“So what about this?” She pointed to the punctured ovary.
“All I can say is we’ve got some thus far undetectable factor that has degenerated the reproductive organs of every animal on this site. Even the chickens, for God’s sake.” He shook his head in sheer disillusion. “Have you ever tried to autopsy a chicken?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Lydia said.
««—»»
“Chief White’s at the main office,” Sergeant Peerce informed her when she walked into the substation. He quickly stashed a glossy magazine, titled Pizza Slut, into a drawer. Porker sat at the booking desk, taking care of a box of SafeWay chocolate cream wheels. He kept his face down when Lydia entered.
Peerce was smiling, flipping the cylinder of his Ruger Blackhawk open and closed. Click, clack. Click, clack. Other officers in for shift-change were smiling too. She glanced again to Porker, but he still refused to look up.
“Better get that prelim to Chief White,” Peerce advised. Click, clack. Click, clack. Smiling. “He’s been waitin’ on it.”
Lydia left for Main Administration. Something was going on and she didn’t like not knowing what. White’s personal cruiser was parked next to the dean’s Rolls. Inside, she passed the dean’s office. The man looked up from his huge teak desk as she passed. “Officer Prentiss! Please come in!”
Lydia hedged in. “Good morning, sir.”
“And a very good morning to you. That was fine work you did at the agro site yesterday. Chief White told me all about it.”
Did Chief White also tell you he’s putting a lid on it? “Thank you, sir.”
“And I hope you appreciate the necessity to accentuate certain details of the incident for the time being.”
Sure, lie to the public for convenience sake. Lydia nodded.
“Good, good!” the dean said. He was trying to be cordial, but Lydia knew he’d only called her in to bust her chops a little. “Keep up the good work,” he added. “And have a nice day!”
“You too, sir.” Lydia went back into the hall. Long display cases adorned the main lobby, local relics and artifacts disinterred by Exham’s archaeology department. Several battles of the Revolution had taken place nearby. One case displayed an array of sabers and bayonets. Another held firearms: flintlocks, wheel locks, cap and ball pistols. Lydia should’ve looked harder at the last case, which was hung with common tools of the colonial period. Rusted froes, cradle scythes, hammers, and mattocks. One space was labeled “Beam hewer, St. Clement’s Island, circa 1635.” But the large space over the label was empty.
She killed some time scanning the cases. What could she tell White? Eventually she dawdled into her boss’s office. White was drinking from a coffee mug with a Confederate flag on it. “Ah, there’s my girl,” he said. “You get that prelim?”
“It’s a health order, not a prelim,” she said, and gave it to him.
White stuffed it in a drawer. “That guy Latin say what happened?”
“It’s Hatton, and no, he didn’t. He’s taking the animals for more tests. He said whatever killed them isn’t contagious.”
“Well, then, that’s good, ain’t it?”
“Not when the papers ask about it.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The papers don’t know about it, and they ain’t gonna. It’s all taken care of.” He gave her the eye. “You get what I’m sayin’?”
“Sure. You read my report on the burglary last night?”
“A’course I read it. What about it?”
“You want me to keep working on the prints?”
“Why? It wasn’t no burgle anyway, just some two bit vandalism.”
“Files were stolen, Chief. Someone specifically targeted them.”
“So what?” he said. “Some punk joker probably just grabbed a handful and throwed ’em all over the Route. Big deal.”
“So forget that too, huh? Like the agro site? Like the ax?”
White gave her a big shee it shake of the head. “You still thinkin’ on that goddamn ax? Shee it. You wanna take a couple days off regular duty and follow up on that shit, then go ahead. I’ll even pay ya. How’s that sound?”
“You’re serious?”
“Sure I’m serious. Go on an’ do your thing.”
This didn’t sound right. “Do I get a cruiser?”
“Hell, no. What I look like, fuckin’ Santa Claus?”
Take what you can get, Lydia. “Okay, Chief. Thanks.”
“You’re quite welcome, Prentiss, but remember. Anything you find out about any of this agro business, you report to me and to me only, ya hear?”
“Loud and clear, Chief.” Lydia turned to leave, but—
“Oh, and Prentiss?” The chief clapped once, rubbed his knees. “I almost forgot. I heard somethin’ a mite funny today, real funny.”
“Oh, yeah?” Lydia asked.
“Yeah, see, I heard you got a new boyfriend, and what’s funny about it is—and I mean real funny—”
“Real funny, I heard you,” she said, and now she knew why Peerce had been smiling and why Porker hadn’t looked her in the face.
“I heard this new boyfriend of yours is Wade St. John.” White stopped laughing. His face turned to brick.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “I had a drink with him, and since when does my private life have any bearing on work?”
White was rubbing his eyes. “Prentiss, Prentiss, I been dealin’ with that phony con man cock hounding rich punk for the last six years. He’s a user, Prentiss. He’ll chew you up and spit you out, just like all the others. That nut chase son of a bitch goes through women faster than I go through cigars.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Lydia walked out, bemused. For the first time this morning, she thought of Wade. Was he really as bad as White claimed? At least he’s a good kisser, she thought frivolously. No, a great kisser. And with that frivolity she finally acknowledged what she’d been repressing since last night. She liked Wade St. John.
She liked him a lot.
She wondered if that was a big mistake.
««—»»
Wade leapt from bed, swearing. The goddamn Baby Ben hadn’t gone off, and now it was past 9 A.M., and he was going to be late for that humiliating parody he now thought of as “work.” Besser would come down on him, literally, like a ton of bricks. Wade grabbed a towel, dashed for the shower, when someone knocked on the door. Must be Jervis or Tom, he reasoned, and, dressed only in sagging Fruit of the Looms, he yanked open the door. “Can’t talk now, I’m late for—”
It was Lydia Prentiss who stood in the doorway. She did not seem shocked by his appearance; it was Wade who was shocked. Instead of the usual tan cop suit, she wore flip flops, cutoffs, and an orange bikini top. Her hair in a ponytail, she appraised him through mirrored shades. Her faint smile betrayed her amusement.
“Nice briefs,” she said.
“Uh, um,” he said. “Excuse me.” He left her at the door and pulled on his robe, hoping that his trapdoor (a mysterious provision of all underwear manufacturers) had not disclosed what dangled within. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.