go under the knife. And I’ve got a witness to back me up in my methodology and procedure.” I shot Joy a look like, You’re it! “Which means, we’ve got the lab and toxicology to consider.”
Mitch took a step forward, a cup of 7-Eleven coffee steaming in his right hand.
He said, “Look at her for God’s sakes, Divine. Look at all the blood. She got drunk out of her mind, cut her own chest open, then finished herself off at the neck. End of story.”
He’s right, Divine. What the fuck are you doing? Send her on to Fitzy’s for burial. Get rid of the body of evidence. Whitewash anything that might potentially point to you as the killer. But then, what if I’m not the killer? What if Jake is the killer? He needs to pay for what he did. She was a hell of a nice girl. He shouldn’t treat her like this in death. He needs to pay. Yeah, but what if I did that hack job? What if by being a stubborn hard-ass, I ended up indicting myself?
I said, “Show me a means of death, Mitch. Show me a weapon.”
The furrows on Cain’s brow were scrunched and deep. His unblinking slate-gray eyes told me he could not believe this was happening.
He insisted, “Jake panicked, deep-sixed the blade.”
But like I said, I’m not entirely sure what got into me. Maybe it was all for Scarlet, for some deep feelings I never knew existed. In any case, I had no choice now but to stand firm, hold my ground, take control of the situation, not miss a shred of important information.
“I’m requesting an autopsy, Mitchell. I want tox to test for drugs. I want to interview Montana.”
“All in that order?” Cain said under his breath. “What if I just decide to dismiss you?”
“Then I go straight to I.A.,” I bluffed.
Cain, nodding, resigned, knowing that for the first time, I was determined to go by the book.
The uniformed Joy, ever in the background, keeping his mouth shut, myopic eyes glued to the tops of his shoes. Behind him, two or three S.P.D. cops paced the hall, listened in on our conversation—witnessed it. If you wanted to call it that.
“My Lord, Divine, you been reading too many mysteries in your spare time.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Maybe you should think about it this way,” Cain added. “Whose side is I.A. gonna take? A part-timer with a memory problem, or mine?”
“Memory’s not the problem,” I said. “It’s a slightly damaged cerebral cortex; an occasional inability to discern what’s important from what’s not; to tell what’s right from wrong.”
He stepped up to my ear.
“A simple case of brain damage,” he whispered.
I stuffed the rubber gloves into my old partner’s coffee and walked out.
14
I SPOTTED LOLA’S SILVER, gas-guzzling Humvee parked up against the concrete curb as soon as we made the corner on to Hope Lane. Consciously or not, I knew that I had been looking for it; looking for her. I knew she must have tried to call the house while I was gone. When she got no answer other than the machine, she must have closed up her lab early, made her way over.
Sometimes I couldn’t be trusted.
Five after four in the morning. The rain had stopped once more.
The air was damp and cold. It had a ripe gamy smell to it. Probably from the worms that had washed up onto the concrete sidewalk.
I slowly made my way up the slate stairs that led to the front portico of the split-level. Joy took off, headed south towards the downtown. I wondered if the kid ever slept. Maybe he was an android.
The bile was still bubbling inside my stomach.
Now that I was alone with the night sky, I could plainly feel it. Nausea, sneaking up on me.
Once inside the house, I knew I was going to lose it.
I bolted through the vestibule into the bathroom off the kitchen. I dropped to my knees and retched. All of it was coming out of me. My fear, my confusion. My guilt for what had happened to Scarlet, for denying our past together, for my bolting the scene instead of standing by her
Mitch took a step forward, a cup of 7-Eleven coffee steaming in his right hand.
He said, “Look at her for God’s sakes, Divine. Look at all the blood. She got drunk out of her mind, cut her own chest open, then finished herself off at the neck. End of story.”
He’s right, Divine. What the fuck are you doing? Send her on to Fitzy’s for burial. Get rid of the body of evidence. Whitewash anything that might potentially point to you as the killer. But then, what if I’m not the killer? What if Jake is the killer? He needs to pay for what he did. She was a hell of a nice girl. He shouldn’t treat her like this in death. He needs to pay. Yeah, but what if I did that hack job? What if by being a stubborn hard-ass, I ended up indicting myself?
I said, “Show me a means of death, Mitch. Show me a weapon.”
The furrows on Cain’s brow were scrunched and deep. His unblinking slate-gray eyes told me he could not believe this was happening.
He insisted, “Jake panicked, deep-sixed the blade.”
But like I said, I’m not entirely sure what got into me. Maybe it was all for Scarlet, for some deep feelings I never knew existed. In any case, I had no choice now but to stand firm, hold my ground, take control of the situation, not miss a shred of important information.
“I’m requesting an autopsy, Mitchell. I want tox to test for drugs. I want to interview Montana.”
“All in that order?” Cain said under his breath. “What if I just decide to dismiss you?”
“Then I go straight to I.A.,” I bluffed.
Cain, nodding, resigned, knowing that for the first time, I was determined to go by the book.
The uniformed Joy, ever in the background, keeping his mouth shut, myopic eyes glued to the tops of his shoes. Behind him, two or three S.P.D. cops paced the hall, listened in on our conversation—witnessed it. If you wanted to call it that.
“My Lord, Divine, you been reading too many mysteries in your spare time.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Maybe you should think about it this way,” Cain added. “Whose side is I.A. gonna take? A part-timer with a memory problem, or mine?”
“Memory’s not the problem,” I said. “It’s a slightly damaged cerebral cortex; an occasional inability to discern what’s important from what’s not; to tell what’s right from wrong.”
He stepped up to my ear.
“A simple case of brain damage,” he whispered.
I stuffed the rubber gloves into my old partner’s coffee and walked out.
14
I SPOTTED LOLA’S SILVER, gas-guzzling Humvee parked up against the concrete curb as soon as we made the corner on to Hope Lane. Consciously or not, I knew that I had been looking for it; looking for her. I knew she must have tried to call the house while I was gone. When she got no answer other than the machine, she must have closed up her lab early, made her way over.
Sometimes I couldn’t be trusted.
Five after four in the morning. The rain had stopped once more.
The air was damp and cold. It had a ripe gamy smell to it. Probably from the worms that had washed up onto the concrete sidewalk.
I slowly made my way up the slate stairs that led to the front portico of the split-level. Joy took off, headed south towards the downtown. I wondered if the kid ever slept. Maybe he was an android.
The bile was still bubbling inside my stomach.
Now that I was alone with the night sky, I could plainly feel it. Nausea, sneaking up on me.
Once inside the house, I knew I was going to lose it.
I bolted through the vestibule into the bathroom off the kitchen. I dropped to my knees and retched. All of it was coming out of me. My fear, my confusion. My guilt for what had happened to Scarlet, for denying our past together, for my bolting the scene instead of standing by her
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