ah, parole. Highsmith has two arrests, both on drug possession charges, and had been released five weeks ago to await trial. Police say Jackson was at Oak Hill, the city’s juvenile detention facility, and escaped two weeks ago. They were apparently at a neighborhood basketball court just before the Sarah Reese killing, and then again minutes later, and were found to have an item of Sarah’s in their possession when arrested earlier today at—”
“What is ‘item’?” Dmitri said. “Why don’t they just say?”
“’Cause the police didn’t tell them,” Sully said. “They didn’t tell me, either. Why bother? It’ll come out in court. What they want—what the police want right now—is for people to go to bed thinking it’s all over.”
Dmitri turned the sound down. “You want another?”
Vant
. Sully tapped the top of his glass in response. Dmitri raised his eyebrows at the man three seats down, who shook his head no. Dmitri made another Sazerac and told him that would be the last one. Sully said sure and then his phone buzzed.
“How did you know?” Melissa.
“Lucky guess.”
“Look, if you’re just going to be an ass—”
“So glad I was out at the Reese house taking dictation while your boy was killing it on the investigation.”
There was fifteen seconds of silence. Then, “I
said
you were right, okay, but—”
“I wouldn’t get real excited about these arrests, either,” he said, jumping ahead to keep her off balance. “They look screwy.”
“Screwy? Eddie said you were on about this. These morons were just out of jail when this went down. Something happened in that store and they—”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me about it tomorrow,” he said, and clicked off the phone.
A bartender had materialized from the back room, walking the length of the bar, turning the sound down on the television, sliding around Dmitri in the narrow space, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging as she did so. She walked up to Sully and put one hand, then two, on the bar between them. She took his whiskey glass and took a pull of the Sazerac.
“Dusty,” he said, “as I goddamn live and breathe.”
twelve
She was in the shower, talking behind the curtain, the door to the bathroom closed, the mirrors steamed over. He had already gotten out of the shower and was sitting on the closed toilet seat, a towel wrapped around his waist. Two bourbons, ice melting in the glasses, were sitting on the top of the toilet tank.
“So you’re saying, if I’m following this, the person who killed the judge’s kid is still out there? And Sly rigged it that way?”
“More or less.” He liked her being in the shower. He liked listening to her voice and the water and the sound of the spray hitting the soft plastic of the curtain. It wasn’t often there was a voice in the house besides his, and hers, in its softer inflections and higher pitches, in its laughter and warmth, made the place seem better than it was.
“So why? Why would he do that?”
“Needed the cops off the street, or so he says. He knew where the suspects were, so he threw ’em to the cops.”
“Sounds like a setup.”
He was examining his toenails and wondered where the clippers were. “That’s what I just said.”
“No. I mean to cover his own tracks.”
“
His
tracks? You’re saying Sly Hastings killed David Reese’s daughter?”
The shower water turned off. She pulled the curtain back and reached for her drink. She took a long draw on it, then set it back down and reached for a towel.
“How should I know? He had time and opportunity, didn’t he? Did you ask him where he was? All that’s missing,” she said, stepping out of the shower, standing in front of him, her breasts at the height of his eyes, smiling playfully down at him, “is motive. Which you tell me no one ever really knows.”
He uncrossed his legs and swept the towel to the side, trying to be, what was the word, present. There was him, a chasm, and then
“What is ‘item’?” Dmitri said. “Why don’t they just say?”
“’Cause the police didn’t tell them,” Sully said. “They didn’t tell me, either. Why bother? It’ll come out in court. What they want—what the police want right now—is for people to go to bed thinking it’s all over.”
Dmitri turned the sound down. “You want another?”
Vant
. Sully tapped the top of his glass in response. Dmitri raised his eyebrows at the man three seats down, who shook his head no. Dmitri made another Sazerac and told him that would be the last one. Sully said sure and then his phone buzzed.
“How did you know?” Melissa.
“Lucky guess.”
“Look, if you’re just going to be an ass—”
“So glad I was out at the Reese house taking dictation while your boy was killing it on the investigation.”
There was fifteen seconds of silence. Then, “I
said
you were right, okay, but—”
“I wouldn’t get real excited about these arrests, either,” he said, jumping ahead to keep her off balance. “They look screwy.”
“Screwy? Eddie said you were on about this. These morons were just out of jail when this went down. Something happened in that store and they—”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me about it tomorrow,” he said, and clicked off the phone.
A bartender had materialized from the back room, walking the length of the bar, turning the sound down on the television, sliding around Dmitri in the narrow space, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging as she did so. She walked up to Sully and put one hand, then two, on the bar between them. She took his whiskey glass and took a pull of the Sazerac.
“Dusty,” he said, “as I goddamn live and breathe.”
twelve
She was in the shower, talking behind the curtain, the door to the bathroom closed, the mirrors steamed over. He had already gotten out of the shower and was sitting on the closed toilet seat, a towel wrapped around his waist. Two bourbons, ice melting in the glasses, were sitting on the top of the toilet tank.
“So you’re saying, if I’m following this, the person who killed the judge’s kid is still out there? And Sly rigged it that way?”
“More or less.” He liked her being in the shower. He liked listening to her voice and the water and the sound of the spray hitting the soft plastic of the curtain. It wasn’t often there was a voice in the house besides his, and hers, in its softer inflections and higher pitches, in its laughter and warmth, made the place seem better than it was.
“So why? Why would he do that?”
“Needed the cops off the street, or so he says. He knew where the suspects were, so he threw ’em to the cops.”
“Sounds like a setup.”
He was examining his toenails and wondered where the clippers were. “That’s what I just said.”
“No. I mean to cover his own tracks.”
“
His
tracks? You’re saying Sly Hastings killed David Reese’s daughter?”
The shower water turned off. She pulled the curtain back and reached for her drink. She took a long draw on it, then set it back down and reached for a towel.
“How should I know? He had time and opportunity, didn’t he? Did you ask him where he was? All that’s missing,” she said, stepping out of the shower, standing in front of him, her breasts at the height of his eyes, smiling playfully down at him, “is motive. Which you tell me no one ever really knows.”
He uncrossed his legs and swept the towel to the side, trying to be, what was the word, present. There was him, a chasm, and then
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