Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [36]
I made a yes noise, walking with her.
"That's okay. You can be you. It's okay that I keep dancing?"
"If that's what you want to do."
"I'm telling the truth now, Burke. I'm going to love you. And you're going to love me too, when you see how I am. But I have to be me while I do it, understand?"
"I'm not arguing with you, Belle."
She put her mouth on my ear, whispering in that little–girl breathy voice, holding my hand tight. "I'm me. You don't change for me—I don't change for you. But I wouldn't let you dance."
"That means what?"
Her voice was pure and sad in my ear. "If Pansy's a dog, like you said, I'm going to pat her. If she's a woman, I'll kill her."
She kissed me on the cheek, pushed me away, stood to the side while I stepped out the door.
I looked back at the cottage as I climbed into my car. It was dark.
38
THE PLYMOUTH tracked its way back to the office, its monster motor barely turning over. The all–news station was talking about Kuwaiti ships flying the American flag in the Persian Gulf, mine–sweepers guarding the point. I flipped to the oldies station. Screamin' Jay Hawkins. "I Put a Spell on You." Growling his love–threats to his woman and to the world.
I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours
Right now.
Belle would know he was telling the truth.
Most of the traffic was trucks, highballing it toward the city. A customized van passed on my right. Big glass doors cut into the side, a plastic bubble on its roof. As it went by, I saw a narrow metal ladder running from the bumper up to the roof. A mural was painted on the back—some religious scene.
I lit a smoke. The van I was looking for was a custom job too. I knew that meant something, but I couldn't lock in on it. It would come.
If Marques was right, the van had been working for a few weeks now. Time enough for the police to be on the job. I flicked my cigarette out the window, wondering if McGowan was working nights.
Bob Seger came through the radio. "Still the Same." Motor City blues. Somebody once said it was about a guy catching up with his old girlfriend, but it never sounded like that to me.
It sounded like a kid catching up with his father.
39
I LET Pansy out to her roof.
Picked up the phone on my desk, checked for hippies. All quiet.
I dialed a number.
"Runaway Squad, Officer Thompson speaking." A young woman's voice.
"Is McGowan around?"
"Hold on."
I lit a smoke, waiting. Any other detective bureau in the city, they ask you who's calling. The Runaway Squad knows most of the callers won't give their names.
"McGowan," said the voice on the phone. The same hard–sweet voice pimps use, but McGowan did it different, giving you your choice.
"It's Burke. We're working the same case. Got a few minutes to meet with me?"
"I'm off at eight. Breakfast at Dino's? Eight–fifteen, eight–thirty?"
"I'll be there," I told him, and put down the phone.
Pansy ambled in, rested her head in my lap. I patted her. "You're always glad to see me, aren't you, girl?"
She didn't answer me.
I pushed her head off my lap, helped myself to a drink of ice water from the refrigerator. I took out two hard–boiled eggs, cracked them against the wall, peeled off the shells.
"Wake me in an hour," I told Pansy, handing her the eggs. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the mess she made.
40
WHEN I opened my eyes, it was seven–thirty. I took another shower, changed my clothes. I let Pansy out again, watching her run around while I took a deep slug of Pepto–Bismol. Eating at Dino's on an empty stomach was dangerous.
I drove north on the West Side Highway, moving against the snarled rush–hour traffic. Dino's was on Twelfth Avenue, about ten blocks south of Times Square. Yuppies in New York are heavy into diner food now, but Dino's wasn't going to make the list.
McGowan's unmarked cruiser was parked right out front, empty slots on either side. I pulled in, not wasting my time trying to spot him through the greasy windows.