“The hell with this,” Mauser said. “I want to be in the air in half an hour. And another thing.” He looked Denton right in the eye, lowered his voice. He checked the door; it was closed. “I don’t want St. Louis PD in the loop. Not yet.”
“Joe?” Denton said, a hint of concern on his face. “What’re you gonna do?”
Mauser’s voice was granite, not a hint of indecisiveness.
“When we take Parker down, we take him down our way. Not one word about procedure or extradition. Henry Parker deserves to go down hard, and I don’t want anyone there to soften his landing.”
“Joe,” Denton said, his voice imploring. “Remember there are other factors here. The drugs, number one. If Parker has info on Luis and Christine Guzman’s supplier, maybe we take down two birds on this case. I say we find the package and milk that.”
Again, Mauser thought, with the career aspirations. More cases for superstar FBI agent Leonard Denton to solve. Fuck it. If it meant Denton worked harder, saw more angles, his delusions of grandeur were acceptable.
“Fine,” Mauser said, throwing on his overcoat and heading for the door. “Before we take Parker down, we’ll bleed him dry.”
Denton smiled and grabbed the car keys. “I hear ‘death by a thousand cuts’is popular these days. I’ll help you make the first incision.”
20
We pulled up at Amanda’s house on Teasdale Drive at 11:47 p.m., thirteen minutes before her self-imposed deadline. The air had an eerie quiet to it, as though the world was afraid to take a breath.
The Davies residence was a large, Tudor-style home, painted white with delicate gray trim, paved driveway, two-car garage and covered deck. Amanda circled the driveway and parked in front of the garage.
“Nice neighborhood,” I said.
“We’re only five minutes from the Wash-U campus,” she replied, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. “I moved here when I was about twelve. Trust me, I was thrilled to get away from Midwest suburban hell.”
She got out, knelt down in front of the garage door and yanked the metal handle upward. The garage rattled open. A silver Mercedes SUV was parked between cardboard boxes and rusty gardening equipment. She got back in the car and pulled inside.
“I could have done that,” I said. “Opened the door for you.”
“Why would you have?”
“I don’t know. Feel like I should be helping out more.”
“Please,” she said. “How do you think I’ve put the car in the garage the last thousand times? All of a sudden I need you to do it for me?”
“I know, I know. You’re empowered. You don’t need any help.”
“Damn right,” she said, shutting off the engine. “You okay? Look a little, I dunno, more than tired.”
She was right, but I played it off. “I’m fine. I didn’t realize we’d bonded so much that you can judge my mental state.”
“As long as you’re sleeping under my roof I’ll judge all I want, thank you very much.”
“Well, at least let me help with your bags.”
Amanda squinted at me.
“Deal.”
She tossed over the car keys, which I thankfully caught.
“Front door’s the little flat key. Go to town.”
I stepped out of the car, a sharp pain lancing up my leg. I needed to clean the wound again before it got infected. But every step felt queasy, reminding me of just why my leg hurt in the first place.
“You okay there, spindly legs?”
“It fell asleep in the car,” I said. “Just shaking it loose.”
A soft wind blew, chilling the air. It was a challenge to open the front door while carrying two overstuffed duffel bags and my backpack, while simultaneously lugging a suitcase that exceeded the maximum weight limit of most airlines. While I lugged and pulled, Amanda tied her hair up in a ponytail and threw a baggy sweater over her tank top. She was effortlessly stunning, her natural beauty accentuated by the frumpy clothes. When she caught me staring, her lips curled into a demure smile. She had a look of fake pity.
“That’s what you get for offering to help. Here, before you get a hernia.” She took one of the duffels and carried it inside.
The house was cold and filled with stale air. Amanda fiddled with a thermostat as I set the bags down. Between the cold, my T-shirt, fatigue and my leg, I began to shiver. Amanda noticed this, looked concerned.
“Come on,” she said. She led me through the foyer to a closet. Inside were dozens of sweaters, threaded with some of the most horrendous fashion designs and colors I’d ever seen. Ugly maroon cotton. Green wool with a bald eagle sewn into the chest. A smiling deer embroidered with purple stitching. And they smelled like they’d last been worn by Daniel Boone.
“Feel free to raid my dad’s sweater closet,” she said. “He hasn’t worn this stuff in years. I never was good at giving Christmas presents. Somebody might as well get some use out of them.”
I thanked her, and while normally I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing sweaters so hideous they’d offend Bill Gates’s fashion sense, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Besides, I didn’t want to insult my host. And hey, bald eagles are patriotic.
I took a moment to take in the house’s grandeur, the tall white walls and long mirrors like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel, and the full bar with smoky brown liquor that could warm me better than any sweater. The walls were lined with lithographs encased in crystal-clear glass, an oil painting of the famous arch framed in polished bronze.
“I’d offer you something to eat or drink,” Amanda said. “But unless you’re in the mood for instant oatmeal you’re out of luck. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, but I imagine you’ll have your situation figured out by then, right?”
I nodded distractedly. We carried her bags up a narrow flight of stairs, Amanda flicking on a series of lights as we went. Down an off-white hallway, lined with deep blue carpeting, I lugged her bags into a dark room. I knew it was Amanda’s bedroom before she even turned on the light.
Even with the moon’s faint rays shielded by the drawn shades, I could sense a soft femininity in the dark. Half a dozen stuffed animals were perched on her bed, arranged with care. The room felt warm, inviting, different than the rest of the house.
Without thinking I said, “I like your room.”
She turned to me with a big smile, the kind given when a genuine compliment comes from an unexpected source. Those always meant the most.
“Thanks,” she said, a hint of girlishness sneaking into her voice for the first time since we’d met. I liked it, liked seeing that beneath the suit of armor was something delicate.
Right now Amanda felt safe, secure in her home. Perhaps a slight hint of adventure brought on by the stranger in her bedroom. She knew nothing about me other than the superficial notes in her journal, the truth as deep as her pen’s ink.
Maybe this was a thrill for her. But I felt no such joy, no comfort, no adventure. Even in a moment like this, where I should at least feel a sort of vicarious comfort, the emotion was wasted. Because my life was in a state of purgatory, all the small joys I experienced now would add up to nothing more than faded memories, lost opportunities.
“Come on,” she said, leading me out of the room. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”
She led me down the hall, past a bathroom and a linen closet, pointing out a closed door on the right.
“You can use that bathroom. Just make sure to put the seat down, okay? Otherwise we’ll have problems.” Smiling, I said I would.
There was a small guest room, the bed looking like it had never been slept in. “There’s an extra blanket in the closet if you get cold,” she said. “Just do me a favor and strip the bed in the morning so I can wash the sheets.”
“No problem. That’s the least I can do.”
“Well, if I think of anything else involving manual labor I’ll let you know.”
I thanked Amanda. When she left I immediately collapsed on the bed. It was hard and uncaring. Running my hand under the comforter, I felt lumpy egg crates and a plywood board underneath. Thankfully the pillows were soft. I kicked off my shoes, my leg throbbing with every movement. Sitting back up, I closed the door, tentatively took down my pants and studied the bullet wound. The gash on my thigh was angry and red, and it hurt to put my full weight on it.