"A bullet?"
"A. year. I'm telling you, the system's really screwed. I mean, what do you think parole's about? You serve your sentence on the street. What kind of punishment is that? You have no idea how many vicious guys you got walking around out here." She smiled. "Anyway, let's go meet my PO and get it over with."
Chapter 5
Parole offices were housed in a low yellow brick building of a style popular during the sixties – lots of glass and aluminum and long horizontal lines. Dark green cedars grew under an overhang that ran the length of the facade. The parking lot was generous and I found a spot without difficulty. I shut down the engine. "Want me to go with you?"
"Might as well," she said. "Who knows how long I'll have to wait. I could use the company."
We crossed the parking lot and hung a right, moving toward the entrance. We pushed through the glass doors and found ourselves facing a long drab hallway lined with offices on both sides. There was no reception area that I could see, though at the far end of the corridor there were a few folding chairs where a smattering of men were seated. As we entered, a big woman with red hair and a fat file in hand peered out of an office and called to one of the guys loitering against the wall. A sorrowful-looking man in his sixties stepped forward, dressed in a shabby sport coat and pants that were none too clean. I'd seen guys like him sleeping in doorways and picking half-smoked cigarette butts out of the sand-filled ashtrays in hotel lobbies.
She glanced over at us, catching sight of Reba. "Are you Reba?"
"That's right."
"I'm Priscilla Holloway. We spoke on the phone. I'll be with you in a sec."
"Great." Reba watched them depart. "My parole officer."
"I figured as much."
Priscilla Holloway was in her forties, strong-featured, big-boned, and tan. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. Her dark slacks were wrinkled from sitting. Over them she wore a white shirt, hem out, and a zippered red knit jacket that was open down the front, discreet concealment for the firearm she wore holstered at her side. Her build was athletic, and my guess was she played the fast, hard-sweating sports: racquetball, soccer, basketball, and tennis. When I was in grade school a girl her size would have scared the crap out of me, but I learned, in those days, that if I cultivated a friendship, I'd end up with playground protection for life.
Reba and I staked out our claim on a tiny section of the hallway where we variously leaned and slouched, trying to find a comfortable position in which to wait. There was a pay phone mounted on the wall nearby and I could see Reba's focus sharpen at the sight of it. "You have any change? I need to make a phone call. It's local."
I opened my shoulder bag and did a quick search along the bottom, fishing for stray coins. I passed her a handful of change, watching as she moved to the phone and picked up the handset. She dropped in the coins, punched in a number, and then turned her body at an angle so I couldn't read her lips while she talked. She was on the line for three minutes and when she finally put the handset back in the cradle, she was looking happier and more relaxed than I'd seen her so far.
"Everything okay?"
"Sure. I was touching base with a friend." She sank down along the wall and took a seat on the floor.
Ten minutes later, Priscilla Holloway appeared, walking her fusty-looking client to the front door. She issued him an admonition and then turned to Reba. "Why don't you come on back?"
Reba scrambled to her feet. "What about her?"
"She can join us in a bit. We've got a couple of things we need to talk about first. I'll come get you in a minute," she said to me.
The two moved down the bleak hallway, Reba looking half Holloway's size. Reconciled to the wait, I leaned against the wall, my shoulder bag on the floor. The glass doors opened and Cheney Phillips came in, passing me on his way down the hall. I saw him tap on Priscilla Holloway's open door and stick his head in. He chatted briefly with her and then turned, walking in my direction. He still hadn't recognized me, which gave me a moment to study him.
I'd known Cheney for years, but we hadn't had occasion to interact until a murder investigation two years before. Over the course of several conversations, he'd told me he'd grown up in circumstances of benign neglect and fixed his sights early on a career in law enforcement. He'd been working undercover vice the last time our paths crossed, but by now his face was probably too well-known for anything covert. He was dressed to the nines, as usuaclass="underline" dark slacks and a pin-stripe sport coat, wide in the shoulders and nipped at the waist. His dress shirt was midnight blue worn with a midnight blue tie with a sheen of lighter blue. His dark hair was curly, his dark gaze revealing a curious mix of cop-think and come-hither. When I heard he'd gotten married, I'd moved his name, in my mental Rolodex, from a prominent place near the front to a category I labeled "expunged without prejudice" near the back of the file.
His gaze connected briefly with mine and when he realized it was me, he stopped in his tracks. "Kinsey. I don't believe it. I was just thinking about you."
"What are you doing here?"
"Getting a bead on a parolee. What about you?"
"Babysitting a gal until she gets on her feet."
"Missionary work."
"Hardly. I'm getting paid," I said.
"When I ran into you Saturday I meant to ask why I haven't seen you at CC's. Dolan told me the two of you were working a case. I figured you'd be in."
"I don't 'do' bars at my age except for Rosie's," I said. "What about you? Last I heard, you were off in Las Vegas getting married."
"Geez, word gets around. So what else did you hear?"
"That you met her at CC's and only knew her six weeks before the two of you ran off."
Cheney's smile was pained. "Sounds so crass when you put it that way."
"What happened to your other girlfriend? I thought you'd been dating someone else for years."
"That wasn't going anywhere. She realized it before I did and dumped my sorry butt."
"So what'd you do, marry on the rebound?"
"That would cover it, I guess. What about you? How's your friend Dietz?"
"Kinsey, would you like to join us?"
I glanced up to see Priscilla Holloway approaching.
Cheney turned his head, following my gaze. His eyes flicked from the parole officer to me. "I better let you go."
"Nice seeing you again," I said.
"I'll give you a call as soon as I'm free," Priscilla said to him as he turned to go.
I glanced back, watching him as he pushed out the glass doors and turned toward the parking lot.
"How do you know Cheney?" she asked.
"Through a case I worked. Nice guy."
"He's good. Did the drive go okay?"
"Piece of cake, but it was hot down there."
"And way too many bugs," she said. "You can hardly open your mouth without swallowing one."
Her office was small and the furniture was plain. A window overlooked the parking lot, the view cut into slices by a dusty Venetian blind. There was a Polaroid camera resting on the windowsill and two instant photos of Reba lay on top of a stack of thick files. I assumed Priscilla kept current photos in the file in case Reba took off without notice. There were file cabinets on her side of the desk and two metal chairs on ours. Reba sat in the one closest to the window. Priscilla took a seat in her swivel chair and looked at me. "Reba says you'll be squiring her around town."