anything happened to her, they’d figure it out pretty quickly. She didn’t have a desk at the police station, but Lynette wouldn’t know that. Lynette thought she was a psychic, after all.
“Fine, whatever,” Lynette had said impatiently over the phone, “just don’t tell anyone what this is all about.”
“How can I when you haven ’ t told me what it ’ s all about?
Lynette hung up, either out of fear that someone was coming or because she was not used to being in the position of begging for help from people and hadn’t quite learned the etiquette it demanded.
Nola got there well before the place would open for the night, as Lynette had instructed, and let herself in through the unlocked front door. Without the music and black lights and well-heeled club-goers, the place looked like the warehouse it was—shabby, gloomy, cavernously empty. Lynette was waiting for her at the bar, sipping from a bottle of water. She didn’t offer one to Nola but instead began talking, urgently, before Nola even had a chance to take off her leather jacket. Something about going to a nightclub even for non-nightclub business made her think she should wear leather, though not entirely leather, from boots to beret, as Lynette was sporting. “We have to do this quick before my manager comes back,” she said. “I need your help. I can’t talk to the cops about this.”
“You do understand, if you say anything I think is relevant to the case—”
“I know, I know, you’ll go rat me out.” She made a sound like a gasp or a sigh and then scrunched her eyes tightly shut. When she opened them, she looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. I’m not the most tactful person on the planet.”
Nola decided to accept the apology. She was intrigued. “It’s OK. You’re dealing with someone who isn’t exactly on that top-ten list either. Go on.”
“Here it is. You probably wondered why I acted the way I did when you already knew nothing happened at my place, am I right?”
Nola nodded.
“Here’s the thing. Culver and I had this plan. We were going to run away together. His wife won’t divorce him, and one of his business deals . . . well, there’s stuff happening there and it’s not good and that’s all I know about that. Nothing illegal, Culver says, just, well, money problems. Big money problems. Like, I can’t even imagine how much money we’re—”
“I think I get it.” Another thing Nola was bad at, besides tact, was patience. She didn’t know how the detectives managed to deal with people who had nothing significant to say but made damn sure to take as long as possible to say it. “Please go on.”
“We were going to fake his death.” Lynette paused, either for dramatic effect or because she wanted to gauge Nola’s reaction before she continued. “You get it now, right? I didn’t want you on the case, because you’d know there wasn’t a murder.”
“Everyone would know. There wouldn’t be a body .”
“We were going to make it seem like he went out to the river to go fishing and got assaulted by some crazy person and was killed. The body would have gotten carried away. At first we thought maybe just an accident, maybe he hit his head and drowned. But we had to make it really convincing that he was dead so they’d give up looking for him, and we figured it would be easier to stage a violent murder than a simple accident.”
As absurd as it all sounded, Nola could see that the plan was plausible. She knew from her work with homicide detectives that the swamp the river drained into was almost impossible to dredge; something or someone could stay stuck down there for decades.
“The thing is,” Lynette said, “I wasn’t sure how the whole trace thing worked. You wouldn’t need a body for that so long as you knew where the death occurred—or where it supposedly occurred, right?”
Again Nola nodded.
Ruefully, Lynette tossed her copper hair. “If I’d known you were going to be on the
“Fine, whatever,” Lynette had said impatiently over the phone, “just don’t tell anyone what this is all about.”
“How can I when you haven ’ t told me what it ’ s all about?
Lynette hung up, either out of fear that someone was coming or because she was not used to being in the position of begging for help from people and hadn’t quite learned the etiquette it demanded.
Nola got there well before the place would open for the night, as Lynette had instructed, and let herself in through the unlocked front door. Without the music and black lights and well-heeled club-goers, the place looked like the warehouse it was—shabby, gloomy, cavernously empty. Lynette was waiting for her at the bar, sipping from a bottle of water. She didn’t offer one to Nola but instead began talking, urgently, before Nola even had a chance to take off her leather jacket. Something about going to a nightclub even for non-nightclub business made her think she should wear leather, though not entirely leather, from boots to beret, as Lynette was sporting. “We have to do this quick before my manager comes back,” she said. “I need your help. I can’t talk to the cops about this.”
“You do understand, if you say anything I think is relevant to the case—”
“I know, I know, you’ll go rat me out.” She made a sound like a gasp or a sigh and then scrunched her eyes tightly shut. When she opened them, she looked genuinely apologetic. “Sorry. I’m not the most tactful person on the planet.”
Nola decided to accept the apology. She was intrigued. “It’s OK. You’re dealing with someone who isn’t exactly on that top-ten list either. Go on.”
“Here it is. You probably wondered why I acted the way I did when you already knew nothing happened at my place, am I right?”
Nola nodded.
“Here’s the thing. Culver and I had this plan. We were going to run away together. His wife won’t divorce him, and one of his business deals . . . well, there’s stuff happening there and it’s not good and that’s all I know about that. Nothing illegal, Culver says, just, well, money problems. Big money problems. Like, I can’t even imagine how much money we’re—”
“I think I get it.” Another thing Nola was bad at, besides tact, was patience. She didn’t know how the detectives managed to deal with people who had nothing significant to say but made damn sure to take as long as possible to say it. “Please go on.”
“We were going to fake his death.” Lynette paused, either for dramatic effect or because she wanted to gauge Nola’s reaction before she continued. “You get it now, right? I didn’t want you on the case, because you’d know there wasn’t a murder.”
“Everyone would know. There wouldn’t be a body .”
“We were going to make it seem like he went out to the river to go fishing and got assaulted by some crazy person and was killed. The body would have gotten carried away. At first we thought maybe just an accident, maybe he hit his head and drowned. But we had to make it really convincing that he was dead so they’d give up looking for him, and we figured it would be easier to stage a violent murder than a simple accident.”
As absurd as it all sounded, Nola could see that the plan was plausible. She knew from her work with homicide detectives that the swamp the river drained into was almost impossible to dredge; something or someone could stay stuck down there for decades.
“The thing is,” Lynette said, “I wasn’t sure how the whole trace thing worked. You wouldn’t need a body for that so long as you knew where the death occurred—or where it supposedly occurred, right?”
Again Nola nodded.
Ruefully, Lynette tossed her copper hair. “If I’d known you were going to be on the
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