Las Vegas, heading for a plane to L.A. or Chicago.
In the midst of awful possibilities she felt a rush of pity for Jeff Tremaine. He had loved Hope Mkema and she had died, and now this. The dead woman in Gattozzi could be the index case of an epidemic, and Jeff Tremaine would be the index doctor. Once the woman’s body was dumped on Jeff Tremaine, he might as well have climbed onto the gurney with her. She knew that, and once he thought about it, Jeff would realize it too. Could she count on Jeff reporting the body?
She wouldn’t of course. “Never count on anyone” was a rule she’d mastered early. And with this case she wouldn’t have trusted Mother Teresa. As soon as she got to the airport, she’d call the health department herself.
CHAPTER 11
B RAD T CHERNAK STOOD ON the second-story landing outside Grady Hummacher’s door. His first search. Every time Kiernan came bursting into the duplex at home, high from penetrating some guy’s space, Tchernak felt like he’d been sidelined in a play-off game. Kiernan liked searches, but she loved breaking and entering. She was his quarterback, she kept reminding him, and he was just waiting till she was thrown out of the game. Or carried off. And when she told him in indecent detail how she’d stood stock-still in the dark beside the door listening to voices outside, footsteps on the stairs, herself ready to bolt out the door if the intruder didn’t spot her first, he remembered the time both safeties split the line and smacked his quarterback into the AstroTurf so hard, the guy was out cold for an eternity. He hated her being out there alone. With her it was a toss-up which were more of a threat—cops or crooks. Cops had some standards, but the woman had such an attitude and big mouth that she’d taunted them into locking her up more than once. “No taunting, no speeding, no defenestration!”—how many times had he told her that? Simple little aphorism that even the smallest detective could remember.
For all the good that did. Sometimes he wondered if all it did was goad her into hitting ninety miles an hour so she could get home quicker to thumb her nose at him.
One night, over a pitcher of margaritas, she had described the seductive allure of penetration. She’d detailed the foreplay, feeling the lock as she slipped in the celluloid strip …And now Grady Hummacher’s apartment stood in front of him, needing no foreplay at all, ready to open up like a flasher’s raincoat and expose Grady’s secrets.
Right, just what I need: ROOKIE DETECTIVE PICKED UP WET-DREAMING ON PORCH . But Tchernak couldn’t restrain a grin as he grabbed the key Reston Adcock had given him and stuck it in the lock.
Grady Hummacher’s place—four rooms over a double garage and storage area—was the smallest unit in this upscale suite for the upscale single moving in or out of the nation’s fastest-growing city.
Tchernak’s first reaction to the living room was that it didn’t seem like Grady’s place. Of course it wasn’t, any more than it was Tom’s place, or Dick’s or Harry’s, or whoever else had sprawled on the off-white leather couch or eaten cereal on the pale oak table. The rumpled newspapers on the floor, now that was more Grady’s style. And the kitchen cabinet doors, none of them closed. That took some doing even for Grady. In the dorm twenty-one-year-old Grady had been a man of experience to the seventeen-year-old freshmen. Or a man of experiences. Before the first term was out, Grady had led his freshmen charges in a guerrilla war against Tasman Hall across the quad. He’d turned them on to underage bars, willing women, and a crazy car track with an amateur’s night. To the frosh he’d been a god, to the administration a disaster. His room reflected his life.
Tchernak moved to the middle of the room and eyed the 360 degrees of beige. The place must cost a bundle, but that just showed that the furnishings of transience come in all economic levels. It
In the midst of awful possibilities she felt a rush of pity for Jeff Tremaine. He had loved Hope Mkema and she had died, and now this. The dead woman in Gattozzi could be the index case of an epidemic, and Jeff Tremaine would be the index doctor. Once the woman’s body was dumped on Jeff Tremaine, he might as well have climbed onto the gurney with her. She knew that, and once he thought about it, Jeff would realize it too. Could she count on Jeff reporting the body?
She wouldn’t of course. “Never count on anyone” was a rule she’d mastered early. And with this case she wouldn’t have trusted Mother Teresa. As soon as she got to the airport, she’d call the health department herself.
CHAPTER 11
B RAD T CHERNAK STOOD ON the second-story landing outside Grady Hummacher’s door. His first search. Every time Kiernan came bursting into the duplex at home, high from penetrating some guy’s space, Tchernak felt like he’d been sidelined in a play-off game. Kiernan liked searches, but she loved breaking and entering. She was his quarterback, she kept reminding him, and he was just waiting till she was thrown out of the game. Or carried off. And when she told him in indecent detail how she’d stood stock-still in the dark beside the door listening to voices outside, footsteps on the stairs, herself ready to bolt out the door if the intruder didn’t spot her first, he remembered the time both safeties split the line and smacked his quarterback into the AstroTurf so hard, the guy was out cold for an eternity. He hated her being out there alone. With her it was a toss-up which were more of a threat—cops or crooks. Cops had some standards, but the woman had such an attitude and big mouth that she’d taunted them into locking her up more than once. “No taunting, no speeding, no defenestration!”—how many times had he told her that? Simple little aphorism that even the smallest detective could remember.
For all the good that did. Sometimes he wondered if all it did was goad her into hitting ninety miles an hour so she could get home quicker to thumb her nose at him.
One night, over a pitcher of margaritas, she had described the seductive allure of penetration. She’d detailed the foreplay, feeling the lock as she slipped in the celluloid strip …And now Grady Hummacher’s apartment stood in front of him, needing no foreplay at all, ready to open up like a flasher’s raincoat and expose Grady’s secrets.
Right, just what I need: ROOKIE DETECTIVE PICKED UP WET-DREAMING ON PORCH . But Tchernak couldn’t restrain a grin as he grabbed the key Reston Adcock had given him and stuck it in the lock.
Grady Hummacher’s place—four rooms over a double garage and storage area—was the smallest unit in this upscale suite for the upscale single moving in or out of the nation’s fastest-growing city.
Tchernak’s first reaction to the living room was that it didn’t seem like Grady’s place. Of course it wasn’t, any more than it was Tom’s place, or Dick’s or Harry’s, or whoever else had sprawled on the off-white leather couch or eaten cereal on the pale oak table. The rumpled newspapers on the floor, now that was more Grady’s style. And the kitchen cabinet doors, none of them closed. That took some doing even for Grady. In the dorm twenty-one-year-old Grady had been a man of experience to the seventeen-year-old freshmen. Or a man of experiences. Before the first term was out, Grady had led his freshmen charges in a guerrilla war against Tasman Hall across the quad. He’d turned them on to underage bars, willing women, and a crazy car track with an amateur’s night. To the frosh he’d been a god, to the administration a disaster. His room reflected his life.
Tchernak moved to the middle of the room and eyed the 360 degrees of beige. The place must cost a bundle, but that just showed that the furnishings of transience come in all economic levels. It
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