“As you can imagine, we were a little more concerned about my brother’s health than your story.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding almost surprised not to be the center of attention.
“I talked to Paul,” I said, “and maybe he did confirm some aspects of your story.”
“See?” He sounded very pleased with himself.
“Yeah. I guess I’m still wondering what you want from me. Are you still asking me for money?”
“We didn’t really get to finish our discussion.”
“Right. You said you’d had some ups and downs. Some bad luck, as you put it.”
“Health problems too. I have a heart condition. A lot of medication.”
“Does your bad luck also involve being in jail?” I asked. “I understand that was part of it.”
I heard his breathing through the phone. It was heavy, but not from exertion. It sounded like the low huffing of an animal, the rhythm of a predator gathering his strength.
“That would be your uncle talking,” he said.
“It would be.”
“Well, he has his own side of the story to tell. Don’t we all?”
“I think I need to go, Mr. Baxter. As you can imagine, I have a lot of other things on my mind right now.”
“So your answer is no?”
“I don’t know why my mom gave you money, but I can’t afford to. I have a brother to take care of. I just became his guardian, and that’s enough for me. If you don’t mind—”
“You’re the guardian?” Gordon asked. He sounded surprised and knowing at the same time.
“I am. It’s in the will.”
“Hmm,” he said.
I expected him to say more, but he didn’t. He just left the conversation hanging there. I was tempted to hang up, but I also wanted to see how this would play out.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I thought for sure your uncle would be the guardian,” he said.
“I thought so too,” I said. “But he’s getting older. Mom was worried about having someone here for Ronnie, someone who would be here a long time.”
Gordon made a low, dismissive sound—the beginning of a laugh, bitten off and truncated.
“You’re such a good girl,” he said. “Believing whatever they tell you to believe.”
“What do you mean—?”
Without saying anything more, he hung up.
Since the police station was so close to the library, I took a chance and stopped by there, hoping to find Richland or Post hanging around. The station was quiet. It was getting on toward sundown, and I supposed the Saturday evening mayhem hadn’t kicked in. Everyone was resting up and saving their craziness for later.
The desk officer seemed indifferent to my presence and mustered a halfhearted “Help you?” when I stepped up. I asked for either one of the detectives and the desk officer asked me the nature of my problem.
I decided to use my mother’s death—murder—for whatever it was worth. If I was going to be the victim of a crime and be seen that way by the world, I might as well take advantage of that status when it could do me some good.
“They’re investigating my mother’s death,” I said. “Leslie Hampton? She was murdered a week ago.”
The invocation injected some life into the officer’s movements. His neck straightened and his eyes opened wider. “Did they ask you to meet them here?”
“No,” I said. “I called them. I wanted to see if they were in.”
“You called them here?”
“Cell phone,” I said. “Is one of them here or not?”
“I doubt they’re in today,” he said. “It’s Saturday, and I haven’t seen them. I can leave them a note, or you can call them back. Or you can talk to someone else.”
“Might they be back there?” I asked, tilting my head in the direction of the door behind him.
He stared at me for a long moment, as though considering whether to get up and look for the detectives or not.
I decided to give him a little push. “I have information for them about my mother’s case.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll check. But if they’re not here, you have to talk to someone. You can’t let that information go.”
He went into the back, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind him. I felt tired. It had already been a long day. A long week. My neck hurt and my eyes felt as if they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper. I remembered that I hadn’t showered, that my body had taken on that greasy, gritty feel of not having been washed. I surely smelled.
The door opened again, and the officer held it open for me. “You’re in luck,” he said. It was a strange turn of phrase to direct at someone whose mother had been murdered, and the officer seemed to realize that as the words came out of his mouth. A flush rose on his cheeks and he looked at the floor. “I mean, Detective Post is back here, and she wants you to talk to her.”
Post sat at her desk typing on her computer. She didn’t look up as I approached; she appeared to be getting down one last thought before she stopped. I reached the side of her desk and waited. I knew she sensed me there, and she hit the last key with more force than normal, the punctuation to something important. Then she stood up and reached out to shake my hand.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said.
It always felt weird for me to shake another woman’s hand. But I didn’t want to hug her or peck her on the cheek either. A handshake would have to do. My hand felt small in hers.
She pointed to a chair, and I sat. Post was wearing jeans and black boots. The sleeves of her navy blue shirt were pushed up to her elbows. She smelled good. Unlike me.
“I was going to call you back,” she said. “I got your message. I just wanted to finish here.” She pointed to the computer screen.
“Paperwork?” I asked.
“School,” she said. “I’m getting a master’s in criminology. Sometimes I study here on Saturdays because it feels like a place to get business done. You know, I can’t just turn on the TV. Or talk to my boyfriend.”
It was the most personal conversation we’d had. The notion that she led a life, that she had friends or parents or pets, hadn’t really occurred to me. I wanted something very simple from her: to make sense of my mother’s death, preferably in a way that didn’t land my brother in jail.
“Right,” I said. “Well, I’m sorry to just barge in on you like this. And I’m sorry to call you when you’re off.”
“It’s no problem,” she said. “The officer who showed you back said you had some information you wanted to share about your mother’s case.”
“I do,” I said.
“By the way,” Post said, “how is your brother doing?”
“He’s in ICU right now. I guess I’ll be going back later—”
“ICU? What do you mean?”
“At the hospital,” I said. “He’s at St. Vincent’s Hospital. He tried to kill himself earlier today.”
Post’s mouth opened. I saw her white teeth, a flash of dental work. She was silent a moment, then said, “Are you kidding me? I’m so sorry.”
“No. I figured they would have called you. Both of you.”
Post turned and reached for her cell phone. She checked it, shaking her head, then set the phone back down. “They didn’t call both of us,” she said, still shaking her head. “They called one of us. And he didn’t tell me.” She used her thumbs to send a quick text. Then she put the phone facedown on the desk and asked me to explain what had happened. I did, sparing no details about Ronnie’s suicide attempt. Post didn’t take notes, but she seemed absorbed by what I told her. As I spoke, her cell phone buzzed, but she ignored it and asked a few follow-up questions about Ronnie’s condition and his state of mind the last time I saw him before the attempt.