"Deliberate? A performance, you mean? Oh, it's all a game. They want the truth, but more than that they want a good story; you want them to shove off, but not completely— they can be useful. And they're not a bad bunch, most of them, just doing their jobs. If you keep them fed, make them feel included, put on a show from time to time, they're not too much trouble. Especially in weather like this. I go out every hour or two and churn out all kinds of exciting nonsense they can work up into a story—keeps them happy. They're having loads of fun with that Cadena woman and her baby. One of them wanted me to tell her that if she could make his deadline there'd be a hundred dollars in it for her."
"What did you say?"
"I told him that she was trying her best. I also said that you'd come out and talk to them in a while. It'll give my shoes a chance to dry out."
"Throwing me to the wolves?"
"Propitiating the gods, Tyler would say."
"How do you feel, really? About the case?"
"It's too early to feel anything, but I don't feel good. And my feet are damned cold. Back to work, Martinelli."
At four thirty-seven the midwife guided little Amanda Samantha Christina Cadena-Panopoulos into the world, and all the honorary aunts, uncles, and cousins downstairs cheered and kissed and clapped one another's backs when the short, indignant yell trickled down to their ears. At four-fifty Kate and Bob Fischer went out to present a grainy photograph of mother and daughter to the waiting reporters (and collect the new mother's hundred-dollar check), and two sets of grandparents saw their newest granddaughter's wet, squashed features on the six o'clock news. At six-thirty the last question was asked of the last resident. At nine-thirty Kate dropped Hawkin at the station and drove on to the pool for twenty minutes' hard swim. At ten-thirty she walked back into the office, clearheaded, and they worked for two hours at sorting out the mountain of papers. At one o'clock Kate finally fell into bed, and at five forty-five the telephone rang.
She hit the receiver, fumbled and dropped it, retrieved it from the floor, and squinted to see the luminous hands of the bedside clock. She had to clear her throat before any intelligible sound would come.
"Yeah."
"Casey, pick up some doughnuts on your way in this morning, would you? I've got the coffee on, but the place wasn't open when I came by."
"Doughnuts."
"Chocolate glazed, if they have them."
"God."
"What?"
"Chocolate glazed doughnuts."
"Yes, or whatever looks good. See you," he said cheerily, and the line went dead.
Kate replaced the telephone with the gentle care of a hangover victim, turned to the single eye that scowled up at her from the next pillow, and pronounced the words again.
"Chocolate. Glazed. Doughnuts."
The eye cringed, closed, and retreated beneath the blankets. Kate made her own toast that morning.
It was a day given over to the computers, those electronic busybodies into whose impersonal clutches fall the bits and pieces of the personal histories of criminal, victim, and Jane Q. Public. Kate's feet echoed in the still quiet hallways, and a thick fug of cigarettes and rancid coffee greeted her when she entered Hawkin's office. She dumped the greasy white bag on the desk next to him, pushed open a window, and went over to inspect the coffeepot. It held a strangely greenish liquid that seemed an inauspicious start to the day, so she started another pot, politely refused the kind offer of a doughnut, and sat at the console. Her mind itself felt not unlike a cold, greasy wad of cooked dough when she looked at the stack of yesterday's papers.
"Where do you want me to begin?" she asked.
"Up to you," he said around a mouthful of crumbs. "Alphabetical, geographical, the pin-prick approach, or you can follow hunches. They're all equally bad."
"In that case I'll proceed with some semblance of logic— start from Tyler's place and work my way up the Road."
"Why not the other way around?"
"From the far end down? Why?"
He shrugged. "Look at the farthest point from civilization to find the biggest misfit?"
Kate looked at him closely, but she couldn't tell if he was joking.
"I'll compromise, five from the top, five from the bottom."
Throughout the long day Kate worked to pull together the information contained in the electronic network on the fifty-seven adults and nineteen (now twenty) minors who lived on Tyler's Road.
Hawkin spent much of the day with the telephone tucked under his chin, and when that failed he read through the assembled reports and printouts with a fierce concentration, made notes, and stared blankly out the window. He disappeared in the early afternoon and came back three hours later looking rested and shaven, and wearing a clean shirt.
At five-thirty Trujillo called in with the statements from three of the residents who had not been at Tyler's and names of the remaining eight. Hawkin shouted at him.
"What the hell have you been doing down there? You should have had all eleven before noon, even if you had to walk up the road to get them! You've got what? Oh, Christ, yes I did hear about it, but I didn't know they'd called you in on it. All right, sorry for shouting. Yes, give them to me now, the rough outlines anyway." For ten minutes Hawkin grunted and scribbled notes; he finally dropped the phone and sat back.
"Half of Trujillo's men are down in San Benito county with that gunman who wants his kids." An irate father with a rifle was holed up in an office building demanding that his ex-wife give him their two sons—the kind of situation that eats up a lot of hours and manpower. "Well, at least it's put off that damn meeting with the FBI and half the cops in northern California. Throw these names into the machine and go home." Hawkin picked up a stack of papers and settled down at his desk with his nineteenth cup of coffee that day. "Go home, Martinelli. We'll go down ourselves tomorrow."
Thursday morning the telephone allowed her to sleep until after six before jerking her from a luxurious dream in which she was sitting on the deck of a cruise ship eating spaghetti and watching a child play with a windmill. The child began suddenly to wail, and it took a long moment for Kate to realize that the wail was the telephone.
"Yes!"
"Martinelli, I need you down here. Ten minutes ago."
"Piss off," she snarled, but he had already hung up.
"I knew we should have gone to bed rather than watching the late show." The muffled voice was not even accompanied by an eye this morning; it was simply an untidy lump in the blankets.
"See you on TV," Kate replied.
"You did look cute."
"Scared stiff."
"So adorable, showing off that baby's picture."
"Shut up."
"What is it, Al? What happened?" she asked as she walked into his office.
"Nothing happened. I'm going home for two hours, and I need you to sit on the phone in case something comes up. If Trujillo calls, we'll be there by noon." He stood up and reached for his jacket.
For that you woke me up and made me run down here? she wanted to say. Why couldn't you sleep ordinary hours? Haven't you heard that telephone calls can be forwarded, for God's sake? But she bit it back, and asked simply, "Don't you ever go home?"
"When I don't have this kind of case, yes."
Kate squashed her own guilt feelings at having gotten six whole hours of sleep and turned resentfully to the console. She worked away for slightly over an hour and a quarter before a series of words came onto the screen that made her back go straight and her heart thump. She looked at the telephone and couldn't help the malicious grin that spread onto her face.
At the fifth ring the telephone was taken off the hook. Long seconds passed before the sound of heavy breath told of the passage up to his ear. His voice was coarse with sleep, but Kate pushed away another twinge of guilt.