medical evidence shows she was not sexually attacked before she was shot.”
“She wasn’t?”
“No. It looked that way. But she wasn’t.”
Sheldon leaned on the bench as if his stomach hurt. “I’m glad for that. I’m glad she didn’t have to go through that.”
“Yes. About how much money did Annette bring home each week, Mr. Sheldon?”
He came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “How much? Oh—sometimes two thousand dollars a week. Any week she didn’t make fifteen hundred was a poor week for her. I told you, she was real popular. There was a bunch of Arabs used to come in sometimes and see how high they could stack twenty-dollar bills before she finished a dance.”
“What did you and your wife do with all that money?”
“Do with it?”
“Did you spend it? Save it? Invest it in something?”
“Well, ah, we spent a lot—the condo, that’s expensive. And the cars. Video stuff—working nights, you miss the good programs. Vacations—a little gambling in Vegas.” He looked around the cinder-block walls of the machine shop. “And a lot of it went into this business. This whole set of tools and machines … all new. …” He shook his head, “Like I said, Annette kept the books and I just haven’t had the heart to go over them yet.”
“Did you lend money to anyone who might not want to pay it back?”
“No,” he said definitely. “We never lent money. We saved some and we spent some. That’s it.” His voice rose. “And I don’t see what any of that’s got to do with some son of a bitch killing her. Why don’t you just go out and find what crazy son of a bitch followed her out of the club and killed her! Why don’t you do that instead of coming around here and bugging me with all these questions that don’t mean shit! Go on—go on and find out who it was, and leave me alone!”
CHAPTER 4
T HEY RODE THAT night, and the next, and all the following week, too. The Sheldon file moved an inch or so toward the back of the Open drawer as later homicides, farther up the alphabet, crowded in. Some of those files were open-and-shut within an hour and moved to the Action drawer for legal disposition; others sat longer while the detectives methodically interviewed witnesses, gathered physical evidence, and put together cases for the cadre of young assistant DAs, who would face the accused in court. It was during busy times like these that Wager had an occasional image of himself as swimming just above an ocean floor and fingering the detritus that settled into the murky slime. High above him, the people who could afford to be near the light passed each other, surrounded by comfortable space that cushioned their jostle for money or power. Farther down, where things got darker and more crowded, the jostling wasn’t so polite or so well governed. There, when species bumped, they tore at one another for other reasons besides greed. It had more to do with reflexes or terror, or even the pleasure of destroying another living being. Below that was the turbulence of a continual struggle of one against the other, and against those above who pressed down. There, the occasional leviathan swam out of the gloom to feed when hungry, to awe when not. There, those smaller than the leviathan, but quicker, more savage, dipped to feed on the easier prey at the bottom. And there, too, was where Wager swam. While, beneath it all, the bits and pieces, tattered remnants of the struggle, spun slowly down to lie in the sludge and serve things that could only crawl to their dying feed.
By now, almost two weeks after her death, Annette Sheldon had become just another piece of jetsam on the floor of this sea, and other, more recent victims demanded more attention. There was the four-year-old boy who was beaten to death by his mother’s live-in; no confession yet, but good medical evidence that the bruises and the ripping loose of the child’s brain from its skull did not occur when he took a little
“She wasn’t?”
“No. It looked that way. But she wasn’t.”
Sheldon leaned on the bench as if his stomach hurt. “I’m glad for that. I’m glad she didn’t have to go through that.”
“Yes. About how much money did Annette bring home each week, Mr. Sheldon?”
He came back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “How much? Oh—sometimes two thousand dollars a week. Any week she didn’t make fifteen hundred was a poor week for her. I told you, she was real popular. There was a bunch of Arabs used to come in sometimes and see how high they could stack twenty-dollar bills before she finished a dance.”
“What did you and your wife do with all that money?”
“Do with it?”
“Did you spend it? Save it? Invest it in something?”
“Well, ah, we spent a lot—the condo, that’s expensive. And the cars. Video stuff—working nights, you miss the good programs. Vacations—a little gambling in Vegas.” He looked around the cinder-block walls of the machine shop. “And a lot of it went into this business. This whole set of tools and machines … all new. …” He shook his head, “Like I said, Annette kept the books and I just haven’t had the heart to go over them yet.”
“Did you lend money to anyone who might not want to pay it back?”
“No,” he said definitely. “We never lent money. We saved some and we spent some. That’s it.” His voice rose. “And I don’t see what any of that’s got to do with some son of a bitch killing her. Why don’t you just go out and find what crazy son of a bitch followed her out of the club and killed her! Why don’t you do that instead of coming around here and bugging me with all these questions that don’t mean shit! Go on—go on and find out who it was, and leave me alone!”
CHAPTER 4
T HEY RODE THAT night, and the next, and all the following week, too. The Sheldon file moved an inch or so toward the back of the Open drawer as later homicides, farther up the alphabet, crowded in. Some of those files were open-and-shut within an hour and moved to the Action drawer for legal disposition; others sat longer while the detectives methodically interviewed witnesses, gathered physical evidence, and put together cases for the cadre of young assistant DAs, who would face the accused in court. It was during busy times like these that Wager had an occasional image of himself as swimming just above an ocean floor and fingering the detritus that settled into the murky slime. High above him, the people who could afford to be near the light passed each other, surrounded by comfortable space that cushioned their jostle for money or power. Farther down, where things got darker and more crowded, the jostling wasn’t so polite or so well governed. There, when species bumped, they tore at one another for other reasons besides greed. It had more to do with reflexes or terror, or even the pleasure of destroying another living being. Below that was the turbulence of a continual struggle of one against the other, and against those above who pressed down. There, the occasional leviathan swam out of the gloom to feed when hungry, to awe when not. There, those smaller than the leviathan, but quicker, more savage, dipped to feed on the easier prey at the bottom. And there, too, was where Wager swam. While, beneath it all, the bits and pieces, tattered remnants of the struggle, spun slowly down to lie in the sludge and serve things that could only crawl to their dying feed.
By now, almost two weeks after her death, Annette Sheldon had become just another piece of jetsam on the floor of this sea, and other, more recent victims demanded more attention. There was the four-year-old boy who was beaten to death by his mother’s live-in; no confession yet, but good medical evidence that the bruises and the ripping loose of the child’s brain from its skull did not occur when he took a little
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