"Not a problem," I told her. "I'll copy your office with all the stuff that comes in and the reports that go out."
She shook her head. "No, don't do that – I'd like you to keep in touch with me, personally."
I must have looked at her funny, because she said, "I'm on an indefinite leave of absence, Stan. The official story is that I'm grieving over the death of my sister – and I would be, too, if there weren't more important things to attend to."
"Leave of… Jesus H. Christ." I shook my head slowly. "You should've told me that before I started running my mouth, Lacey. If you're a civilian, for however long it lasts, you've got no right to that information."
"On the contrary, Stan," she said in a voice that chilled me. "Who has more right to that information than I do? Can't you hear my sister's spirit, crying out for vengeance? I sure as hell can."
"Lacey…" One of her hands was lying flat on the table, and I gently covered it with my own. "You can't go running around like some kind of vigilante. This is real life, not some fucking Charles Bronson movie, for Chrissake."
"Movie? There's already a movie being filmed, Stan. You described one of the scenes for me yourself, remember? I'm just planning to add to the cast of characters – and maybe change the ending, too."
Something moved behind her eyes, then. I can't say what it was, exactly – but it made me very glad that I wasn't one of the people who had put her sister in front of those video cameras.
"Lacey, you'll just get yourself killed – either that, or arrested. You know what happens to cops who end up in prison, even a women's prison."
"That doesn't scare me, Stan. And anyway, if I should end up in the slam, I guarantee you that within a week those other bitches will be afraid of me."
I believed her, too.
Lacey covered my hand with her other one, as if we were choking a bat to see who had to play left field. "Stan, you want to stop looking at my civilian status as a problem, and think of it as an opportunity."
"An opportunity? For what?" I asked her.
"An opportunity to get things done that the job won't let you do yourself. I don't have to worry about warrants, Stan, or about probable cause. I can go where you can't, and do the things you'd never be allowed to."
As I thought about that, she gave me a crooked grin. "And besides, your chances for getting in my pants will be much improved."
"Lacey, I'm going to risk my career by letting you know about this case as it develops – but it's not because of interest in your body. In fact, I'd rather you didn't bring that up again until this business is over, assuming we're both still alive and at liberty, and maybe not even then. Now, give me your personal contact information."
She pulled out her business card and began to write on the back. Then she stopped and looked up at me. "You're an unusual guy, Stan – and not in a bad way, either."
I got home still wired from all the coffee I'd had in the diner with Lacey, but I needed to get some sleep. Carbohydrates usually make me sleepy, and I was hungry anyway, so I had a plate of rigatoni with spaghetti sauce over it. I make great spaghetti sauce – it's all in the way I open the jar.
Then I checked on Quincey, gave him some food pellets, and went to take a long hot shower. The warm water, combined with the digesting pasta and extreme fatigue, helped make me drowsy, so I decided to try and get some rest.
A while later – which turned out to be an hour and twenty minutes – I found myself wondering why music was playing while I was in the process of undressing Agent Thorwald. Then part of my brain registered that I was listening to "Tubular Bells". Thorwald and her French bikini underwear disappeared, my eyes snapped open, and I grabbed the phone.
"Yeah. This is Markowski."
"Stan, this is Harry West, over at the squad."
It took me a couple of seconds to process this, then I remembered that Sergeant Harry West was head of the day shift at the Supe Squad. McGuire's the boss and usually works nights, but Harry supervises the detectives who work the non-peak daylight hours. I don't see him too often.
"Yeah, Harry, what is it?" I was just awake enough to start feeling worried. West wasn't calling because he wanted my recipe for clam dip.
"I got a call from Homicide about something that went down a little while ago. Even though you're off duty, I figured you'd want to be in on it."
"What happened? Where?" I said.
"There's been a shooting. One dead that I know of. It's at 1440 Monroe, apartment 4-C."
Until that moment I wasn't fully awake, but the effect that address had on me was like being dropped into the Susquehanna in January.
"Fuck, that's Karl's place!" I said. "Is he all right?"
"The shooting vic is human, but that's all I know right now. You heading over there?"
"Bet your ass I am."
There was a black-and-white unit in front of Karl's building with its lights going, next to an unmarked car with a portable flasher that I assumed belonged to Homicide.
The elevator brought me up to Four, and even if I hadn't known which apartment was Karl's, it wouldn't have been hard to find, since only one had a cop standing at the door. I realized that my badge wasn't on display and I was reaching for my ID folder when the uniform at the door said, "It's all right, Sarge. Go on in." He opened the door for me and stood aside.
When I walked into Karl's living room, Scanlon looked up from the corpse he was kneeling over and said, "Took you long enough to get here."
"Jesus, Scanlon, don't you ever sleep?"
"Sleep is overrated. I'd rather work – especially if it involves coming to little parties like this one."
The party in question was small, but colorful. It consisted of me, Scanlon, a couple of his homicide guys, and the forensics techs. I wasn't sure whether to include the corpse on the floor, or not. As for the color – I'll get to that.
In life the deceased had been a human, probably male. He wore fancy cowboy boots, new-looking jeans, and a light nylon jacket of dark green. I'd based my assessment of his gender on clothing, body size, and the look of the one hand I could see. I couldn't be certain because he didn't have a head anymore. Most of it was decorating one wall, looking like a painting by that Jackson Pollack guy I'd once seen a movie about.