and equal number of push-ups. It was a mistake to get soft, lazy. She silently resolved she’d catch up as soon as possible.
Norton gave a thumbs-up. “Cool.” He checked his watch, one of four cheap bands decorating his hairy wrist, just like a dime bag–buying junkie would have stolen. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she cautioned as if it were necessary.
Norton started to say something but a muddled beep interrupted his reply. He fished through a pocket, digging it out. “Christ,” he muttered. “Such timing.”
“What?”
He showed her the digital readout. The hair raised at the back of her neck. Jaw hardening, Callie’s gut took an unpleasant jolt.
911.
6
R eceiving the same message on her own pager, Callie set into action. Splitting up from Norton, she took off on her motorcycle, heading toward the nearby bus station. Once there, she claimed the large duffel bag she’d stashed in one of the coin-operated luggage lockers.
Bag in hand, she headed for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. Identification, badge, and gun were squirreled away inside the bag, along with a handheld computer, credit and gas cards, five thousand dollars in cash, a cell phone, and a change of clothes. The message on the pager meant one thing, and one thing alone.
Someone was dead.
She checked her cell. Two messages waited on voice mail.
Opening the phone, Callie called the service, punching in her code to pick up her messages. Both were terse, from Roger: County morgue, ASAP.
Jesus.
Slipping out of her jeans, she pulled on a pair of slacks before buttoning a black jacket over her T-shirt. She filled her pockets, arming up as a member of law enforcement. She drew a steadying breath. Catching a brief glimpse of her face in the mirror, she saw lines of worry puckering her forehead. Shadows lingered behind her gaze, the ghosts of disappointment and disillusionment. For all her apparent success in the field of law enforcement, her personal life was a washout. Work was the only thing keeping her sane. She wondered how long that would last working with Roger Reinke again.
“We are over.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, happy to hide behind the impenetrable shield of plastic.
Callie returned her bag to the locker, slipping more coins into the slot. The woman walking out of the bus station looked and acted nothing like the woman who’d walked in. Not so much in the disguise, but in the attitude. She hailed a cab, heading downtown.
Thirty minutes later the cabbie dropped her off in the parking lot surrounding the offices of the county.
Paying the driver, Callie pocketed her change. The cab didn’t have a good air conditioner, and recent rains had made the moist air even balmier than normal. A layer of sweat clung to her skin, something it seemed no amount of cold showers and soap washed away. She felt wet patches under her arms, trickles of sweat making their way down her spine to her underwear.
She pulled in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the city: a mixture of carbon monoxide and damp concrete tinged with the smell of pure human waste from a sewer system that threatened to overflow under the continual torrent of rain. Such were the familiar smells of Belmonde, Virginia.
She looked past the sidewalks, farther out onto the acres of beautifully manicured lawns. The grass was still green, reluctant to give in to the end of the cycle that would have it wither away to autumn’s drab brown cloak. Stately old oak trees lined the northern perimeter of the grounds, perfectly in sync with the manicured hedges acting as a fence in lieu of man-made materials. Beyond the hedges lay the rest of the world, blissfully unaware death had struck down a fellow human being.
Callie hurried inside. The maze of halls confused most outsiders. Getting directions, she followed a narrow hallway to examination room number three. Her guts roiled. God, she hated looking at dead
Norton gave a thumbs-up. “Cool.” He checked his watch, one of four cheap bands decorating his hairy wrist, just like a dime bag–buying junkie would have stolen. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she cautioned as if it were necessary.
Norton started to say something but a muddled beep interrupted his reply. He fished through a pocket, digging it out. “Christ,” he muttered. “Such timing.”
“What?”
He showed her the digital readout. The hair raised at the back of her neck. Jaw hardening, Callie’s gut took an unpleasant jolt.
911.
6
R eceiving the same message on her own pager, Callie set into action. Splitting up from Norton, she took off on her motorcycle, heading toward the nearby bus station. Once there, she claimed the large duffel bag she’d stashed in one of the coin-operated luggage lockers.
Bag in hand, she headed for the ladies’ room and locked herself in a stall. Identification, badge, and gun were squirreled away inside the bag, along with a handheld computer, credit and gas cards, five thousand dollars in cash, a cell phone, and a change of clothes. The message on the pager meant one thing, and one thing alone.
Someone was dead.
She checked her cell. Two messages waited on voice mail.
Opening the phone, Callie called the service, punching in her code to pick up her messages. Both were terse, from Roger: County morgue, ASAP.
Jesus.
Slipping out of her jeans, she pulled on a pair of slacks before buttoning a black jacket over her T-shirt. She filled her pockets, arming up as a member of law enforcement. She drew a steadying breath. Catching a brief glimpse of her face in the mirror, she saw lines of worry puckering her forehead. Shadows lingered behind her gaze, the ghosts of disappointment and disillusionment. For all her apparent success in the field of law enforcement, her personal life was a washout. Work was the only thing keeping her sane. She wondered how long that would last working with Roger Reinke again.
“We are over.” She slipped on a pair of sunglasses, happy to hide behind the impenetrable shield of plastic.
Callie returned her bag to the locker, slipping more coins into the slot. The woman walking out of the bus station looked and acted nothing like the woman who’d walked in. Not so much in the disguise, but in the attitude. She hailed a cab, heading downtown.
Thirty minutes later the cabbie dropped her off in the parking lot surrounding the offices of the county.
Paying the driver, Callie pocketed her change. The cab didn’t have a good air conditioner, and recent rains had made the moist air even balmier than normal. A layer of sweat clung to her skin, something it seemed no amount of cold showers and soap washed away. She felt wet patches under her arms, trickles of sweat making their way down her spine to her underwear.
She pulled in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the city: a mixture of carbon monoxide and damp concrete tinged with the smell of pure human waste from a sewer system that threatened to overflow under the continual torrent of rain. Such were the familiar smells of Belmonde, Virginia.
She looked past the sidewalks, farther out onto the acres of beautifully manicured lawns. The grass was still green, reluctant to give in to the end of the cycle that would have it wither away to autumn’s drab brown cloak. Stately old oak trees lined the northern perimeter of the grounds, perfectly in sync with the manicured hedges acting as a fence in lieu of man-made materials. Beyond the hedges lay the rest of the world, blissfully unaware death had struck down a fellow human being.
Callie hurried inside. The maze of halls confused most outsiders. Getting directions, she followed a narrow hallway to examination room number three. Her guts roiled. God, she hated looking at dead
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