He looks to me for agreement, with a desperate eagerness that’s a little appalling, unaware that not only is he asking me for something I don’t have the power to grant but he’s also conforming to a stereotype well known to law enforcement: the guilty helper. When a civilian suddenly offers up his services, you always take a harder look at him, because more than likely he’s involved – or so the thinking goes. I think I know what motivates Robb, though. Not his involvement, but his lack of it, for he’s convinced if only he’d invested more of himself before the fact, none of this would have happened.
“I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Robb, but – ”
“Anything,” he says.
I stroke my chin, buying time, wracking my brain for a non-binding exit strategy. “If you can track down a number for the Dyers in New Orleans, that would be fine. And if you want to talk to the kids in your youth group, see if anything else comes up, go right ahead. But beyond that – ”
“Thank you.” He grips my hand and gives it a shake. “I’m grateful, really. I’ll do whatever I can and get back to you. And if you think of anything else, just let me know.”
“I’ll do that,” I say, slipping away, making a beeline for my parked car before he can offer up additional thanks.
The next morning I roll over to find Charlotte’s side of the bed empty. The slight dimple in the mattress is still warm. I throw on some clothes and pad down the stairs. She’s in the kitchen, fully dressed, gazing out the window over the sink.
I kiss her warm cheek, then brush the hair from her neck. “You all right? You’re up early.”
“Just thinking,” she says.
I open the refrigerator, pour out the last of the orange juice, splashing half of it into a second cup, which I place in her waiting hand.
“I’d like things to be how they were,” she says. “No, that’s not right. I want them to be how they should be. In the future, I mean.”
“Okay.” I’m a little baffled.
“Ann said something last night. When we were doing the dishes. She said we didn’t seem happy anymore. Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re lying. I can tell, you know. My husband’s a detective.”
“Things can be like they were – ”
“They’ll never be like they were,” she says. “I know that. I’m not naive. But I want them to be good again. All right?”
I down the orange juice, lower the glass. “I want that, too.”
Upstairs, my mobile phone starts to ring. I should honor the moment by letting it go, but the moment’s already as good as it can get. I kiss her on the juice-dampened lips and rush the stairs two at a time. The phone flashes on the nightstand charger.
“Hello?”
“March, it’s Wilcox. Good news.”
“I have the go-ahead to approach Thomson?”
“So long as he’s willing to give us everything, we’re prepared to work with him on the rest.”
“He wants it in writing.”
“Should I fax it over, or do you want to swing by?”
“I’d better come by. The fewer people who know, the better.”
When I head back downstairs to tell Charlotte, she’s standing in the open back door, arms crossed, glaring up at the apartment over the garage. I come up behind her, resting my cheek against her neck. At the top of the stairs, I catch sight of a girl in a crop top and tight jeans just disappearing into the apartment.
“You’ve got to take care of that, too,” she says.
“I did have a talk with him.”
“A talk’s not enough.” She turns, puts her hands around my waist. “He’s got to go. It’s past the point of talking. Just get him out.”
My hand rests on the small of her back and I inhale the scent of her hair.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say. “Whatever you want.”
CHAPTER 13
Instead of heading straight out to the Northwest, business as usual, waiting for Thomson to get back in touch, I make an unscheduled visit downtown, breezing through Homicide on the pretense of having left some files in my desk. Lorenz gives me the cold shoulder, as expected, but Bascombe proves surprisingly cordial, stopping me outside his office to ask how the task force is going and whether I’m fitting in all right. Now that I’m no longer his problem, I guess the lieutenant wants me to see he’s not carrying any grudges. Neither should I, the implication seems to be.
“Any breaks on the Morales case?” I ask.
He gives his head a wary shake, like he suspects a trick question. “There’s a cool breeze blowing over that one, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
We stand there a moment, pondering the way a live case can suddenly flash-freeze, all the leads going cold at once. In this instance, with so many bodies and so much physical evidence, it’s hard to believe the line’s already gone dead, even for Lorenz. Strangely, I feel no satisfaction. If my test results come back positive and Thomson really can put the shooters in the frame, the fact that Lorenz got nowhere will only make my victory that much sweeter. Still, there are so many contingencies, so much that could go wrong. I can’t gloat for fear of jinxing my chance.
“You hear anything about your dna test?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You still think there’s a connection?” He doesn’t sound quite as skeptical as when they gave me the boot. Maybe he’s realizing he backed the wrong detective.
“It’s hard to say.” I turn to go. “We should know soon enough.”
The files are in my desk drawer. I tuck them under my arm, aware of Bascombe hovering nearby, watching my every move.
“If you do get back a positive match,” he calls after me, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”
“Sure thing.” I slip down the aisle toward the exit, giving a little over-the-shoulder wave of acknowledgment. When I glance back, he’s still watching, and I notice Lorenz’s head poking above the cubicle wall.
The sign next to the door reads COMPREHENSIVE RISK ASSESSMENT, not Golden Parachute Brigade, but the matching, nick-free furniture and the glossy new computer screens let me know I have arrived in the right place. The suite is compact, just a bullpen flanked by half a dozen enclosed offices, quiet enough that I can hear the rush of air through the registers overhead. A civilian secretary seated near the entrance behind a low-walled cubicle motions for me to halt.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Tony Salazar.”
She unclips her telephone earpiece and saunters over to one of the offices, tapping lightly on the closed door. After a pause, she opens it and leans inside. My story is simple: since I did Salazar a favor over the weekend, cutting loose one of his confidential informants, he now owes me one. I’ve come to see whether his ears on the street have heard anything about the Morales shooting. If in the course of this errand I happen to run across Joe Thomson, so be it. The meeting will have occurred by chance, and he’ll know without my having to say anything that the arrangements he requested have been made.
After a hushed conversation, the secretary returns to her desk, nodding for me to advance. Salazar meets me at the door, enclosing my offered hand in his thick boxing glove of a fist. He’s short but powerfully built, with tight dark curls and a nose that either came out flat or was beaten into that shape long ago. To accommodate his broad shoulders, he’s had to buy a white button-down that billows out around the waist, making his legs look disproportionately small.
He pulls me over the threshold, snapping the door shut behind me. My disappointment must show, but he misinterprets the reason.
“The boss is in,” he says with a shrug. “You two aren’t exactly the best of friends.”
It’s flattering to know that after all these years, Keller still keeps our rivalry alive on his end, long after it has stopped making sense for him to perceive me as a threat. The closed door means Thomson won’t be able to pass by and notice me, but in a small way Salazar’s reason for shutting it makes up for that. Once I’m done, I will just have to make a point of lingering.