the one losing her shit.”
Summer needed Rosie, needed to lean on her, but was afraid to put herself out on a limb.
Rosie kept her distance, staying in the hall. “Are you all right?”
Summer wanted to let it all pour out, but knew if she did, she would never be able to put it back. “I’m OK. Thanks.”
“Good, good. Listen, one of my clients, a prostitute, was busted for possession and intent to sell. She said to give this to SK’s attorney. That’s you, right?” Rosie handed her an envelope.
Summer resisted the urge to tell Rosie to keep it for herself—or pass it on to Brockton. “What’s a B-girl want with me?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What’s her name?”
“Melba Ignacio.”
It didn’t strike a chord.
“Can I ask you something, Rosie?”
“Maybe.”
As in, not if it has to do with us , Summer realized. Fine . “What do you know about Tai Sanborn?”
Rosie was caught off guard, but quickly righted herself. “Besides that he’s half-Japanese and so fine he could be modeling underwear? Only that the cops hate him. The story goes some of the boys were skimming crack from the drug lab and then reselling it. When Sanborn got wind, he bled it to internal affairs. They reassigned him to another division, but not for long. He was chasing this perp into a crack house when his partner ran out of there like a candy-assed baboon. The perp winged him.”
“Where was he hit?”
“His gun hand.”
“So that spelled the end of his cop days?”
“You can’t be a cop if you can’t shoot straight.”
“How do you know all this?”
Rosie blew on her fingernails and brushed them against her chest. “Who do you think defended the perp?”
Rosie returned to her office. Seconds later, Summer’s phone rang. She picked up.
“Just so you know,” Rosie said, “I got him a real good deal, too.” Click.
Smiling, Summer hung up and tore open the letter from Ignacio. The handwriting was flowery and adolescent, a bubble dot over the ‘i.’
I saw who killed Gundy.
Chapter 15
The sun peered over knobby mountains, casting oblique shadows around the parched tombstones. Two burly men in windbreakers, the faded logo of the Haze County Medical Examiner’s office on their backs, were thigh-deep in the earth, shoveling dirt. There was a numb clank when metal struck coffin.
Summer was sitting on a headstone flipped sideways. Between dangling legs, she could read part of the epitaph: Sean Alvin Strickland. March 1, 1949 - May 24, 19— . Spray-painted profanity covered the rest, but she knew when he was supposed to have died. It was amazing, Summer reflected, how few people could spell “Satan.”
One of the diggers scrambled out of the ground and up to a crane while the other donned gloves and swept dirt from the top of the coffin. Summer wondered what Strickland’s victims would say to his unburying. If she tried hard enough, could she hear their diphthongs of grief and rage?
“Hey,” Chantelle N’Dour, the medical examiner, said, handing Summer coffee in Styrofoam. “I’m just in time for the tricky part.”
West African by birth, American by choice, Chantelle was a wet-dream witness for the D.A.: intelligent, well-prepared, and her science was beyond reproach. White jurors, always the majority in Haze County, convinced themselves they weren’t racist by giving Chantelle’s testimony extra weight. Summer had cross-examined her many times, knew that Chantelle was as beautiful and brilliant as she was statuesque—6’2”, all bone and moonless-night complexion.
Summer sipped coffee. “What’s tricky about lifting a coffin out of the ground?”
“You mean raising the dead? He’s been in the ground a long time—” She shouted at the gloved digger, who was fumbling with cable. “Make sure you triple the straps, Boyd. We don’t want Mr. Strickland’s remains to tumble out.”
Summer detected a hodgepodge of accents: African, French, British, and New Jersey, where Chantelle
Summer needed Rosie, needed to lean on her, but was afraid to put herself out on a limb.
Rosie kept her distance, staying in the hall. “Are you all right?”
Summer wanted to let it all pour out, but knew if she did, she would never be able to put it back. “I’m OK. Thanks.”
“Good, good. Listen, one of my clients, a prostitute, was busted for possession and intent to sell. She said to give this to SK’s attorney. That’s you, right?” Rosie handed her an envelope.
Summer resisted the urge to tell Rosie to keep it for herself—or pass it on to Brockton. “What’s a B-girl want with me?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What’s her name?”
“Melba Ignacio.”
It didn’t strike a chord.
“Can I ask you something, Rosie?”
“Maybe.”
As in, not if it has to do with us , Summer realized. Fine . “What do you know about Tai Sanborn?”
Rosie was caught off guard, but quickly righted herself. “Besides that he’s half-Japanese and so fine he could be modeling underwear? Only that the cops hate him. The story goes some of the boys were skimming crack from the drug lab and then reselling it. When Sanborn got wind, he bled it to internal affairs. They reassigned him to another division, but not for long. He was chasing this perp into a crack house when his partner ran out of there like a candy-assed baboon. The perp winged him.”
“Where was he hit?”
“His gun hand.”
“So that spelled the end of his cop days?”
“You can’t be a cop if you can’t shoot straight.”
“How do you know all this?”
Rosie blew on her fingernails and brushed them against her chest. “Who do you think defended the perp?”
Rosie returned to her office. Seconds later, Summer’s phone rang. She picked up.
“Just so you know,” Rosie said, “I got him a real good deal, too.” Click.
Smiling, Summer hung up and tore open the letter from Ignacio. The handwriting was flowery and adolescent, a bubble dot over the ‘i.’
I saw who killed Gundy.
Chapter 15
The sun peered over knobby mountains, casting oblique shadows around the parched tombstones. Two burly men in windbreakers, the faded logo of the Haze County Medical Examiner’s office on their backs, were thigh-deep in the earth, shoveling dirt. There was a numb clank when metal struck coffin.
Summer was sitting on a headstone flipped sideways. Between dangling legs, she could read part of the epitaph: Sean Alvin Strickland. March 1, 1949 - May 24, 19— . Spray-painted profanity covered the rest, but she knew when he was supposed to have died. It was amazing, Summer reflected, how few people could spell “Satan.”
One of the diggers scrambled out of the ground and up to a crane while the other donned gloves and swept dirt from the top of the coffin. Summer wondered what Strickland’s victims would say to his unburying. If she tried hard enough, could she hear their diphthongs of grief and rage?
“Hey,” Chantelle N’Dour, the medical examiner, said, handing Summer coffee in Styrofoam. “I’m just in time for the tricky part.”
West African by birth, American by choice, Chantelle was a wet-dream witness for the D.A.: intelligent, well-prepared, and her science was beyond reproach. White jurors, always the majority in Haze County, convinced themselves they weren’t racist by giving Chantelle’s testimony extra weight. Summer had cross-examined her many times, knew that Chantelle was as beautiful and brilliant as she was statuesque—6’2”, all bone and moonless-night complexion.
Summer sipped coffee. “What’s tricky about lifting a coffin out of the ground?”
“You mean raising the dead? He’s been in the ground a long time—” She shouted at the gloved digger, who was fumbling with cable. “Make sure you triple the straps, Boyd. We don’t want Mr. Strickland’s remains to tumble out.”
Summer detected a hodgepodge of accents: African, French, British, and New Jersey, where Chantelle
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