Heartsick by Chelsea Cain

true.

    Ian insisted on driving, which was fine with Susan, as her battered Saab was always loaded with the accoutrements of her life—magazines, empty water bottles, discarded jackets, notebooks and pens—dozens of pens. She found that passengers sometimes failed to understand her complete lack of interest in picking up old french fries off the floor, much less dusting the dashboard. Parker, who was actually covering the press conference, and who did not like Ian, based entirely on the fact that Ian had graduated from journalism school in 1986, took a separate vehicle.

    It was still raining. The sky was entirely white and the foothills that surrounded the city looked like jagged, milky shadows. As they made their way over the bridge, Susan placed her hand flat on the passenger side window, watching the rivulets of water carve their jagged paths down the glass. So many people moved to Portland for the quality of life and the progressive politics. They bought bicycles and big old wooden houses and espresso makers, and then, after the first dreary winter, they moved back to L.A. But Susan liked the slick of rain, the way that it distorted the view out of every windshield, every window. The way light blurred around brake lights and glowed on the pavement. The scrape of the wipers.

    She had to ask it. “This assignment,” she said, still looking out her window, drumming her fingers on the cold, hard glass. “It has nothing to do with your cock, right, lan?”

    Ian looked honestly startled. “Jesus! No. No, Susan. Howard asked for you. I just agreed. I would never…” He let that trail off.

    “Good,” Susan said. “Because if I ever thought that it was interfering in our professional relationship, the fucking would stop.” She turned and looked at him with her hard green eyes. “You understand that, right?”

    He cleared his throat, and his face and neck reddened. “Yes.”

    She let her gaze drift back out over the Willamette. “Don’t you love the rain?”

     

    Anne Boyd and Claire Masland sat across from each other in the rectangular break room of the former bank. Claire was the tiniest white woman Anne had ever met. It wasn’t so much that she was short; she was probably five three. It’s just that Claire was so slight and angular that she seemed smaller than she was. But Anne liked Claire. She looked like an adolescent boy, but she was one of the most tenacious cops Anne had ever worked with. Like one of those cute lap dogs that sinks its teeth into someone’s forearm, locks its jaw, and can’t be pried off without tranquilizers. They’d become friends during the Beauty Killer case. The other cops thought it was because they were women. And it was, in a way. They knew something about each other. Despite the black-white thing, the heavy-thin thing, despite it all, they recognized the thing that, as women, made them different enough to lead them into a violent world still dominated by men. They understood what it was to be attracted, in some way, to death.

    “You want to go over it again?” Claire asked.

    Claire had recounted her particular knowledge of the case with Anne twice already and now sat fidgeting, her gaze resting on the microwave where her lunch was currently heating. She had been at Jefferson, interviewing kids who knew Kristy, and Anne knew that she wanted to get back to the field. Missing persons cases were hard enough. Missing kids made everyone work twice as hard and feel twice as guilty.

    “I think I’ve got everything I need from you for now,” Anne said. She stacked the copies of the notes that Claire had brought her next to the ones from Henry and Martin. The notes that cops took at a crime scene were often more copious than the version that made it into their reports, and Anne had learned long ago that the smallest detail could mean the difference between a solid profile and a half-assed guess. “How do you think Archie looked this morning?” Anne asked, keeping her