"Sheila, stop."
Weathers looked sad. "I'm sorry about this, Sheila. I can understand why you need to be angry with me."
"Oh, bite me, cop!" she said, and took off.
"I'm sorry," I said. Marshall Weathers had done a terrible thing. For the first time I found myself doubting Vernell's innocence, and that felt horrible.
"Maggie," Weathers said, "I heard what you said about being worried for your safety. I'm going to put someone on your house, or wherever it is you go. If you take Sheila back to Virginia, I'll call up there and get some coverage too."
The moment might've turned, could've gone any one of a number of ways, I was so confused, but I didn't have to worry about that. Tracy the cadet chose that moment to make a well-timed entrance into Marshall's cubicle. I didn't doubt for one second that she'd been listening to our conversation.
"Mama," Sheila called from somewhere out in the corridor, "let's get out of this place!"
I couldn't have agreed with her more or moved any faster.
"Hey, Marsh," Tracy said, "can you pick me up tonight? My car's in the shop."
Yeah, probably busted from all the rolling around they'd done in it the night before, I figured. And then I found myself staring at the third finger of Marshall's left hand, looking for the pale indentation. I caught myself, caught Marshall watching me, and spun around.
"Mama!" Sheila called.
I tore out of the cubicle like the Queen Mary headed for England, sailing past Sheila and right on down the hallway toward the exit. Sheila followed me, her heavy shoes making loud clomping noises that echoed off the walls of the police department corridors. I waited until we were out in the parking lot to take on my hell-raising daughter.
"Sheila, I know you're mad about your dad, but there's something you need to understand. He's in big trouble and it's very dangerous for you to be around right now."
Sheila's puppy woke up and stared at me with huge, liquid brown eyes. Sheila was staring too, but her stare was hard and unfriendly.
"I'll be eighteen next year," she said. "According to the law, I could be declared an emancipated minor right now. I know how to shoot a gun. Daddy taught me. I took two self-defense classes and knocked Mr. Gray right on his butt, not just once, but every single time we sparred."
She patted her puppy's head absently and continued her lecture.
"My psychology teacher says that my reaction time and my cognitive thinking skills are peaking. So, I think I'm gonna stay right here and help you."
"Your reaction time may be peaking, but your judgment skills are nowhere near functional." I squared off, my hands on my hips and a frown on my face.
"Mama, you are starting a power struggle, a control battle. That is, like, so totally unnecessary. We should work together on the problem, not let it come between us."
What kind of Martian was her psychology teacher?
"I'm not going back," Sheila warned. "And if you take me, I'll just run back here and not tell you where I am."
Now what? It was one of those mother-daughter crisis moments where you wish your own mama was around to clue you in. I looked at Sheila, I looked at her mangy dog, and I sighed.
"Good!" Sheila cried. "I knew you'd see it my way. Now, where are we going?"
I shook my head and started walking off toward my car, then stopped. Why take my car when everybody knew it was mine?
"Let's take the pickup," I said. "I'll drive."
"Mama," Sheila started, then for some reason let it go and handed me the keys.
We climbed up into the cab of Earl's old Ford pickup. He'd had a run-in with a fence post or something because you had to pull hard to close the door, and when you did, the hinges screamed in agony. It was a clunker, but when I stuck the key in the ignition and turned, it roared to life with all of its V-8 power.
We bounced out of the lot onto Washington Street and headed for Elm. There was only one set of condominiums large enough to hide a well-kept bimbo, and I headed right for it.
"What did you name him?" I asked.
Sheila looked down at her puppy, stroked its head, and was rewarded by a frenzy of licking.
"Wombat."
I laughed in spite of myself. "You named a dog Wombat? Why?"
Sheila hitched him up in her arms like a baby. "I don't know, on account of he's so strange looking, I guess. I mean, he's got black hair, and brown and gray and white and yellow. It's curly up front and straight in the back. His legs are long and he doesn't have a tail. Mama, when he's happy, he wags his little stump so hard it knocks him over! Isn't he cute?"
I looked over at Wombat. Wombat's eyelashes were longer than Rozetta's fakes, and his eyes were a whole lot prettier.
"I guess he does have a way about him."
We pulled into the lot of the ten-story condo building and stared up at it.
"Now what?" she asked. "Which one is it?"
I leaned on the steering wheel. "I don't know."
"Mama!" Sheila said. "There's gotta be ten gazillion apartments in there." She sighed. "Wait a minute, I'll go find out. What's the name?"
"Pauline Conrad, but the apartment may be in Nosmo King's name."
Sheila had the door open and was almost gone before I could stop her.
"Sheila, they won't tell you where she lives. It's part of their security system."
Sheila jumped out of the truck, handed me the puppy, and straightened her camisole top.
"Well, like, duh. Of course not. I'm not going to ask them like that. I'm going to ask them like a stupid harmless kid would ask them. Just wait here."
She started out, stopped, and walked back up to the passenger-side window.
"So, like, if I'm not back in, like, five minutes…" She paused for effect. "Call the freakin' cops!"
As I watched, Sheila walked across the parking lot, hitching her school backpack up on her shoulder and slouching. She walked up to the entrance, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Within two minutes she was back, a triumphant smile on her face.
"Ten A," she said.
"How did you do that?"
Sheila sighed, as if the explanation was too much for her. "I just told them that I was supposed to stay with my aunt after school, but I couldn't remember the apartment number."
Sheila smirked. "That is sooo adolescent, don't you think? Teenagers just never listen. And then, after he told me, he went right off upstairs to help some little old lady move a chair. That is, like, so dumb. What if I was a criminal or something?"
I handed Wombat to her. "You might oughta walk him," I said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
"I'm coming with you," she said.
I shot her a look that said, don't even try me.
"All right, you don't need to take on an attitude!"
I walked away and left her standing there, her ridiculous puppy in her arms. This was going to be a hell of an investigation.
I swept past the empty doorman's stand, hit the elevator, and rode up to the tenth floor. "A" was the first door on the left. I walked across the thickly carpeted hallway and punched the doorbell. It rang like a high-class doorbell, a deep dinging that sounded nothing like a shrill apartment buzzer.
I waited, heard footsteps cross the foyer, and then waited some more as I was checked out through the peephole and a decision made.
Finally the door swung open, just wide enough to stretch the security chain. It was not Pauline Conrad who answered the door; it was her blonde friend, Christine.
"Hey," she said, her voice wary. "You're that girl from the funeral. What're you doing here?"
She did not seem at all pleased to see me.