"Brandstetter?" Owens called.
Dave walked into the shiny plank room, picked up the phone from where it had spilled on the floor. "How did this happen?" he asked, and began to dial.
"I must have knocked it off in my sleep. It woke me, making a squawking sound. I couldn't reach it."
"Sorry about that." While at the other end of the line the phone rang and rang, Dave looked at the strung-up casts on Owens's legs. They were painted with flowers, bright primary colors, kindergarten draftsmanship, LOVE, in happy, drunken letters. "Was that how you spent the afternoon," he asked, "when you were supposed to be remembering someone you crossed once, someone with a grudge against you?"
The taut skin of Owens's high cheekbones reddened. He gave a sheepish nod. "Larry did it. We were celebrating his being back." He shook his head. "Seriously—I couldn't think of anyone."
"There's always someone," Dave said.
And officer Zara answered the phone.
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Dave Brandstetter 3 - Troublemaker Page 16
