Emma groans. "Obviously you've given this a lot of thought."
"Call me an incurable romantic."
"Try to be serious for a minute."
"Seriously? Let's go to Paris," I say.
She smiles, which is vastly encouraging, but then says: "Jack, you were twenty years old when I was born."
"Nineteen," I shoot back. "What's your point? And where are you going?"
"To work." She comes around the table and kisses the top of my head, one of those sweet but contemplative pecks that makes you wonder if you've just been dumped.
"How can you leave me here?"
"Finish your sticky bun, old man," Emma says. "You're gonna need your strength." Then she gives me a naughty double wink that knocks me off my pins. Life is pretty good, for the moment.
From the pancake house I drive directly to the county morgue. The contrast in ambience is not especially striking. Upon entering Pete's office I find myself briefly alone with Karen, who gamely engages me in superficial conversation. Our lack of chemistry is so enervating that it's hard to believe we once had a sexual relationship, much less an athletic one. It's remarkable what two uninterested people can do in bed with each other when they set their minds to it. Turns out both Karen and I are doing well, staying busy, looking forward to some cooler weather, etc. We're on the brink of boring each other comatose when I spot Pete at the end of the hall, and excuse myself none too smoothly. He leads me into a lab and closes the door.
"You get my message?" he asks.
"No, I didn't." Sometimes I go for days without checking my voice mail at the newspaper. In my defense, however, the phone doesn't ring all that much. Obituary writers aren't exactly swamped with hot tips.
Pete says, "Well, you were right."
"The samples matched?"
"Yup."
The blood on Janet's carpet was hers. Cursing, I kick my heel into the door half a dozen times. Pete patiently steps back and waits for me to settle down.
"Jack, you know I've got to ask—" "Please don't."
"I can get in all kinds of trouble," he says. "If this blood is evidence, there's a serious chain-of-custody problem ... "
"Throw it away," I tell him. "Now hold on—"
"Throw it away, Pete. There's plenty more where that came from."
25
After a rough day of kickin' down doors and chasin' after scumbag criminals, all I wanna do is have a cool drink, peel outta this hot gear and get comfortable.
If you wanna get comfy with me, then have your modem call my modem at 900-555-SWAT. Or, if you register now on this site, the first ten minutes of chat time are absolutely free. I accept Visa, MasterCard or Discover ...
It took an hour but I've found Janet's Web page, complete with a streaming-video promotion. In it she's wearing night-vision goggles, a lacy black bra, matching panties and military-style boots. In the background I recognize the furniture in her living room. The quality of the video is typically dim and herky-jerky, but the sound of Janet's tomboy voice fills me with unexpected sadness. I click over to her list of FAQs, frequently asked questions, and immediately get a laugh.
Q. Are you really a cop?
A. Yes, I'm a lieutenant with a major South Florida police department.
Q. Have you ever shot anybody?
A. Not fatally.
Q. What's your favorite color?
A. Pearl.
I click back to the host page, activating a brief loop of Janet dancing. It's high-spirited though not especially erotic. Touchingly, the accompaniment is a recording of "Derelict Sea," sung by her late brother.
"Is that porn?" Horny young Evan, peeking over my shoulder.
"Does it look like porn?"
"But she's stripping."
"Not really. It's just a goof."
"Wow, Jack. You know her, like, personally? Check out the freaky shades."
"They're sniper goggles, and don't bother calling."
"What?"
Evan has been busy memorizing Janet's 900 number; I heard him repeat it under his breath. "You're wasting your time," I tell him. "She's not there."
"Come on. What's her name?"
"Forget about it," I said. "She's Jimmy Stoma's sister."
"Oh wow."
"Evan, don't you have some work to do?"
Be sure to check out my live chat schedule for when I'm available, but don't pitch a hissy if some nights I don't answer. You never know when they're gonna call the SWAT team out on a hostage crisis or a drug raid or some other 'mergency. I do take online appointments—but not from hard-cores and pervs. Remember, being a police officer I got automatic worldwide call tracing. Anybody starts in with that gross sicko talk and I promise there'll be cops at your door before you can hang up the damn phone!
So let's keep our private chats cool and sexy and nice, and I promise you a super good time, every time ...
Clicking over to Janet's chat schedule, I notice she's got a regular two-hour block on Thursday mornings. It couldn't hurt to try. Maybe she left a message for her regulars, or possibly she bought a new PC and is back in business somewhere else. On my keyboard I tap in the number of her Web-cam line. On the other end it rings and rings, and keeps on ringing.
Who am I kidding. Janet's gone.
"How do you know this?" Rick Tarkington asks.
"The blood matches. Trust me."
"I don't doubt it, Jack, but how would youknow? See my point?"
Tarkington is a major-crimes prosecutor for the State Attorney's Office. I'm obligated to admire him because he's a lifer. He could be making a million bucks a year as a private defense lawyer in Miami or Lauderdale, but he can't stomach the thought of representing killers, rapists and nineteen-year-old drug lords. Instead he has a fine old time sending them to prison and sometimes Death Row. Tarkington is an old-fashioned hardhead who believes that certain feloniously bent individuals cannot be rehabilitated, reborn or redeemed. He believes that some are purely evil and others are just hopeless fuckups, but that all of them should be dealt with unambiguously. He also believes that the American penal system functions essentially as a social septic tank, and that nothing more lofty should be expected of it.
"I could probably sell tickets," he's saying, "for the day they put you on the witness stand. 'Mr. Tagger, would you mind telling the court why you broke into the victim's house and stole a tampon?'"
Rick Tarkington is my age but he looks ten years younger. The irony is glaring and nettlesome. Here's a fellow immersed full-time in the ghastliest details of human malefaction, yet he shows no trace of being haunted by cosmic questions or mortal fears. He is cynical to the core, yet happy as a clam.
In the last thirty minutes I've told Tarkington almost everything about the Jimmy Stoma story, spilling it as breathlessly as I did to Emma. I even brought a small boom box and played "Shipwrecked Heart," which Tarkington said reminded him of early Buffett. I had hoped it would work in my favor that the prosecutor is a rock 'n' roller. On the wall behind his desk is a photo of the Rolling Stones taken backstage at the Orange Bowl. The picture is signed: "To R.T., Thanks for not searching my dressing room. Keith."
"I came here," I say to Tarkington, "because I need direction."
"That you do." He's reclining at a precarious cant, the worn heels of his boots propped on his desk. Tarkington is from Lafayette County, where it's still possible to step in cowshit.
"Jimmy Stoma. I'll be damned," he says, clicking his tongue. "After I saw the obit I went and dug out my old eight-track of A Painful Burning Sensation.It kicked butt." Tarkington swings his feet off the desk and hunches forward, looking serious. "But, Jack, I don't know what the hell you expect me to do."
We've been over this twice already, and he's shot holes in every idea I've floated. "There's a woman missing," I say wearily, "and bloodstains in her house. Can we not assume she's hurt and possibly even dead?"