"Some people like a quiet lunch," I hear the woman saying. Her tone is reprimand as a weapon, as an Olympic sport. The kind that has the ability to make you feel ashamed rather than angry. My mom was world-class at it.
Callie is scowling at the woman. I can see the storm clouds building, and I hurry over. The woman is doing me a favor; better not let it become fatal.
"Callie," I say, placing a warning hand on her shoulder. "We should get going."
She scowls harder at the woman, who looks about as intimidated as a dog sleeping on its back in a patch of sun.
"Callie," I say again, more insistent. She looks at me, nods, stands up, and puts on her sunglasses with a haughty flourish that fills me with admiration. 9-9-10, I think, a near-perfect score. The Olympics of the ice queens is a heated one this year, and the crowd is roaring. . . .
"Can't get me out of here fast enough," she says with disdain. She grabs her purse and inclines her head to the woman. "Good day," she says. Drop dead, her voice implies.
I hurry us out. I shoot one last glance over my shoulder at the woman. She gives me another one of those beautiful smiles. The kindness of strangers rears its bittersweet head once again. The drive back is entertaining, with Callie at a slow boil. I nod and murmur at the right places as she mutters about "old bats" and
"wrinkly, raisined people" and "elitist mummies." My private thoughts are filled with that sad look, so alien to see on my friend's face. We arrive back at the parking lot, near my car.
I've decided it's enough for today. I'll go and see the Assistant Director some other time.
"Thanks, Callie. Tell Alan I'll be by again sometime soon. Even if it's just to say hi."
She shakes her finger at me. "I'll tell him, honey-love. But don't you dare ignore any more phone calls. You didn't lose everyone who loves you that night, and you have friends beyond the job. Don't forget that."
She squeals off before I can reply, having gotten in the last word. This is Callie's hallmark, and it makes me feel nice inside to have been the victim of it.
I get into my car, and I realize that I had been right last night. Today had been the day. I wasn't going to go home and blow my brains out. How could I? I couldn't even pick up my gun.
8
I HAVE A terrible night, a kind of Greatest Hits of bad dreams. Joseph Sands is there in his demon suit, while Matt smiles at me with a mouth full of blood. This morphs into Callie at the Subway shop, looking up from her sad piece of paper, pulling out her gun, and shooting the Subway lady through the head. She then goes back to slurping on her straw, but her lips are too red and too full, and she catches me watching and gives me a wink like a corpse closing one eye. I wake up, shivering, and realize that my phone is ringing. I look at my clock. It's five in the morning. Who'd be calling now? I haven't gotten any early-morning calls since I went on leave. I can still feel the dream bouncing around inside my head, but I push the images away and take a moment to stop shivering before I grab the phone.
"Hello?"
There's a silence at the other end. Then Callie's voice. "Hi, honeylove. Sorry to wake you, but . . . we have something that concerns you."
"What? What's happened?" She doesn't speak for a minute, and I'm getting pissed off. Little shivers still spasm through me as I hold the phone. "Dammit, Callie. Tell me."
She sighs. "Do you remember an Annie King?"
My voice is incredulous. "Remember her? Yeah, I remember her. She's one of my best friends. She moved to San Francisco about ten years ago. We still talk on the phone every six months or so. I'm her daughter's godmother. So yeah, I remember her. Why?"
Callie is silent again. "Damn," I hear her whisper. She sounds like she was punched in the stomach. "I didn't know she was a friend. I thought she was just someone you used to know."
I feel dread filling me. Dread, and knowledge. I know what's happened, or at least I think I do. But I need to hear Callie say it before I will believe it. "Tell me."
A long sigh of surrender, then: "She's dead, Smoky. Murdered in her apartment. The daughter's alive, but she's catatonic."
My hand has gone nerveless with shock, and I'm in danger of dropping the phone. "Where are you now, Callie?" My voice sounds small to me.
"At the office. We're getting ready to go to the scene, going on a private jet in an hour and a half."
I sense something through my shock, a heaviness at Callie's end. I realize that there's something else she's not telling me.
"What is it, Callie? What are you holding back?"
A hesitation, and then she sighs again. "The killer left a message for you, honey-love."
I sit for a moment, silent. Letting these words sink in. "I'll meet you at the office," I say. I hang up before she can respond. I sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. I put my head into my hands and try to weep, but my eyes stay dry. Somehow, it hurts more that way.
It's only six o'clock by the time I arrive. Early morning is the best time to drive in LA, the only time the highways are uncrowded. Most of the people driving are up to no good, or on their way to no good. I know these early mornings well. I've driven through fog and the gray light of breaking dawns many times, toward scenes of bloody death. As I am now. All the way there, all I can think about is Annie. Annie and I met in high school, when we were both fifteen. She was a soon to be ex-cheerleader, I was a reckless tomboy who smoked pot and enjoyed fast things. In the hierarchy of high school, our paths were not destined to cross. Fate intervened. At least I always thought of it as fate. My time of the month arrived in the middle of math class, and I had put up my hand, grabbed my purse, and rushed out the door to the bathroom. I was blushing as I went down the hallway, and hoping that no one else was there. I had been getting my period for only eight months, and the whole thing was still an excruciating embarrassment to me. I peeked in, saw with relief that the bathroom was deserted. I ducked into one of the stalls and was preparing to take care of my problem when a sniffling sound made me freeze, pad in hand. I held my breath, listening. The sniffling repeated itself, only this time, it broke into a quiet sob. Someone was crying, two stalls over from me. I have always been a sucker for things in pain. When I was young, I even considered being a veterinarian. If I came upon a hurt bird, dog, cat, or any other walking, crawling, living thing, it would end up coming home with me. Most of the time, the things I brought home didn't make it. But sometimes they did, and the few victories in this regard were enough to keep my crusade alive. My parents thought it was cute at first, but it went from cute to annoying after the umpteenth trip to the emergency vet. Annoyed or not, they never discouraged me from these Mother Teresa-like efforts.
As I got older, I found that this concern extended to people as well. If someone got bullied, while I wouldn't step in and rescue them from the fight, I couldn't keep myself from going over afterward to see how they were. I kept a small first-aid kit in my backpack and handed out any number of bandages during the eighth and ninth grades. I was not self-conscious about this quirk in my character. It was a strange thing: I was mortified by having to leave in the middle of class to handle menstruation, but no amount of teasing, or being called "Nurse Smoky,"
ever bothered me. Not even a little. I know that this characteristic is what led me to the FBI. The decision to go after the source of pain, the criminals who enjoyed causing it. I also know that what I saw in the years that followed changed it in some way. I became more careful with my caring. I had to. My first-aid kit became me and my team, and the bandages became a pair of handcuffs and a jail cell. This being the case, when I realized that someone was crying in the bathroom with me, I placed my pad as a hurried afterthought, all embarrassment forgotten, pulled up my jeans, and rushed out of the stall. I paused in front of the door the sobs were coming from.