Authors: Lois Greiman
The officers glanced toward the trampled space in tandem.
“Well . . .” She sounded panicky now and a little breathless. “That’s just . . . like I said, I was doing some planting. There’s no law against that.”
“Depends what you’re planting,” mourned the tall cop. “Do you have a shovel handy, Mrs. Georges?”
“You’ve got no right to do this,” she said, but Hangdog was already shuffling off to the shed. He was back with the appropriate tools in less than a lifetime. Two more officers appeared around the corner of the house.
The first one was young and fresh-faced. He nodded eagerly at Crevans.
“Got the warrant,” he said. “Dig it up.”
It was silent for a while except for the sound of the spade and an occasional grunt from the tall officer.
Tiffany Georges clutched the edges of her robe together near her throat.
The shoveling stopped abruptly. The gangly fellow glanced up. “I hit something, Lou.”
The balding fellow nodded, pragmatic to the end.
“Looks like clothing.”
Tiffany’s face was pale, her hands like claws against the santiny fabric of her robe.
Crevans rested his hand on his gun, his gaze on Tiffany as he spoke quietly into a Nextel. In a minute he replaced the communicator on his hip and turned his attention back to Georges. “Want to tell us who it is?”
The newly arrived officers were shuffling eagerly from foot to foot.
“I told you.” She was on the edge of hysteria. “I was just planting bulbs.”
The gangly fellow squatted, scooped some soil aside, and pulled a shoe from the dirt with dramatic slowness. “Name brand,” he said. “Real leather.”
“Looks like the tulips will be well dressed this spring.”
Tiffany dropped to her knees and pressed her fists to her mouth.
Stillman started digging with his hands. “Got something else.” He tugged carefully. I held my breath, my ear pressed to the fence.
“He shouldn’t have left me.” Tiffany’s voice was low, a soft keening moan.
“Who?” asked Crevans, immediately at attention. “Who shouldn’t have?”
“Damn slut.”
The original officers glanced at each other again, then at her.
“Your husband?” Crevans guessed.
“Lights up his soul, my ass.” She snorted and dropped onto her butt, spreading her legs out in front of her like a downed toddler. “Probably just a damned coincidence that she has tits up to her eyeballs.”
“He left you for another woman,” said Crevans, and nodded with understanding while motioning silence from his partner. “So you killed him.”
“Woman!” She laughed. The sound was brittle. “She’s not a woman. She’s a snot-nosed army brat. Twenty-two! She’s twenty-two.”
“Bastard,” Crevans agreed. “Did you kill her, too?”
“Found something else, Lou.”
The bald head nodded distractedly. “What was her name?”
“Three years younger than me.” She was nodding rhythmically and swaying a little. “Fucker. I should have let his wife keep him. Money wasn’t worth it. You know he slept with his eyes open?” She glanced up, looking lost. “Gave me the willies.”
Crevans glanced toward the grave. “Yeah, that’s creepy.”
The two new officers had joined Stillman and were dragging out something large and cylindrical. It looked like the rolled-up carpet.
“Got him.” Basset Hound’s tone almost sounded excited.
“How’d you kill him?” Crevans asked her.
She frowned and looked up suddenly as if her mind had just clicked on. “Kill him?” she snarled. “I did worse than kill him.”
They carefully unrolled the carpet. I was holding my breath and gripping the fence with fingers numb with anticipation. Blue fabric appeared first. The back of a suit coat. A head of hair lolled to the side, then tumbled slowly away.
It took me a moment to realize it was no head at all, but a brown sweater, unrolling on the trampled lawn.
Stillman leaned forward, drawing two dress shirts and a pair of pants from the pile. There was not a dismembered body part to be seen.
Tiffany was rocking back and forth. “See how she likes him without his fancy wardrobe.”
The area went absolutely silent.
“And his job.” She laughed. “I called his boss, told him Jakey was screwing his wife.”
The basset-hound officer had gone back to digging rather frantically. Crevans was watching him. Stillman came up with another shoe and a tie. He shook his head.
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Georges?”
She snorted. “Acapulco. Having his soul lit,” she said, then cried like a spanked two-year-old.
21
Sometimes the difference between fear and wisdom is all but indiscernible.
—Dr. David Hawkins,
who was a murderer, but a pretty smart guy
B
Y THE TIME
I reached home Monday night I felt like I’d been run down by a trolley.
It was already dark and I hadn’t eaten anything but a Butterfinger since noon. Snickers are my favorite, but I was trying to maintain a well-rounded diet. Toward that end, I had called in an order to Chin Yung’s. My cell phone was acting weird again, but I had managed to convey my message. Maybe it was the desperation in my voice, but they’d had my meal ready when I arrived. Kung pao chicken steamed dreamily from its little wire-handled box. I carried it and its mate carefully, juggling them and my purse as I schlepped up my tilted walkway. My security light had gone out again. Some kind of electrical problem, which I couldn’t afford to fix. But maybe—
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said a voice from the bushes.
I screamed. The kung pao chicken soared through the air like a startled warbler, followed by the rice and mimicked by my purse. But I didn’t care. A shadow loomed over me. I cowered away.
“Jesus, McMullen. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
It was Rivera. I was shaking like a fig leaf and my bladder felt queasy.
“You don’t even have a decent security light.” He grabbed my arm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
My meal had burst open on the broken concrete and was seeping between the cracks. I blinked at all that gooey goodness and promptly burst into tears.
Honest to God. I can’t tell you why. I just know I was boo-hooing like a soap opera queen.
“McMullen.” Rivera gave me a little shake, but if he was trying to buck me up, it didn’t work. My shoulders were heaving and my nose was running wild. “Quit that.”
I didn’t. He shuffled his feet.
I was vaguely aware of a jogger passing by, reflective tape bright in the Al-Sadrs’ lights.
“Damn it,” Rivera said. “You’re going to get me written up. Pull yourself together.”
I sniffled spasmodically.
“Okay. All right.” He spoke cautiously, as if he were addressing a stray mutt of uncertain temperament. “Let’s just go inside.”
“But m-my . . .” I dropped to my knees by the mess on the sidewalk.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make you something.” He dragged me to my feet.
I tugged my purse under my arm. “But I wanted . . . I wanted . . . kung pao. . . .”
“Everything all right there?” The jogger had stopped. I swiped the back of my hand across my cheek and gave him a blurry stare.
“Fuck,” Rivera murmured, then, “Everything’s fine, sir. She lost her . . . Doberman.”
“Oh.” The jogger was prancing in place. He was either trying to keep his heart rate up or he had to whiz something terrible. “That’s the shits. Maybe I can help you look.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rivera said, then to me, “Will you unlock the frickin’ door?”
“Hey.” The jogger again. “I know this neighborhood like the back of my hand. I could—”
“The dog’s dead!” Rivera snapped.
I hiccuped, but managed to shove my key into the lock.
“Oh.”
“Got run over by a bus,” Rivera said, then quieter, “Get the hell inside.”
I attempted to do just that, but my hands were busy trying to wipe my nose and juggle my purse.
Rivera pushed me away, turned the key, and prodded me inside. He gave the jogger a glare, stepped in after me, and closed the door behind us.
We stood faced off like angry pugilists. Well, he was angry. I was just kind of soggy.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
I sniffled, remembered my security system, and punched in the code. “You didn’t have to kill my dog.”
“Jesus.” Turning me toward him, he reached up, flicked down my lower lid, and stared into my eyeball. “Are you high?”
I jerked away. “No, I’m not high. I’m . . .” Tears were threatening again. “I’m hungry, and you made me . . . me . . .” I motioned toward the sidewalk. I was hiccuping.
“Just . . .” He held up a placating hand. “Just take it easy, McMullen. I’m going to . . .” He shook his head and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to run over to Chin Yung.”
I blinked. My eyelashes felt fat. “Really?”
“Yeah. What did you have?”
“Kung pao . . . chicken.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned away, then stopped. “If you’re not here when I come back, I’m going to find you and handcuff you to your sink.”
“Really?” I said again, and blinked my fat eyelashes.
He cursed. “Lock the door behind me,” he said, and left.
I wasn’t sure how long he was gone. But when I awoke, I was on the couch and someone was pounding on my front door. I stumbled groggily to my feet.
“If you’re not in there, McMullen, I swear to God . . .” he growled from the far side.
Memories, all of them embarrassing, rushed in on me. For a moment I actually considered leaving him out there and heading out the back, but I could already smell the peanut sauce. It wafted inside, convincing me there might be a reason to go on living.
I opened the door. Rivera stood there with his fist raised and his expression mean.
“What the hell were you doing?” he snarled.
I shrugged and dropped my gaze to the paper bag in his hand. It was big. The sweet scent of Shangri-la drifted to my twitching nostrils. I could feel the saliva pooling at the back of my mouth. He took one look at my face, shook his head, and pushed his way inside.
I followed like a bloodhound on a hot scent.
“Lock the door,” he said, without turning around.
I did so. By the time I reached the kitchen, he was already pulling the lovely little boxes from the bag. I reached for the closest one. He slapped my hand away. “Go wash,” he said, and retrieved plates from my cupboard.
I considered arguing but I felt weak and kind of faded.
Seeing myself in the bathroom mirror didn’t help. The San Andreas Fault wrinkled my left cheek, and my hair stood up like Pee-wee Herman’s.
I tried to pat it down, but it stood its ground. So I washed my face, gave my hands a perfunctory scrub, and made a beeline for the kitchen.
Rivera was just pouring milk into two beer mugs. They said “Beer With Me” on the side and had a picture of an intoxicated grizzly quaffing liquor. I’d gotten them on my solo visit to Milwaukee, and I liked the word “quaffing.”
“Sit down,” he said.
I sat, but not because he told me to. He was divvying up the meal and the sight of it made my knees week.
He shoved a fork in my hand.
“Eat.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. We ate in absolute silence. For me, it was a spiritual experience, and I didn’t dare defile the moment. As for Rivera, he might have been too angry to speak, but just then I didn’t much care.
By the time I glanced up again, his plate was empty and he had tilted his chair back onto two legs. His expression was inscrutable.
“Where were you that you could see into the Georges’ backyard?”
I knew immediately what he meant. I wished I didn’t.
“What?” I said, and trying to look casual, took another scoop of rice from his box. He hadn’t eaten all of his. What the hell was wrong with him?
“I’m guessing you were up on the ridge to the south of the development.”
My throat felt tight but I managed to swallow. I’m a genius that way. “Who’s George?”
He shook his head. “I should throw your ass in jail. You know that?”
“For what?”
He shrugged. “Invasion of privacy. Falsifying a police report.” He paused. “Murder?”
I was nice and full, and a little too tired to be scared witless. Which probably meant there were other reasons for my witlessness. In fact, I felt a little drugged. It would have been fun to think Rivera had doped my food, but copious amounts of calories often affect me this way. “I didn’t kill anyone,” I said.
He glared at me. “Probably the only damned law you haven’t broken.”
“I haven’t coveted my neighbor’s wife, either,” I said.
“I was thinking more civil than biblical.”
“Oh,” I said, and nibbled on a water chestnut. It was the only thing left on my plate.
“What’s going on, Chrissy?”
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“You’re starving. You’re jumpy. You look like you haven’t slept for a month.”
“Been busy.” I fished a slice of chicken out of his moo goo gai pan. If I were the pope, Chin Yung would be canonized—along with waitresses—in a big ceremony with lots of food. “Work.” I glanced up as I chewed, but there was hardly a need to masticate. The meat melted in my mouth. “You know.”
He dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor and propped his elbows on the table. “I know you’re a piss-poor liar. Tell me about Solberg.”
“He’s a nerd?”
“God damn it!”
I jumped but held my ground, and shockingly didn’t burst back into tears.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re in deep shit! What makes you think they’re not going to show up at your back door?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Who?”
“How the hell would I know who? You don’t tell me crap.”