Cavallo can sit on that dna test as long as she wants. Joe Thomson just threw me another lifeline. Last time this happened I screwed it up. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.
I’m back in this thing.
Back to stay.
I put a few more dollars on the table for luck, then head for the door, still dizzy from the turn of events, gazing at life through a gauzy adrenaline-induced tunnel. Circling the bar, paying no attention to my surroundings, thanks to the thoughts blaring in my head, I come face-to-face with the waitress Marta. She stops short, almost ditching the tray of drinks in her hand. Her eyes light up with recognition.
I step around her, but not quickly enough.
“You,” she says, grabbing my sleeve with her free hand.
I twist away. “Excuse me – ”
“Wait just a second,” she hisses, loud enough for people at the bar to turn.
Not wanting a scene, I’m torn. I can brave whatever she’s about to say, or I can make a dash for the door. As tempting as retreat is, I’m in no mood to run.
She slides her tray onto the bar, then gets right up in my face. “I know what you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You want me to say it in front of everybody?”
A couple of young men in striped, tall-collared shirts are watching, trying to decide whether they should take an interest or not. I’ve had crisis resolution drilled so deep into my psyche that my automatic impulse is to diffuse the tension. But I don’t want to diffuse anything. There’s a part of me that would like nothing better right now than a fight. I couldn’t be beaten, not by anyone.
They step forward, shoulder to shoulder for support. To my surprise, Marta turns on them, freezing the men with her glare.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” she says, ticktocking her finger at them.
They shrug their way back to their drinks, pretending nothing’s happened.
“And you,” she says, back to me. “What gives you the right -?”
I whisk my jacket back just far enough for her to get a glimpse of badge and maybe a little gun just behind. It’s a well-practiced gesture, perfect for shutting people up mid-sentence. On Marta it has a curious effect.
“You’re a cop?” she asks, shaking her head. “And you think that means you can do anything you want? You can go up to random women and start pushing them around? For what?” She jabs her finger at my chest. “Because she wouldn’t go home with you?”
“What’s the problem, Marta?”
I find Tommy at my elbow. He takes her by the arm, nudging her back.
He’s acting friendly, but Marta shuts down at the touch, suddenly petulant. “This is my problem.”
“He’s cool, though,” Tommy says. “Hey, you don’t want to make any trouble for him.”
She pulls free, eyes on the floor. “That’s exactly what I want.”
“No, really, I’m serious. He’s one of the good guys.”
The men from the bar pause. One of the bartenders holds a mobile phone in his hand, his finger poised over the call button like he’s going to detonate a bomb any second. I start going into resolution mode, flashing the badge, motioning for everybody to calm down.
Tommy’s big smile starts working its magic, too. He puts an arm around Marta, easing her back, and sends some kind of invisible signal to the bartender, who takes his finger off the detonator button. The waitress tries to shrug free, but he holds her tight.
“Everything’s cool, everybody,” he says. “Hey, it’s all right.”
I owe him one, but instead of staying to chat about it, I take the opportunity to slip outside. The sun is gone without a trace, mosquitoes circling the lampposts overhead. Before I can make my escape, I hear footsteps behind me. Turning, I find Tommy and Marta, his restraining arm still around her.
She steps clear of him, standing halfway between us. “Why’d you rough that woman up? What kind of man thinks he can do that, badge or no badge?”
“You poured enough tequila down that woman’s gullet to sink a whale. When I came out here, she was just about to get behind the wheel. She was going to drive in that condition. You understand what I’m saying? I didn’t rough her up – I saved her life, and probably somebody else’s, too. At the very least, she would have lost her license, spent some quality time behind bars.”
“Oh,” she says. “So you did her a favor. Now I get it.” She plunges a hand into her tiny apron, pulling out a crushed twenty, waving it between her fingers. She balls the twenty in her fist and throws it to the ground, then turns on her heel to go.
Tommy stands there, eyes wide. “She’s kinda loco, that girl. I think when she calms down, she’ll be more understanding.”
I take out my keys and unlock my car. “You really think I care?”
He laughs. “Deep down? Yeah, I think you really do.”
CHAPTER 10
By the time I show up, the briefing’s reached standing-room-only status, with plainclothes officers and uniforms from four or five different agencies shifting for elbow space along the back wall. Near the front, Cavallo motions for me, but I shake my head and find a hospitable notch between a couple of county constables and a Sheriff ’s Department detective with a tobacco-stained brush of a mustache. He wears a nickel-plated Government Model.45 on his hip, what we call a “barbeque gun” around here, for wearing to fancy shindigs. He looks lonesome without his Stetson.
There’s a strange energy in the room, something I can’t put my finger on. A lot of hard stares shooting back and forth. Something’s happened, but I don’t know what. I turn to ask the detective, but he just shrugs, mystified as me.
Scanning the brass at the far end of the room, I get a surprise. Next to Wanda, who stands out in any crowd on account of her snow white hair, Rick Villanueva sits reviewing a stack of documents in his lap, whispering the occasional question, like he’s trying to get up to speed and only has half a minute to do it. This can’t be good.
Wanda goes to the podium, tapping the mic a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. Upwards of a hundred officers are packed into the cramped space, and it takes awhile for everyone to settle in.
“Before we get started,” she says, “I’m sure you all saw the piece on Channel 13 last night.”
A collective sigh goes up, along with some random profanity and a few choice words about Wayne Dolcefino, the investigative reporter.
“You see it?” I ask the sheriff ’s detective.
“At my watering hole of choice,” he says, his breath smelling of stale coffee, “there are better things to look at than the idiot tube.”
Wanda gives the microphone another series of taps, and Rick Villanueva eases out of his chair, standing at her elbow.
“The first thing I want to make clear,” Wanda says, “is that whoever made those statements to the press, I’m going to find out. What we say in here has to remain confidential. Am I clear? There’s a girl’s life at stake, people. Never forget that. Secondly, Lieutenant Villanueva here is joining the task force as of now. From this moment forward, all information to the press – and I mean every single detail – will be going through him. No one talks to the media without his say-so. Understood?” A few heads nod. “Come on, people, I know it’s early, but if you understand what I’m saying, raise your hand.”
Hands go up across the room. I glance at my new buddy before hoisting mine. He shakes his head and does likewise. Everybody’s craning around, like they expect to sniff out the leak here and now by spotting a telltale unraised hand.
“Okay, okay. You can put your hands down. Lieutenant, you have a few words you’d like to say?”
Rick, never at a loss for words, spends the next five minutes talking about his satisfaction in being asked to join the task force, and his determination to do everything in his power to turn this negative into a positive. While he’s speechmaking, I quiz the constables for details about the news report. One of them, a thick-necked bulldog with a tight military crew cut, cups a hand to my ear and fills me in. The lead story on the Channel 13 news last night was about trouble inside the task force. No progress is being made in the hunt for Hannah Mayhew because of interagency rivalries and a general lack of organization. “Sources inside the investigation” were credited with the scoop.