyfriend. She'd always hated the word. Ex-boyfriend sounded
even more preposterous. What in hell was he? Ex-something. At any rate,
no note.
"I'm going to
make another pass through Whittaker's place," she said. "Check the
closets and dry cleaning against the fibers Gilliam found."
"I'm
in."
Merci was happy for
that. For one thing, she thought partners came up with more than singles. Two
pair of eyes, two minds, all that. Two guns, if it went that way.
But more, she hated
the idea of being alone, especially in a place that wasn't hers. She had felt
this way ever since the Purse Snatcher had fooled her. In the end, she'd taken
his life, and he'd taken her courage. She could always feel the fear inside,
humming along her nerves, a simmering anxiety that could rise to panic in a
couple of beats of her heart. The panic brought coldness to her bones, weight
to her muscles, a haze to her vision. It made her feel slow and helpless.
It was tripped by
things that would have embarrassed her if she'd told anyone about them—dark
rooms, elevators, parking structures. Cars at night or early morning. Baths.
Using the bathroom. Bathroom fans that whirred on when you hit the light
switch. Showers. The walk from her bedroom to Tim's room late at night. The
walk back. The ocean. Trees without leaves.
Anything she did
alone, or anything she looked at that made her feel alone.
She
had plenty of antidotes: security lights in the yards; double-checking the car
before getting in; a gun hidden safely in every room; one .32 backup strapped
to her ankle and another under the seat of the Impala and her own Trans Am;
nightly courtesy patrols of her by Sheriff Department deputies; an expensive
alarm system installed in her old orange grove house; more hours on the range
with the nine jumping in her hands, again and again and again.
Having
her father move in was partially an antidote.
Seeing
Mike had been partially an antidote.
Socializing
after work once a month on Thursdays was an antidote.
None of them worked.
It was still there inside, ready to flare up, like a gastric virus picked up on
some exotic vacation. Much worse that, actually. More like a freezing river
that would take you with it, shut you down, sweep you under forever where it
was too cold and dark to breathe.
She called Roy
Thornton up in Arrowhead. Personnel had dug up the number for her. He said he'd
talk tomorrow if she wanted to, gave her directions, told her to bring her snow
chains. They already gotten feet, much more to come.
He also asked her to
bring the old file to help refresh him, to jar the memories "out of this
tired old gourd."
Then
she called her father to say she'd be home late.
"SUDS
Club?"
"Yeah."
The Sheriff's
Unsocial Deputies Society—named by Evan O'Brien, who had an eye for a good
acronym—met on the second Thursday each month, 7 p.m . at
Cancun Restaurant.
"Keep
Tim warm and dry," she said. "I miss
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