“Good.” Hastings nodded, got out of the car, crossed the street in the direction of the Bayside Hotel.
Sitting on the double bed, Canelli watched the last of the lab technicians leave the room before he dropped his eyes to the outline of Amy MacFarland’s body chalked on the stained carpeting. Seated in the room’s only chair, Hastings was also looking down at the outline. Slowly, somberly, Canelli shook his head.
“You know,” Canelli said, “it’s sad when you think about it. I mean, here’s this girl—” He gestured. “For all we know, she could’ve been a—a bank president’s daughter, or something. But no matter, she probably had parents who loved her, and everything. So then she starts in with drugs, and probably her folks threw her out, or whatever. So this is the way she ends up—her, and thousands like her. But the hell of it is, no one really cares. You know?”
Hastings nodded, then shrugged. “Nobody ever said life was fair, Canelli.”
“Yeah—” Vehemently now, Canelli nodded. “That’s it, Lieutenant. I mean, if this was the Fairmont, or somewhere, there’d be photographers and reporters, and …” He sighed, shook his head, studied the body’s outline with soft brown eyes. Then: “It’s like you say. It’s just not fair.”
Heavily, Hastings rose to his feet. The time was almost two, and fatigue had suddenly overtaken him.
“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, Canelli, you aren’t succeeding. I’m going home, and I’m going to sleep. And after you lock up, I’d advise you to do the same. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow morning. About ten, or maybe a little later.”
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Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 24
