The smile he gave me in return was tinged with relief and worry.
“Hey,” I said before he could say anything else that would make the mood even weirder or break it entirely. “You wanna grab some coffee or something someday? I mean, some time when I’m not crawling with maggots,” I added with a laugh that sounded nervous to my own ears and probably sounded desperate and pathetic to his. I totally braced myself for him to hem and haw and say that he couldn’t or had a girlfriend or something. I was shocked instead when he gave me a nod.
“That sounds nice. And I’m cool with the no maggots thing too.”
We were saved from any more possible awkwardness by Derrel’s piercing whistle to get my attention. I looked over to see that the homicide detective was exiting the house.
“I’m up,” I said, as I pushed off the front of the Durango. “It was nice talking to you.”
“I’m going to hold you to that coffee,” he said, surprising me by giving me a wink.
I turned away with a silly grin on my face to collect a maggot-covered body.
Chapter 19
Dad called the next morning. I was expecting it, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“Angel, it’s your dad,” he said after I answered. Not “Dad” but “your dad.” In case I wasn’t sure, y’know? “Baby, I’m real sorry about what happened.”
I sat on the couch and pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “I know. You were drunk.”
“I was wrong, honey. I . . . I dunno why I get so worked up.”
Because you feel like a failure, I thought. I’m a fuckup, which means you failed as a dad. But I wasn’t a fuckup anymore. Or at least not as much of one. He couldn’t see that. Or maybe he didn’t want to see it. Then he’d be the only loser in the house.
“Can you come bail me out, please? I been here a day and a half now. They keep it so goddamned cold in here, and I’m hurting bad.”
Shit shit shit. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Dad. Maybe if you tell them you’re in pain they can take you to the clinic?”
“Why can’t you come bail me out?” He sounded tired. Old. I felt older. Yeah, he’d been a complete piece of shit, but he wasn’t always like that. Not always. Sometimes he came through for me—like the day he took me to the ER with broken ribs and arm when I was twelve. I could still remember the dull pain in his voice as he told the police to go and arrest his wife, because he knew that if they didn’t she’d end up killing me. She’d been mentally ill—I could see that now. But all I’d known then was that Dad was saving me and at the same time betraying my mother. I’d loved him and hated him.
Still did.
The knot in my throat made it tough to talk. “I can’t,” I said, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “Dad. I . . . don’t think they’ll let me bail you out,” I lied. “And I don’t have any money left, remember?”
He was silent for so long I thought maybe he’d hung up. It was only the noise of people talking in the background that told me he was still on the line. “Okay, baby,” he finally said. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I choked out.
Then the background noise cut off, and I knew he’d hung up.
I sat there with my head in my hands for several minutes, then called the jail up and asked to have my number blocked from the inmate phone system. He’d get out eventually, but I wasn’t going to help. And I couldn’t take any more calls like this.
Go me, I thought dully. I’m not that victim.
Chapter 20
I was starting to figure out that Derrel had a sixth sense-thing going on, where he knew exactly what to say to make people feel better. Even if sometimes that something was absolutely nothing. Not even an “I’m here if you need someone to talk to”—which is usually even more unhelpful than staying out of it completely. And that old “If you need anything, let me know,” is also a total crock. You hear people say it all the time, but then you never see anyone actually call up the person who said it and say, “Hey, remember when you said to let you know if I needed anything? Well, I’m feeling really overwhelmed. Could you please come clean my kitchen, because if I could have a clean kitchen, I’d feel like I had a bit of a head start.” You’ll never hear someone say that, because then the person asking the other person to clean their kitchen is seen as a helpless, incompetent dick.
What would be so much better would be for the person who spouted the useless “if you need anything just ask” platitude to fucking go over to the person’s house and clean their goddamn kitchen without being asked. Go over and say, “Hey, you go take care of your kid or your work, or go take a fucking nap. And when you get done, you’ll have a clean kitchen. And, no, you don’t owe me a goddamn thing. Someday the shoe will be on the other foot, okay?”
And that was the sort of shit that Derrel did all the time. He never breathed a word or a hint, but he was too tapped in to the gossip to not know what was going on with my dad. He didn’t ask me why I was so quiet, which was more of a relief that I could have possibly expressed. And no, he didn’t come over and clean my kitchen, but when I met him at a death scene later in the morning, he stopped me before we went inside the condo and handed me an insulated cup full of hot chocolate and a paper bag with an egg and bacon biscuit in it.
“You’re too skinny,” he told me. “And if you don’t eat it willingly, I’ll hold you down and make you eat it.”
I took the bag from him. I had absolutely no doubt that he would do exactly that.
“Besides,” he added with a wicked smile, “you should always be well fed going into a death scene. There’s nothing worse then puking on an empty stomach.”
“I have never and will never puke on a death scene,” I informed him around mouthfuls of bacon and egg biscuit.
He grinned. “I’m beginning to think this is true. You’re getting to be pretty damn hardcore. Amazing the stuff we can survive, isn’t it?”
It was the closest he ever came to saying something meant to be comforting. Yet I was more comforted and reassured and all that than I would have been if he’d given me a big ol’ hug or anything weird and touchy-feely like that. Actually, if he’d given me a hug I’d have probably freaked the hell out, because, well, that would have been seriously weird. But then again, I was about as far from touchy-feely as you could get. Unless you’re fucking me, don’t put your hands on me.
I finished up the biscuit and hot chocolate, and followed Derrel into the condo with the stretcher and body bag.
There was no crime scene tape or sign-in log—only a deputy at the door who directed us toward a bedroom in the back. I left the stretcher in the foyer and followed Derrel with the bag.
We were in a condo on the south end of Tucker Point in a complex that advertised itself with terms like “luxury” and “high end.” Through the bedroom window I could see the Kreeger River, and I’d seen on our way up that the bottom floor of this condo had a walkway that led to a private dock where a modest-sized boat was parked. The condo had all of the modern touches—stainless steel appliances, wood floors, marble counters. The furniture in the bedroom was solid and elegant, all in a matching dark oak—unlike the thrift-store variety selection in my own house. The bedding was a rich red and gold brocade and looked expensive as hell, though right now it was stained with vomit and saliva.
But not egg-and-bacon-biscuit vomit at least.
The source of the vomit lay sprawled on her side, eyes half-lidded and dulled by death. She looked fairly young—maybe mid to late twenties or so. Pretty and slender, she had shoulder-length brown hair subtly highlighted with red and blonde, tendrils of which snaked through the congealing mess of puke beneath her head. Bubbles of spit lingered on her mouth, and I could see the remains of a dark red lipstick. She was wearing a pink tank top and panties that looked like they came from Victoria’s Secret instead of Walmart, and her nails were nicely done with a French manicure. I could see flecks of pills in the puke, and about half a dozen baggies containing more pills on the nightstand.