number three.
He stepped under the hot spray and began to soap himself and saw Smeltzer look up at him, ripping a patch of flesh from the woman’s belly. The flesh tore away and he started to turn. He’s going for it!
“Turn it off!” he snapped. “We’ve seen it, we’ve seen it a hundred times, thank you very much. What is this, the goddamn network?”
Just what it’s like, he thought. How many times had they shown the footage of Hinkley blasting away at Reagan, or the Challenger rising beautifully into the sky and blowing up? And each time they show it, you hope it’ll be different this time, you hope they rewrote the script and Hinkley waves instead of shoots, and the Challenger makes it into orbit, and you go charging into the kitchen and Smeltzer and his wife are busy mopping the floor and they look at you as if you’re nuts. But the script never changes. Each replay is identical to the last one, no matter how hard you wish it different.
They aren’t mopping. She’s on the floor with just her chin on the end of her neck, and Smeltzer is down on her. My God what is he doing!
Oh, I do not need this not one little bit. It’s my day off, how about my memory taking the day off, too? Pick upKimmy in about an hour. That should help. A lot. Call Applegate first, though, find out when he’ll be winding up the autopsy on Smeltzer—guy must’ve been drugged out, probably angel dust, which is about the only logical explanation for what he did. Eating her, Jesus! Had to be angel dust.
But how does angel dust connect with the van? The two incidents had to be related, somehow. Didn’t they?
When he finished showering, Jake got dressed and made a cup of instant coffee. Then he dialed the morgue. “Betty? It’s Jake.”
“How you doing, fella?”
“Hanging in.”
“I heard about last night. Pretty rough, I guess.”
“I’ve had better times.”
“I’m free tonight, just in case you could use a little loving.”
“Thanks for the offer,” he said. Betty’s idea of a little loving was a lot of hard work. She was a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty. She had been a champion gymnast in high school, and now her performances were confined to the bedroom. She was truly awesome. Jake’s several encounters with her had been real adventures, but exhausting, and afterward he had always somehow regretted the time spent with her.
He was glad, now, that he had an honest excuse for avoiding Betty. “Afraid I can’t, tonight. This is my weekend with Kimmy.”
“Just let me know.”
“I’ll be sure to. Is Steve around?”
“He’s out for the day.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t kid you, fella. He got a call first thing this morning from Dr. Willis—the coroner over in Marlowe? Willis wanted him to take a look at some stiff they turned up.”
“We’ve got stiffs of our own.”
“Willis and Steve are old pals. And Willis has a country club in his backyard. I think there was more to it than just a professional consultation. Steve took his golf clubs.”
“Great. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“He told me you’d be calling. He said to tell you he’ll be in tomorrow, for sure, and do his number on your guy first thing.”
“Okay.”
“You sure about tonight? What time does your kid hit the sack?”
“I wouldn’t be much fun, anyway.”
“Sure you would. But hey, it’s up to you.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Take it easy now.”
“You, too, Jake.”
He hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car onto the circular driveway and stopped if behind a red Porsche with the cutesy license plate, BB’S TOY.
BB’s toy would look best, Jake thought, wrapped around a tree. Then he felt guilty. After all, she was Kimmy’s mother. Kimmy loved her. Poor taste on the kid’s part, but you love the mother you get, even if she is a slut.
His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, as he stepped onto the front stoop and pressed the doorbell. From inside came the faint sound
He stepped under the hot spray and began to soap himself and saw Smeltzer look up at him, ripping a patch of flesh from the woman’s belly. The flesh tore away and he started to turn. He’s going for it!
“Turn it off!” he snapped. “We’ve seen it, we’ve seen it a hundred times, thank you very much. What is this, the goddamn network?”
Just what it’s like, he thought. How many times had they shown the footage of Hinkley blasting away at Reagan, or the Challenger rising beautifully into the sky and blowing up? And each time they show it, you hope it’ll be different this time, you hope they rewrote the script and Hinkley waves instead of shoots, and the Challenger makes it into orbit, and you go charging into the kitchen and Smeltzer and his wife are busy mopping the floor and they look at you as if you’re nuts. But the script never changes. Each replay is identical to the last one, no matter how hard you wish it different.
They aren’t mopping. She’s on the floor with just her chin on the end of her neck, and Smeltzer is down on her. My God what is he doing!
Oh, I do not need this not one little bit. It’s my day off, how about my memory taking the day off, too? Pick upKimmy in about an hour. That should help. A lot. Call Applegate first, though, find out when he’ll be winding up the autopsy on Smeltzer—guy must’ve been drugged out, probably angel dust, which is about the only logical explanation for what he did. Eating her, Jesus! Had to be angel dust.
But how does angel dust connect with the van? The two incidents had to be related, somehow. Didn’t they?
When he finished showering, Jake got dressed and made a cup of instant coffee. Then he dialed the morgue. “Betty? It’s Jake.”
“How you doing, fella?”
“Hanging in.”
“I heard about last night. Pretty rough, I guess.”
“I’ve had better times.”
“I’m free tonight, just in case you could use a little loving.”
“Thanks for the offer,” he said. Betty’s idea of a little loving was a lot of hard work. She was a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty. She had been a champion gymnast in high school, and now her performances were confined to the bedroom. She was truly awesome. Jake’s several encounters with her had been real adventures, but exhausting, and afterward he had always somehow regretted the time spent with her.
He was glad, now, that he had an honest excuse for avoiding Betty. “Afraid I can’t, tonight. This is my weekend with Kimmy.”
“Just let me know.”
“I’ll be sure to. Is Steve around?”
“He’s out for the day.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t kid you, fella. He got a call first thing this morning from Dr. Willis—the coroner over in Marlowe? Willis wanted him to take a look at some stiff they turned up.”
“We’ve got stiffs of our own.”
“Willis and Steve are old pals. And Willis has a country club in his backyard. I think there was more to it than just a professional consultation. Steve took his golf clubs.”
“Great. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“He told me you’d be calling. He said to tell you he’ll be in tomorrow, for sure, and do his number on your guy first thing.”
“Okay.”
“You sure about tonight? What time does your kid hit the sack?”
“I wouldn’t be much fun, anyway.”
“Sure you would. But hey, it’s up to you.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Take it easy now.”
“You, too, Jake.”
He hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car onto the circular driveway and stopped if behind a red Porsche with the cutesy license plate, BB’S TOY.
BB’s toy would look best, Jake thought, wrapped around a tree. Then he felt guilty. After all, she was Kimmy’s mother. Kimmy loved her. Poor taste on the kid’s part, but you love the mother you get, even if she is a slut.
His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, as he stepped onto the front stoop and pressed the doorbell. From inside came the faint sound
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