Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [69]
"How long do they keep the records?"
"Near as I could tell, they never get rid of them. They have records go back a couple of generations anyway. But the computer, it only has data for about the past fifteen, twenty years.
"They break it down by county?"
"Yes. This is Lake County. All the records for the region are in the DPW Building"
"On the computer too?"
"Yes. But all the computer has is the information that's on this form," she said, pushing a dull green piece of paper across to me. It looked like a police pedigree: name, age, date of birth, address, check–places for type of suspected abuse or neglect.
I scanned the paper. I'd seen it before. They all use the same form. "You actually see the computer?"
"The central data–bank's not there. But there's terminals all over the place."
"On–line access? Twenty–four hours a day?" She nodded.
"They segregate the local data?"
Blossom nodded again, watching closely now.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Just okay. See you later tonight?"
"I'll be here."
"Blossom…"
"What?"
"Give me my pistol."
107
THE RAIN STARTED about ten. The building was dark, lights burning on the third floor. Rebecca was at the wheel, me next to her in the front seat, Virgil in the back. They both smoked in silence, waiting for me.
B&E. Back to myself, back to crime. Started to think like myself then. Working with what I knew. Knowing when a woman spreads her legs, it's not the same thing as opening up. Blossom was compartmentalized, and I hadn't looked inside all the boxes.
It was eleven before the lights went off. Almost midnight when we heard the back door open, close. A dark–colored compact came down the driveway, braked, took off slowly to the left.
"Cleaning lady," I said. "She must work six to midnight."
We gave it another two hours. A police cruiser went by in the darkness. Didn't stop. No foot patrols.
"Nothing anybody'd want in there," Virgil said. My birth certificate told how right he was.
108
THE RAIN was pounding harder as I drove back to Hammond. A light flicked on as I turned off the engine. Blossom was in her robe in the kitchen, no sleep–signs on her face.
"You want something to eat?"
"No, thanks."
"Have just some dry toast. You don't want to take this stuff on an empty stomach."
"What stuff?"
"What's it look like to you?" Moving her shoulder to indicate the kitchen table.
"It looks like three fat gray coffins and a red dot," I told her, sitting down.
"The big ones are Vitamin C. The red one's the beta–carotene."
"You bought this stuff?"
"This afternoon. While you were out prowling around."
"Thanks."
"It was the least I could do. You've been a good boy."
My eyes went up to her face, voice soft, wanting her to understand. "I'm not a boy."
She brought the toast over to the table, a glass of cold water in her other hand. Put them down. Smoothed her robe over her hips and sat on my lap, primly, one hand on the back of my neck for balance.
"All men are boys. Different kinds of boys. You're a bad boy."
"Blossom…"
"A bad boy. Not a mean one. Eat your toast. Take your vitamins."
I ate slowly, feeling her warm, solid weight on me. Only her feet and a piece of her calves showed under the hem of the robe. Dark nylon stocking on one leg, the other bare.
I swallowed the last vitamin. She bounced sweetly in my lap. "Let's go see," she said.
109
LATER. The rain slapped the house. Blossom's cheek against my chest, blonde hair trailing halfway down her back. Legs slightly parted, one sheathed in the dark stocking, the other bare.
"Tell me about him," she asked, a tiny tremor in her voice.
I didn't answer her, translating inside my head, putting it in a package.
"You know what DNA is?"
"Yes."
"One thing you'll always find around any lovers' lane, discarded condoms. The cops didn't collect them