best smile.
She reads my card. "What's that to me?"
"I'd like to talk to you."
"What about?"
"I'd rather not do it while standing in the street."
"I'm afraid that's as good as it's going to get," she says. "Which one of the molesting deviants do you represent?"
"None. I just want some information."
"Come back some other time. Or better yet. don't bother." She starts to close the door.
"It's possible we have something in common."
"And what could that be?"
"Bailey," I tell her. The single word seems to freeze her in place.
The door is still open, just a sliver. She studies me, searching for some point of recognition, but fails to find it, then hesitates for a moment. Indecision. What to do? One hand is still buried in the purse, the other on the lock.
"What do you know about Bailey?"
"I know he was your son."
"Anybody could have told you my son's name."
"I know he died under suspicious circumstances, probably as a result of abuse by your former husband." This has never been reported in the press, even though she screamed and ranted at the time. Susan had told me the rest of the story.
"There's no probably about it," says Suade.
There was never a conviction, though I sense that now is not the time to debate the point.
"I want to stop it from happening again," I tell her. The magic words, like open sesame. She assesses me for a long moment, an expression that says, "What the hell. Talk is cheap." She slides her hand up the door, catches the chain and slides it off.
"Come in." I know that if I tell her why I'm here, mention Jonah's name, I would never get through the door. Besides, it's only a little white lie, a matter of degrees. There is little question in my mind that one or more of Jessica's live-in lovers possess the same proclivities as Suade's former husband, and present the same dangers to Amanda Hale.
She steps outside and checks the street, first in one direction, then the other. Then she bolts the door behind us.
"So what do you know about Gerald?" she says. Her hand is still in the purse, resting languidly in the bottom I suspect, like a coiled snake.
"Rumor has it he's responsible for the death of your little boy."
"Is that what you've come to tell me? Rumors?"
"Your son died twelve years ago."
"There's no statute of limitations on murder "she says. And apparently none for revenge.
Gerald Langly is Suade's ex. He is currently in prison.
"I know that he beat you. That he brutalized your son. That the boy died under highly suspicious circumstances."
"And how do you know all this?"
"Let's just say we have a mutual acquaintance." She looks me up and down, then finally motions me deeper into the shop. Finally she lifts her hand from the purse.
The overhead lights are still out. The large copying machine behind the counter is as cold as a frozen brick. There are envelopes on the counter, some of them opened, others waiting for the edge of a needle-sharp stiletto opener that lies on the counter next to them.
She lays the purse on the counter and picks up the letter opener, trading one weapon for another.
"Who's this mutual acquaintance?" she asks.
"I'm not at liberty to say." She's clearly interested, racking her brain, trying to figure who would know the intimate details of her life, or for that matter care enough to tell some stranger.
"What do you want?" "As I said, to talk. Just a little help." Her gaze comes up, her expression suddenly filled with an afterthought.
"Stop. Are you wearing a wire?"
"What?"
"It's a simple question. Are you wired?"
"Why would I be wired?"
"Three little letters," she says. "FBI. You don't mind if I look?" She doesn't wait for a reply, but comes around the counter and starts to feel me up, around the waist in the cleft at the center of my back, and at the belt line. She is still holding the needle-sharp letter opener in her hand.
She steps away, wearing a look of suspicion, wary eyes.
"You're clean." She says it as if I don't know this. Like some aliens
She reads my card. "What's that to me?"
"I'd like to talk to you."
"What about?"
"I'd rather not do it while standing in the street."
"I'm afraid that's as good as it's going to get," she says. "Which one of the molesting deviants do you represent?"
"None. I just want some information."
"Come back some other time. Or better yet. don't bother." She starts to close the door.
"It's possible we have something in common."
"And what could that be?"
"Bailey," I tell her. The single word seems to freeze her in place.
The door is still open, just a sliver. She studies me, searching for some point of recognition, but fails to find it, then hesitates for a moment. Indecision. What to do? One hand is still buried in the purse, the other on the lock.
"What do you know about Bailey?"
"I know he was your son."
"Anybody could have told you my son's name."
"I know he died under suspicious circumstances, probably as a result of abuse by your former husband." This has never been reported in the press, even though she screamed and ranted at the time. Susan had told me the rest of the story.
"There's no probably about it," says Suade.
There was never a conviction, though I sense that now is not the time to debate the point.
"I want to stop it from happening again," I tell her. The magic words, like open sesame. She assesses me for a long moment, an expression that says, "What the hell. Talk is cheap." She slides her hand up the door, catches the chain and slides it off.
"Come in." I know that if I tell her why I'm here, mention Jonah's name, I would never get through the door. Besides, it's only a little white lie, a matter of degrees. There is little question in my mind that one or more of Jessica's live-in lovers possess the same proclivities as Suade's former husband, and present the same dangers to Amanda Hale.
She steps outside and checks the street, first in one direction, then the other. Then she bolts the door behind us.
"So what do you know about Gerald?" she says. Her hand is still in the purse, resting languidly in the bottom I suspect, like a coiled snake.
"Rumor has it he's responsible for the death of your little boy."
"Is that what you've come to tell me? Rumors?"
"Your son died twelve years ago."
"There's no statute of limitations on murder "she says. And apparently none for revenge.
Gerald Langly is Suade's ex. He is currently in prison.
"I know that he beat you. That he brutalized your son. That the boy died under highly suspicious circumstances."
"And how do you know all this?"
"Let's just say we have a mutual acquaintance." She looks me up and down, then finally motions me deeper into the shop. Finally she lifts her hand from the purse.
The overhead lights are still out. The large copying machine behind the counter is as cold as a frozen brick. There are envelopes on the counter, some of them opened, others waiting for the edge of a needle-sharp stiletto opener that lies on the counter next to them.
She lays the purse on the counter and picks up the letter opener, trading one weapon for another.
"Who's this mutual acquaintance?" she asks.
"I'm not at liberty to say." She's clearly interested, racking her brain, trying to figure who would know the intimate details of her life, or for that matter care enough to tell some stranger.
"What do you want?" "As I said, to talk. Just a little help." Her gaze comes up, her expression suddenly filled with an afterthought.
"Stop. Are you wearing a wire?"
"What?"
"It's a simple question. Are you wired?"
"Why would I be wired?"
"Three little letters," she says. "FBI. You don't mind if I look?" She doesn't wait for a reply, but comes around the counter and starts to feel me up, around the waist in the cleft at the center of my back, and at the belt line. She is still holding the needle-sharp letter opener in her hand.
She steps away, wearing a look of suspicion, wary eyes.
"You're clean." She says it as if I don't know this. Like some aliens
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