“Is this Inspector Daniels?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Yes it is,” he replied, thinking (with no great pleasure) Detective Inspector First Grade Daniels, as a matter of fact.
“Oliver Robbins here.” Robbins. Robbins. The name was familiar, but-”From Continental Express? I sold a bus ticket to a woman you’re looking for.” Daniels sat up straighter in his seat.
“Yes, Mr Robbins, I remember you very well.”
“I saw you on television,” Robbins said.
“It’s wonderful that you caught those people. That crack is awful stuff. We see people using it in the bus station all the time, you know.”
“Yes,” Daniels said, allowing no trace of impatience to show in his voice.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Will those people actually go to jail?”
“I think most of them will. How can I help you today?”
“Actually I’m hoping that I can help you,” Robbins said. “do you remember telling me to call you if I remembered anything else? About the woman in the dark glasses and red scarf, I mean.”
“Yes,” Norman said. His voice was still calm and friendly, but the hand not holding the phone had rolled into a tight fist again, and the nails were digging, digging.
“Well, I didn’t think I would, but something came to me this morning while I was in the shower. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I’m sure I’m right. She really did say it that way.” “say what what way?” he asked. His voice was still reasonable, calm-pleasant, even-but now blood was brightly visible in the creases of his closed fist. Norman opened one of the drawers of his empty desk and hung the fist over it. A little baptism on behalf of the next man to use this shitty little closet.
“You see, she didn’t tell me where she wanted to go; I told her. That’s probably why I couldn’t remember when you asked me, Inspector Daniels, although my head for that sort of thing is usually quite good.”
“I’m not getting you.”
“People buying tickets usually give you their destination,” Robbins said.
“
“Give me a round trip to Nashville,” or
“One way to Lansing, please.” Follow me?”
“Yes.”
“This woman didn’t do it that way. She didn’t say the name of the place; she said the time she wanted to go. That’s what I remembered this morning in the shower. She said, “I want to buy a ticket on the eleven-oh-five bus. Are there still some seats on that one?” As if the place she was going didn’t matter, as if it only mattered that-”
“-that she go as quick as she could and get as far away as she could!” Norman exclaimed.
“Yes! Yes, of course! Thanks, Mr Robbins!”
“I’m glad I could help.” Robbins sounded a bit taken aback by the burst of emotion from the other end of the line.
“This woman, you guys must really want her.”
“We do,” Norman said. He was once more smiling the smile which had always chilled Rosie’s skin and made her want to back up against a wall to protect her kidneys.
“You bet we do. That eleven-oh-five bus, Mr Robbins-where does it go?” Robbins told him, then asked:
“Was she part of the crack-ring? The woman you’re looking for?”
“No, it’s a credit-card scam,” Norman said, and Robbins started to reply to that-he was apparently ready to settle into a comfy little chat-but Norman dropped the phone back into the cradle, cutting him off in mid-rap. He put his feet up on the desk again. Finding a dolly and moving his crap could wait. He leaned back in the desk chair and looked at the ceiling.
“A credit-card scam, you bet,” he said.
“But you know what they say about the long arm of the law.” He reached out with his left hand and opened his fist, exposing the blood-smeared palm. He flexed the fingers, which were also bloody.
“Long arm of the law, bitch,” he said, and suddenly began to laugh.