eye on him for you, and I’ll call you with updates every day.”
“That’d be great...but if you happen to call the house and my mom picks up, please, don’t say anything to her about this.”
“You have my word.”
Trish could feel her face flushing again. Damn it . She looked at her feet and said, “She thinks you and I made up.”
He smiled. “How would you rate the chances of that actually happening?”
But the wounds were still too fresh. “Let’s just see how things go, okay?”
Touching her arm, Dean said, “Sounds good to me.” He straightened now, stepping away from the car. “Safe trip. I’ll call you tonight.”
Managing a tired smile, Trish thanked him again for the gas money he’d loaned her and pulled away.
* * *
By 6:30 that morning the construction site had morphed into a full-blown crime scene, a half dozen cruisers parked helter skelter, detectives and technicians milling around, the excavator cordoned off with bright yellow barricade tape.
Near the loader a slim, graying detective named Dan Boland stood in conference with a colleague, Alec Dunster, a fireplug in his late thirties with a twitchy, impatient manner.
Speaking around the cigar in his mouth, Boland said, “Get anything useful out of the date?”
“Says he didn’t get a good look at the guy,” Dunster said. “Sounds like he was seriously shitfaced at the time. All he knows about the girl is she was engaged once. She told him it was old news, but he said the perp said something like ‘That’s my little toad’ before putting his lights out. Some first date.”
Boland nodded, saying, “Still, it’s worth a follow up. The girl’s family should be able to put us in touch with the ex.” He was watching Forensics bag the vic’s remains. “You get a look at that head?”
“Sick puke yanked all her teeth.”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
* * *
At 3:46 that afternoon, Trish tore out of the house still buttoning the blouse on her hotel staff uniform. Her hair was a mess, she couldn’t find her obligatory name tag, she was supposed to punch in at 4:00 o’clock sharp and the hotel was a sixteen minute drive from her front door, if she made all the traffic lights.
She caught her toe running across the lawn, cursed and almost fell. A kid on a trike across the street stopped picking his nose to stare at her. It started to rain. She piled into the Jetta and turned the key—
WHIZ!
“Shit!”
It was all she could do not to scream. Not only had the excitement of owning her first car already worn off, in this moment—with the clock ticking and sweat running in rivulets between her boobs in this hideous, baby shit-colored blouse—what she really wanted was to take this clunky piece of crap back to its previous owner and torch it on his scabby front lawn.
Her mother had been right.
She checked her watch. Another minute gone. She thought of calling her mom to say she’d be late, but that would be like asking for the death penalty. If she kept her trap shut, she might still be able to sneak into the hotel undetected.
Her fingers itched to turn the key, but she knew from bitter experience that it was best to give it a few minutes.
She sat there watching rain drops spatter the dusty windshield, reflecting on her insane trip home, a four-hour drive costing her six-and-a-half. She closed her eyes and saw Dean leaning on the sill, asking if she really had to leave so early.
The trip had started out fine, her 9:00 A.M. departure sparing her the worst of morning traffic. She made the 400 in record time, and had enough gas left over to carry her all the way up to Highway 69. Whatever else her ‘new’ car might be, it really was excellent on gas. She stopped north of Barrie to top up the tank—and after she paid the attendant, the damned thing wouldn’t start. A guy at the next pump said, “Sounds like your starter’s going,” And Trish thought, You think ? She was no mechanic, but the diagnosis seemed fairly
“That’d be great...but if you happen to call the house and my mom picks up, please, don’t say anything to her about this.”
“You have my word.”
Trish could feel her face flushing again. Damn it . She looked at her feet and said, “She thinks you and I made up.”
He smiled. “How would you rate the chances of that actually happening?”
But the wounds were still too fresh. “Let’s just see how things go, okay?”
Touching her arm, Dean said, “Sounds good to me.” He straightened now, stepping away from the car. “Safe trip. I’ll call you tonight.”
Managing a tired smile, Trish thanked him again for the gas money he’d loaned her and pulled away.
* * *
By 6:30 that morning the construction site had morphed into a full-blown crime scene, a half dozen cruisers parked helter skelter, detectives and technicians milling around, the excavator cordoned off with bright yellow barricade tape.
Near the loader a slim, graying detective named Dan Boland stood in conference with a colleague, Alec Dunster, a fireplug in his late thirties with a twitchy, impatient manner.
Speaking around the cigar in his mouth, Boland said, “Get anything useful out of the date?”
“Says he didn’t get a good look at the guy,” Dunster said. “Sounds like he was seriously shitfaced at the time. All he knows about the girl is she was engaged once. She told him it was old news, but he said the perp said something like ‘That’s my little toad’ before putting his lights out. Some first date.”
Boland nodded, saying, “Still, it’s worth a follow up. The girl’s family should be able to put us in touch with the ex.” He was watching Forensics bag the vic’s remains. “You get a look at that head?”
“Sick puke yanked all her teeth.”
“Doesn’t make any sense.”
* * *
At 3:46 that afternoon, Trish tore out of the house still buttoning the blouse on her hotel staff uniform. Her hair was a mess, she couldn’t find her obligatory name tag, she was supposed to punch in at 4:00 o’clock sharp and the hotel was a sixteen minute drive from her front door, if she made all the traffic lights.
She caught her toe running across the lawn, cursed and almost fell. A kid on a trike across the street stopped picking his nose to stare at her. It started to rain. She piled into the Jetta and turned the key—
WHIZ!
“Shit!”
It was all she could do not to scream. Not only had the excitement of owning her first car already worn off, in this moment—with the clock ticking and sweat running in rivulets between her boobs in this hideous, baby shit-colored blouse—what she really wanted was to take this clunky piece of crap back to its previous owner and torch it on his scabby front lawn.
Her mother had been right.
She checked her watch. Another minute gone. She thought of calling her mom to say she’d be late, but that would be like asking for the death penalty. If she kept her trap shut, she might still be able to sneak into the hotel undetected.
Her fingers itched to turn the key, but she knew from bitter experience that it was best to give it a few minutes.
She sat there watching rain drops spatter the dusty windshield, reflecting on her insane trip home, a four-hour drive costing her six-and-a-half. She closed her eyes and saw Dean leaning on the sill, asking if she really had to leave so early.
The trip had started out fine, her 9:00 A.M. departure sparing her the worst of morning traffic. She made the 400 in record time, and had enough gas left over to carry her all the way up to Highway 69. Whatever else her ‘new’ car might be, it really was excellent on gas. She stopped north of Barrie to top up the tank—and after she paid the attendant, the damned thing wouldn’t start. A guy at the next pump said, “Sounds like your starter’s going,” And Trish thought, You think ? She was no mechanic, but the diagnosis seemed fairly
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