by John Hart
“You’re being a real jerk face.”
Jason could barely hide the smile. “No one has ever called me that, but yes. I suppose I can be a real jerk face.”
“What do I tell my friends?”
Jason glanced down into the club, and saw her friends at the bar, four or five pretty girls, jaded, no doubt, but not one over nineteen. “I think you and your friends can find a better place to party.”
* * *
Dinner that night was no better than the last. Dad didn’t show up. Mom asked enough questions to make sure I’d not been with Jason. Afterward, in my room, I read of war and communism and riots in a northern prison. It was a bad night, a lonesome one. That changed when the doorbell rang.
“Gibby.” My mother called up the stairs. “You have a visitor.”
I went down barefoot, in jeans. My mother, at the open door, said, “Not too long,” then ghosted away with a frown on her face.
“Sara.” I stepped outside, closing the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, I’m sorry to show up like this. I tried to call all afternoon.”
“My mother.” I waved off the apology. “Sometimes she answers. Sometimes she doesn’t. Do you want to come inside?”
“Maybe we could talk out here.”
“Sure.” I followed her off the porch and into the night air. She wore cutoff jeans, sandals, and a white top that tied behind her neck and left her shoulder blades exposed. “How’d you find me?”
“There are only three listings for French in the book. I thought I’d take a chance.”
“I’m glad you did.” We stood on the walk as moths flickered in the lights behind us. Sara looked lovely but vulnerable, her arms squeezed so tightly beneath her breasts I wondered if she was cold. “Would you like a jacket?” I asked.
“No, no. It’s nothing. Listen, um … Do you mind if we take a drive or something?”
She nodded toward a window, and I saw my mother inside, watching us through the glass. The frown had deepened. She tapped her watch. I said, “Yeah, sure. Understandable.”
We walked to the driveway, and I recognized Tyra’s Mercedes, still battered and scraped. I hesitated, but Sara understood. “It’s part of the reason I came.”
“The car?”
“The car. Tyra.”
I glanced at the house. My mother stood in the open door. “We should go,” I said. Sara slid behind the wheel, and I got in the other side. My mother moved onto the porch, then the walk. “We should go quickly.”
Sara reversed down the drive, and I half-expected to see my mother running after us. She didn’t. The car shuddered as we rocked onto the road, but steadied once we started moving. The top was down. Wind took Sara’s hair, and she looked sideways with an amused smile. “Is your mother always like that?”
“Pretty much.”
“It could be worse.” She raised a narrow shoulder. “I don’t talk to my mother.”
“Not ever?”
“Not for eight years.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so we drove in silence as buildings rose, and city lights climbed higher. Sara fiddled with her hair, chewed her bottom lip. When she spoke at last, we were at a stoplight with cars lined up across the road, their headlights on her face. “Have you seen Jason?” she asked.
“I thought this was about Tyra.”
“I was hoping they might be together.”
“I saw him today. He was alone.”
“Did he mention her?”
“Not really.”
She smoothed hair away from her eyes, and when the light turned, she drove faster, the little car tilting on the curves. A mile later, I recognized the street. “This is where you live.” She nodded, and I thought maybe she was crying. I didn’t know what to say or do, or how to help. She was a grown woman; I wasn’t even wearing shoes. In the driveway, I asked her, “Sara, what’s going on?”
“I can’t find Tyra.”
She turned off the engine, and I looked at the condo, at all the light spilling out. “Since when?”
“Last night.”
“Some other guy, maybe. Some other party.”
“Not this time.”
“You can’t know that.”
That made sense, I thought, but Sara told me about their argument and her missing car and a box of doughnuts, abandoned in the driveway. “She wouldn’t have left them. Not like that, not crushed in the drive.”
“You called the police?”
“They said twenty-four hours. Maybe your dad…?”
“He’s working. I don’t know where he is. We can call the station.” She looked hopeful, but I wasn’t. When Dad worked late, he was impossible to reach. “How long until the twenty-four hours are up?” I asked.
“A few hours, maybe.”
“There you go. Not bad.”
“Will you come inside with me?”
“Um…”
“To be honest, I’m a little afraid.”
* * *
When French arrived at the hospital, Burklow was waiting outside the emergency room entrance. “I’m sorry, Ken. I know you had to wait.”
“It’s not like you to run silent.”
“Radio problems, some other stuff. Is he ready for us?”
“He said to bring you down.”
They passed through the emergency room doors, and into a waiting room. Bypassing the elevator bank, French took the stairs down, Burklow at his heels. At the bottom, a keypad allowed entrance to a hallway that served the medical examiner’s office. “Radio problems, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ken.”
“But later, you will.”
“Later. Absolutely.”
They moved past offices, labs, refrigerator banks. The autopsy suites were last in line, a group of rooms built around a central hub of scrub sinks, and observation windows. It could be a busy place, but was quiet now.
“There’s our vic.”
She looked worse under bright lights: the wounds that killed her, the Y cut, the open cavity. Most of her organs were out, but the medical examiner was still wrist-deep. “Gentlemen, come in.” He lifted his hands, and held them awkwardly. “Let me walk you through what I’ve found so far.” He did it methodically and precisely. It took time. “It appears that different blades were used at different times.”
“Multiple blades,” French said. “Does that mean multiple assailants?”
“Uncertain, but possible. Some cuts imply a certain amount of strength and viciousness. Others were of a more delicate nature.”
“Any kind of pattern?”
“The more precise incisions hurt the most.”
“Meaning?”
“Whoever made those cuts knew the big nerves, the sensitive areas. Something tells me he took his time. See the precision. Here and here.”
“And the breast tissue?”
“I’d argue that those excisions were made with the smaller blade and with exceptional care.”
Burklow said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Keep going,” French said.
The ME continued with the same dispassion. “No tattoos or birthmarks. She’s had a recent manicure, a pedicure.” He pointed at her hands and feet. “Expensive dental work. Little sign she’s ever done manual labor. I’d speculate that she had resources. We’ll know more when the roommate arrives.”
French nodded before the weight of that comment sank in. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”
“I said, when the roommate arrives. Tyra’s roommate.”
Tyra …
They had her name.
“I tried to reach you about this,” Burklow said. “We found clothing and personal items in a dumpster six blocks west of the crime scene. The victim’s name is Tyra Norris. Twenty-seven, local…”
“Local? Wait. You have an address?”
“Martinez and Smith are en route now.”
“We need to go.”
“There’s more here to discuss.”
“Later, Doc.” French moved for the door, pulling his partner behind. “We need to go now.”
The doctor said something else, but French missed most of it. He moved fast, and they hit the stairwell, the lobby, the warm air beyond the double doors. “Ride with me,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because we need to talk.”
“Yes, I believe we do.”
“Address?”
Burklow gave him Tyra’s address. “The other side of Myers Park.”
“I know the street.”
French got behind the wheel, and pushed it—the parking lot, the two-lane, the big artery that was the shortest route to the other side of Myers Park. Burklow watched the city pass, but fooled no one. As a cop, patience was his great strength, as was his fundamentally unforgiving nature. He would tolerate self-indulgence in a friend, but rarely in another cop. Victims came first. Resolution for the wounded. Justice for the dead. French checked the speedometer, but didn’t back it down. He worked the road at twice the posted limit: inside lane, outside. Seventy miles an hour, he threaded the needle with one hand tight on the wheel, the big cherry flashing on top.
When Burklow finally spoke, he kept his voice level. “I’m thinking now is probably a good time.”
“It’ll sound worse than it is.”
“Nevertheless…”
Burklow was watching intently, pricks of light in his eyes as the car threaded traffic and blew through lights. There was no easy way to explain. How could there be? “I’ve met the victim,” French said. “Before today, I knew her. I met her. Last week, I walked in on her with Jason. They were, uh … you know.”
“Sexually engaged?”
“I said it would look bad.”
Burklow stared through the side window as he’d done a million times, the tension apparent in his shoulders and jaw. Even the skin beneath his eyes was tight. “You recognized her at the scene?”
“It took a few minutes.”
“That’s why you left in such a hurry.”
“To look for Jason. To get ahead of it.” French took his eyes off the road to risk a glance at his friend. “It gets worse.”
“Not possible.”
“Gibby knows her, too.”
Burklow’s head snapped around as if he’d taken a punch. He loved Gibby like a son. They fished together, and watched football on Sundays. If Gibby needed advice, Burklow gave it. He was there when Gibby was born and the day he’d learned to drive. “Start at the beginning,” he said. “You leave something out this time, and I will fucking pound you.”
French dipped his chin, and did as Burklow asked. “There’s a rental house at Water and Tenth. There’s a bedroom upstairs…”
* * *
Inside Sara’s condominium, I poured wine, and her hands trembled as she took the glass. She sat on a white sofa in a room that was elegant and very adult. “I like your place.”
“It’s Tyra’s. She comes from money.”
It showed, I thought. Rich leathers. Real art.
Sara lit a candle, and sipped her wine. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.
“Are you sure?”
“Just for a little while. Just until.”
It felt strange, the way she asked, but I knew nothing of grown women, and that made everything strange: the tasteful furniture, her readiness when I sat beside her. She took the glass from my hand, then pressed me down and spread across me like a blanket. At first, she clung tightly, but then she kissed me, and the touch of her lips was as gentle as rain. Her fingers, too, were light on my skin. They brushed my face, my chest. In time, she rose, and our shirts came off, and still the moment was hers. The eagerness remained, but she’d coiled it someplace deep: a vibration at the small of her back, a catch in her breathing. We kissed until the coil loosened, and when it did, I felt it in her breath. It came faster and hotter, and the heat was in her skin, too: her hands on my face, the press of her legs. Under shadowed eyes she pushed me down, and I knew she wanted an excuse, a reason to move and do and forget. I was a tool for her, but didn’t care. The heat was mine, too, the same catch in my breath. I closed my eyes and saw a wash of red as if the heat we shared had rolled into the room itself. Bloodred, it brightened and pulsed, and Sara’s skin was slick beneath my hands. She said, “Oh…” And I thought, Yes.
But that’s not what she meant.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…”
My eyes opened as she rolled away.
The red light was real.
Cops were in the drive.
Sara ran to the window, and for those seconds looked like something from a world I’d never really known: the giant shadows, the red light on her skin. It felt like a scene from a movie, set in a great city and starring someone larger than myself. I felt nothing but awkward. Pulling on my shirt. Looking for hers. I found it beneath a pillow, and carried it to her.
“Here, put this on.”
The curtains were diaphanous. She held a bit between two fingers. “Why are they here?”
“Come on. Get dressed.”
Outside, men crossed in front of the car lights. I got the shirt over Sara’s head; helped her with the straps that passed for sleeves.
“It’s Tyra. It has to be.”
“We don’t know anything yet.” But I actually did. The cops were named Martinez and Smith. They were murder cops. They worked with my dad.
“Don’t leave me, okay?”
My arm went around her shoulders. She was scared. We both were. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see what they want.”
At the door, Martinez and Smith were already on the top step. Their shock at seeing me would have been comical in other circumstances.
“Gibby? Jesus.” Smith spoke first, his gaze moving to Sara’s face and mine, then to my arm on her shoulder. He was a small cop with soft eyes and narrow hands.
Martinez, beside him, looked harder and crueler and cynical. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing.”
It was a kid’s response, but Martinez was like my father at his worst: the cop eyes and distrust. He glanced at Smith, and cleared his throat. “Why don’t we speak separately? Gibby, will you come with me?”
“Is this about Tyra?” I asked.
“What do you know about Tyra?”
“Only that she’s missing.”
“You know her, then? Personally?”
“Yeah. Course.”
“How do you know her?”
Smith said, “Martinez…”
But Martinez ignored the note of warning in his partner’s voice. “I said, how do you know her?”
“Come on, man. It’s Bill’s son.”
“Don’t tell me to come on! You saw her, same as me.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but thought, Tyra, first, and then that it was bad. Martinez was so hot and bothered I looked for smoke in his ears. “We have questions,” he said. “Cop questions, important ones. And I expect you to answer them right here and right now, same as your little friend.”
He stabbed a finger at Sara’s face, and I saw blood on the cuff of his shirt. He followed my gaze, and saw the same thing. “Son of a bitch…”
He tried to wipe it off, and Smith took the lead, his voice softer. “You’re confused. I understand. Worried, too, I’m sure. But we need to ask the questions first. You know how this works.”
I did. I didn’t care. “Tell me about Tyra.”
“I can’t do that…”
“Gibby, what’s happening?”
I pulled Sara closer, squeezing her shoulders. “We’ll wait for my father,” I said.
“Your daddy’s not coming,” Martinez said. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference. This is happening like I said. Right here. Right now.”
Smith showed his palms. “It would be helpful…”
“You’re damn right,” Martinez said.
“Not until I know what happened to Tyra.”
“Goddamn it, kid. You don�
�t ask questions, and you don’t get to see your daddy.”
But a car was racing down the street, red light on the roof, the engine running hot. It was my father’s car; I knew it. So did Martinez. He stepped back, and I heard the words under his breath: Motherfucker, son of a goddamn bitch …
The car braked hard, and the doors flew wide. “Not a word, son, not a single word.”
“What are you doing here, Bill?”
“Not now, Martinez. I need to speak with my son.”
“So do we.”
“And I’m saying, not now!”
“He knows our victim.” Martinez stepped into my father’s personal space, crowding him. “Personally.” Martinez stressed the word. “He knows her personally.”
“We can talk about that later. Gibby, get in the car.”
“But Sara…”
“I said get in the car.”
“What happened to Tyra?” I made it a demand. No one cared.
“Not now,” my father said.
“Then when?”
“Son, get in the fucking car.”
His eyes blazed, but the profanity frightened me more than anything else. Burklow was gentler. “Go ahead, son. You can see your friend tomorrow. She’s not in any trouble.”
Keeping his eyes on Martinez, my father said, “Ken, if you would.”
Burklow took my arm, and pulled me down the steps.
Martinez said, “We still want to talk to your son.”
“I know you do, but it’s not happening tonight. Ken, please.”
The big cop dragged me all the way to the car, and stuffed me in the back seat, locking me inside. I looked for Sara, on the stoop.
Her face was in her hands.
She was crying.
13
At Lanesworth, X was frustrated and restless. He stretched out on the bed, got up, stretched out again. When Reece appeared, at last, a glance at his face told X it was done. “It went well, then?”
“So well I am disinclined to charge you. The young woman was … delightful.”
X mirrored the man’s thin smile. “It’s no crime for a man to enjoy his work. Expect the usual fee in the usual manner.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I assume you have something for me?”
