such as body language or glances or words or heat.
Where was all this coming from, anyway? Outer space. Not from her. No sir. She opened the glove box, and rummaged until she found the tiny stapler she was sure was in there somewhere.
"Hold still," she said to him, as if it were an order.
She leaned close because there was no other way to correct the situation, and gathered his shirt together, and began stapling.
Brazil's heart picked up speed. He could smell her hair, his own seeming to stand on end. He did not move. He was terrified to even breathe as her fingers brushed against him. He knew she could tell what he was feeling, and if he as much as twitched and inadvertently touched her somewhere, she would never believe it was an accident.
She'd think he was just one more prick out there who couldn't keep it in his pants. She'd never see him as a person, as a sensitive human being. He'd be reduced to this thing, this guy-thing. If she leaned half an inch closer to the right, he would die right there, on her front seat.
"When was the last time you had to do something like that?" he managed to ask.
West covered her repair job with his clip-on tie. The more she tried not to connect with his person, the clumsier her fingers got, fumbling, and touching. She nervously tried to put the stapler away, and dropped it.
"I use it for reports." She groped under the seat.
"Don't think I've ever used it on someone's shirt." She slammed shut the glove box on the third try.
"No," Brazil said, clearing his throat again.
"I mean, what you did in there. That guy must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and you decked him. All by yourself."
West shoved the car in gear.
"You could," she said.
"All you need is training."
"Maybe you…?"
She held up a hand as if halting traffic.
"No! I'm not a goddam one-person police academy!" She tapped the MDT.
"Clear us outa here, partner."
Brazil was tentative as he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He started typing. The system beeped as if it liked him.
"God, this is so cool," he said.
"Small minds," West commented.
"Unit 700," Radar, the dispatcher, said.
"Missing person at five-fifty-six Midland."
"Shit. Not again." West grabbed the mike, and tossed it to her partner.
"Let's see what they're teaching volunteers these days."
'700," he said on the air for all to hear.
"We're ten- eighteen five-fifty-six Midland."
Chapter Twelve
Missing person reports were so much paperwork, it was unbelievable.
Such investigations were almost always fruitless, for either the person really wasn't missing, or he was and dead. Radar's preference was that West had gotten her butt kicked at Fat Man's. At least Radar could ensure that she would be filling out forms the rest of her life, and Midland was government subsidized housing, definitely not a nice place for a female or her reporter ride-along.
Luellen Wittiker lived in a one-bedroom unit. Her number, 556, like all others in Midland Court, was painted in huge numbers over the door. The city had done this free of charge so the cops could find places fast when out at night with searchlights sweeping and K-9 dogs panting. Luellen Wittiker had just moved here from Mint Hill, where she had worked as a checkout clerk in Wal-Mart until she hit her eighth month of pregnancy and got tired of Jerald coming around. How many times did she have to tell him no. N-0.
She paced, wringing her hands, her four-year-old daughter, Tangine, watching from the bed, which was close to the front door. Boxes were still stacked against a wall, although there were not many, since the Wittiker family traveled light. Luellen prayed every hour that Jerald would not find out where she had moved. He would show up. Oh yes. She paced some more. Where the hell were the police? They think this was the lay-away plan? Can't do it now, pick it up later?
Oh yes. He would find her. Because of that bad seed child of hers.
Wheatie was out there right now, God only knew where, probably trying to find a way to get hold of Jerald, who was not Wheatie's biological father, but his mother's last boyfriend. Wheatie hero-worshiped Jerald, and that was the problem. Tangine watched her mother pacing.
Tangine was eating a Popsicle. Jerald was nothing more than a lowlife drug man who bought and sold the big stuff, and did it, too.
Cain, crack, diesel, smoke, all that shit. He walked around in his big warm-up suit and Filas like he was in the NBA, and had a diamond earring, too, and a 4x4, black with red and yellow detailing. He'd drive up, and Wheatie would start in, walking, badmouthing, cool-talking, just like Jerald. Next thing, Wheatie would start cussing Luellen, and even slapping her around, or smoking marijuana. Just like Jerald. She heard feet on the steps and called out to make sure.
"Police," a woman's voice sounded.
Luellen worked a big cinderblock back from the door, and removed a concrete support steel bar that she had found on a construction site.
She had the same set of improvised locks at the back door, too. Even if Jerald or his bad friends could get in, she'd at least hear things scraping and clanging, and have time to get out her matte-black nine-millimeter Baretta Model 92FS pistol with its Tritium night sights, wood grips, and fifteen-shot magazine. The gun had come from Jerald, as well, and it had been a big mistake giving her this hand-me-down. If he so much as knocked on her door, it would be his last gesture.
"Come on in," Luellen said to the two police officers at the top of concrete steps.
Brazil's eyes adjusted to the glaring illumination of a naked lightbulb in a plastic Greek column lamp. A small TV was on, the Braves playing the Dodgers. There was a boom box in a corner, walls bare, the bed unmade and right there in the living room, a little girl sitting on it. She had braids and sad eyes. It was hot as hell in here, and Brazil started sweating. So did West. She had attached an endless form on top of her metal clipboard, and was prepared to do a lot of writing. Luellen began by telling the police lady all about Wheatie, including that he was adopted and jealous as hell of Tangine and the unborn baby, yet unnamed.
"He called you after he missed the bus," West repeated as she wrote.
"Wanted me to come get him, and I told him I had no way," Luellen said.
"Last time I was pregnant, he jumped on me and I lost the baby.
He was fifteen then. Always been hateful because he's adopted, like I told you. Trouble from day one. "
"You got a recent picture of him?" West asked.
"Packed up. Don't know if I can get to it." Mother described Wheatie as small, bad skin, wearing Adidas, baggy jeans hanging off, teal green Hornets T-shirt and baseball cap, and a fade haircut. He could be anywhere, but Luellen worried that he was running with bad kids and into drugs. Brazil felt sorry for Tangine, who seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things as she climbed down from the bed, fascinated by this blond man in his fancy uniform with all its shiny leather. He got out his Mag-Lite and started bouncing the beam around on the floor, playing with her like she was a cat. Tangine didn't know what to make of this and got scared. She was screaming and did not intend to stop by the time the police left. Mother watched Brazil and West feel their way down the steps in the complete dark.
"Way to go," West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.
Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.
"I'd put a light on if I had one," Luellen said from the doorway.
The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms, having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to respect West's rank.
Were she paranoid, she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got their backs as they typed, and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have asserted herself, but didn't. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.