Body Copy - Michael Craven [40]
And the receptionist said, in a Southern accent, “Oh, he’s around. He just got back from a two-week vacation about a month ago, so he’ll be around for a good while before he leaves again.”
“Thank you,” Tremaine said.
He hung up the phone, good, he wouldn’t have to cancel his trip. Then Tremaine called Marvin Kearns and asked him to look after Lyle for a couple days. Marvin said, of course, and that was that. Marvin had the key to Tremaine’s B O D Y C O P Y
trailer and Lyle liked Marvin—as much as Lyle could like anyone.
In the car on the way to LAX, Tremaine saw a conspicuous silver Crown Vic in his rearview.
“Perfect,” he said. And he meant it.
At the airport, Tremaine parked the Cutlass in Short Term, outside in plain view, so the guy in the Crown Vic would be sure to know exactly where Tremaine’s car was.
And could pick Tremaine up easily upon his return from Atlanta.
On the flight, wedged in between two rather large human beings—fucking frequent flier seat, Tremaine got out his L.A. Times, his pencil, and his stopwatch.
Quickly, in fifty-three seconds, he turned ixamm into maxim, yafle into leafy, liftle into fillet, flabel into befall, then finally, xlfitef into left in a fix. When the mechanic got sick, his boss was left in a fix.
Done with that, he turned his attention to a picture of Bill Peterson, a picture Lopez had given him. Bald, hair on the sides like Terry Bradshaw, mustache, looked to be about fifty. Tremaine studied the picture, Bill Peterson in his LAPD uniform, his official photo.
The big guy to the left of Tremaine began looking at the photo as well and said to Tremaine, “Who’s that?”
Tremaine looked at the guy and said, “It’s a guy named Bill Peterson.”
The man said, “Oh.”
Tremaine picked up his rental at the Atlanta airport, a Geo Prizm. Not a particularly masculine car, but what are 125
Michael Craven
you going to do? It was free, for Chrissakes. He’d made his reservation at a Day’s Inn downtown, near the police headquarters. He got directions from the people at Avis.
Peachtree Boulevard to Peachtree Place to Peachtree Drive to Peachtree Court. Or something like that.
Tremaine found the hotel and checked into his room. A dark little styleless, charmless room. But clean. And quiet.
And not a bad view. Downtown looked pretty cool—very metropolitan, lots of interesting-looking buildings, even a circular skyscraper. The feel of the city enhanced by dusk falling over the sky.
It was almost seven already, Tremaine losing three hours by flying east. Tonight he’d just relax, watch a little tube, and mull over the case. Then tomorrow he’d go down to the station and see if he could arrange for thirty minutes of face time with Bill Peterson.
He clicked on SportsCenter, then cracked open his com-plimentary copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He read the front section, then sports, then the arts. Pretty good paper.
Later, he ordered a cheeseburger and two beers from room service and just enjoyed the little private sanctuary that is an out-of-town hotel room.
The next morning, bright and early, Tremaine went downtown to the headquarters of the Atlanta police. He walked right into the building, looked at the computerized listing in the lobby of department employees, found Bill Peterson’s name, then hopped on an elevator to the fourth floor.
Not so much as a look from the security guards.
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There was a receptionist’s desk on the fourth floor. At it was maybe the same woman with the Southern accent that he’d talked to. Tremaine approached her and said, “Hi, I’m Donald Tremaine. I don’t have an appointment, but I’m a friend of a friend of Bill Peterson’s and I’d like to say hello.”
“Let me call Bill, see if he’s back there.”
“Thank you,” Tremaine said.
Tremaine sat down in the little waiting area and picked up an old,