more uptight.”
“And you don’t have any clue what that might have been about?”
“No. I sensed she wasn’t giving me the whole story about when she’d gone to see her mother. Pretty obviously, something else seemed to be going on, but she wouldn’t say what it was.”
“What’d you make of that? After you’d already been talking, she just clammed up?”
“Well, as I’ve said, it kind of frustrated me, but when you deal with these social service kids and their problems, that’s not unusual at all. They’re always throwing something at you that you don’t expect. So you either go with the flow or it burns you out. I figured she’d get around to telling me about it if it was important enough. I wish it had been. Or maybe it was and she just didn’t see it. Or I asked the wrong questions.”
Changing tacks, Waverly asked, “Was she carrying a purse when you picked her up?”
“I think so. I’m pretty sure. Why?”
“Because she didn’t have an ID when we found her.”
“So,” Greg said, “it could have been a mugging or a purse snatching gone bad. She fought back, they struggled, the guy threw her over the tunnel? Or something like that?”
“Not impossible,” Waverly said. “It fits the facts as well as anything.”
12
H ONOR W ILSON SAT with her boyfriend, Royce Utlee, at the tiny table farthest away from both the cashier and the front door at Starbucks. She tried to keep her hands from shaking, but every time she picked up her coffee, the surface of the liquid betrayed her. She hadn’t managed much more than a sip in the ten minutes they’d been sitting there, and when she put the cup down again, untouched, Royce moved up out of his slump on the tall stool and put his elbows on either side of his own cup. “Damn, girl, what is it bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You shaking so much, you like to spill coffee all over yourself.”
“I’m just cold.”
“First nothing. Then you cold.”
She just looked at him, flat-eyed, low affect.
“What?” he asked.
“Okay. Like I already told you. The police.”
“What about them?”
“Asking around, that’s what. ‘Weren’t you and Anlya best friends? How long you been best friends? You her best friend, how come you don’t know nothing about her?’ ”
“That’s making you shake?”
“No.” She picked up her cup and sipped. “Just what I do know.”
“And what’s that? That she try to break up our business?”
“Some of that, yeah. It’s not like it was a secret at the house.”
“Nobody’s gonna say anything. How’s it help them if they do?”
“They find out who’s trickin’, they let ’em go on that if they tell something about Anlya.”
“They not lookin’ at who’s trickin’, Hon.” He pronounced it to rhyme with John. “Why they even gonna look for that when they tryin’ to get who killed her?”
“They not gonna be lookin’ at our business, Royce. They don’t have to be lookin’ for anything special. That’s what I’m saying. Somebody’s gonna get nervous, the po-po snooping around. ‘What you know about Anlya? What you know about Anlya and Honor? Who’s this Royce dog we keep hearing about?’ ”
“Why they be hearing about me?”
She wanted to tell him to get real—there was no possibility that he didn’t understand what she was saying—but that was the kind of response that made him lose his temper. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to take it out on her. Not that he had ever really mistreated her—he’d only hit her once before, when she’d asked for it. But she was afraid and knew she had to take care with what came out of her mouth, because he could go off at any time, without warning. She took a deep calming breath. “Because,” she said, “it’s no secret in the house about you and me. Even the girls not working with us . . .”
“They better not be talking.”
“What I’m saying is we want to get out in front on
“And you don’t have any clue what that might have been about?”
“No. I sensed she wasn’t giving me the whole story about when she’d gone to see her mother. Pretty obviously, something else seemed to be going on, but she wouldn’t say what it was.”
“What’d you make of that? After you’d already been talking, she just clammed up?”
“Well, as I’ve said, it kind of frustrated me, but when you deal with these social service kids and their problems, that’s not unusual at all. They’re always throwing something at you that you don’t expect. So you either go with the flow or it burns you out. I figured she’d get around to telling me about it if it was important enough. I wish it had been. Or maybe it was and she just didn’t see it. Or I asked the wrong questions.”
Changing tacks, Waverly asked, “Was she carrying a purse when you picked her up?”
“I think so. I’m pretty sure. Why?”
“Because she didn’t have an ID when we found her.”
“So,” Greg said, “it could have been a mugging or a purse snatching gone bad. She fought back, they struggled, the guy threw her over the tunnel? Or something like that?”
“Not impossible,” Waverly said. “It fits the facts as well as anything.”
12
H ONOR W ILSON SAT with her boyfriend, Royce Utlee, at the tiny table farthest away from both the cashier and the front door at Starbucks. She tried to keep her hands from shaking, but every time she picked up her coffee, the surface of the liquid betrayed her. She hadn’t managed much more than a sip in the ten minutes they’d been sitting there, and when she put the cup down again, untouched, Royce moved up out of his slump on the tall stool and put his elbows on either side of his own cup. “Damn, girl, what is it bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You shaking so much, you like to spill coffee all over yourself.”
“I’m just cold.”
“First nothing. Then you cold.”
She just looked at him, flat-eyed, low affect.
“What?” he asked.
“Okay. Like I already told you. The police.”
“What about them?”
“Asking around, that’s what. ‘Weren’t you and Anlya best friends? How long you been best friends? You her best friend, how come you don’t know nothing about her?’ ”
“That’s making you shake?”
“No.” She picked up her cup and sipped. “Just what I do know.”
“And what’s that? That she try to break up our business?”
“Some of that, yeah. It’s not like it was a secret at the house.”
“Nobody’s gonna say anything. How’s it help them if they do?”
“They find out who’s trickin’, they let ’em go on that if they tell something about Anlya.”
“They not lookin’ at who’s trickin’, Hon.” He pronounced it to rhyme with John. “Why they even gonna look for that when they tryin’ to get who killed her?”
“They not gonna be lookin’ at our business, Royce. They don’t have to be lookin’ for anything special. That’s what I’m saying. Somebody’s gonna get nervous, the po-po snooping around. ‘What you know about Anlya? What you know about Anlya and Honor? Who’s this Royce dog we keep hearing about?’ ”
“Why they be hearing about me?”
She wanted to tell him to get real—there was no possibility that he didn’t understand what she was saying—but that was the kind of response that made him lose his temper. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to take it out on her. Not that he had ever really mistreated her—he’d only hit her once before, when she’d asked for it. But she was afraid and knew she had to take care with what came out of her mouth, because he could go off at any time, without warning. She took a deep calming breath. “Because,” she said, “it’s no secret in the house about you and me. Even the girls not working with us . . .”
“They better not be talking.”
“What I’m saying is we want to get out in front on
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