Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [127]
“Margaret Forrester does okay for a police widow,” I said, staring at the bottom line on her IRS form.
“She’s got that business on the side.” Devon rubbed his bald pate. “What is it, jewelry?”
“Seashells. ‘Body ornaments.’ She nets thirty-eight thousand dollars a year?”
“Her stuff is carried by some big stores. Fred Segal. Barneys.” He caught my look. “Surprised?”
“I didn’t think Margaret could get it together to do something like that.”
“She had help getting started. Look at the financial statements.”
I sat beside Devon and his manicured fingertip showed me where. Fourteen months ago Margaret had made a deposit of $52,674 into a money market account.
“Where did she get the dough?”
“Her husband’s pension.”
“Are you sure?”
“The dates connect—the deposit was made a few months after he died.”
“But she stated in court that she was not eligible to receive his pension.”
Devon had both hands on a quad to support the leg while it stretched.
“The husband was killed by a gang.”
“He was killed off-duty, and they never proved it was a gang. It was never crystal clear to me how exactly the Hat died.”
“We’ll get it clear.” Devon made a note, glanced at his watch.
“How long do I have before the marshals show up at the door?”
“We’ll file for a hearing. It will be postponed.”
“How long,” I insisted, “can you keep the balls in the air?”
“I can’t say for sure—”
“Because Mike Donnato kicked me out of his house.”
Devon stopped writing. “When did this happen?”
“A couple of days before the Brennan thing went down.”
I told him about the threatening phone calls and Mike’s kids.
“You’d have to ask for new terms and conditions anyway.”
Devon looked seriously unhappy now. “I hate giving Rauch another fat one over the plate. Can you find someone else of equal stature to stay with?”
“You mean someone else from the Bureau who will vouch for me?”
Devon looked up. The blue stone in the pen matched the intensified blue of his eyes. He meant it. He was not being ironic.
“Is there anyone?” he asked.
Instead of ducking suavely into the Bureau garage, I had to wait in the visitors’ section of the outdoor parking lot, signal flashing, while a family of Russian immigrants squeezed into a slouching old yellow Mercedes sedan in the midst of a whopping intergenerational argument. I gave a toot and eight stormy faces glared at me with unified indignation. I guess that ended the argument.
Sprinting up the steps to the US Federal Office Building, I was ambushed once again by the same stomach-tightening anticipation I had felt every day on the job. Of course, they would not have let me past reception. Nor could I have tolerated the looks of rank curiosity, had I run into people I knew, hustling in a group to a meeting, peering out from behind an attachment they took for granted, or even begrudged, while I wanted nothing but to belong. Better to stay outside, lost in the impersonal scale of the flat-faced building, another ordinary citizen wearing ripped-in-the-pocket Levi’s and running shoes, entitled to the safeguards of democracy.
The Human Computer would take lunch between twelve and one, hurry across the sunshiny plaza into the fumes of the garage and down the cinder-block passage to the ancient and pungent gym. Now that I thought about it, why should hardworking agents be condemned to that claustrophobic space? Even the franchise health club across the street had a view of Wilshire Boulevard. They should do better. They deserved it.
They.
“Barbara!”
She was carrying the black Lancôme tote bag we both had gotten “free” the day we ditched work and went to Robinsons and spent hundreds of dollars on makeup.
“Mother of God!” she gasped. “You scared me.”
“Can I walk with you? Pretend I’m a homeless person.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty.”
“For what?”
“Not calling you.” She squinted against the sun. “I’m sorry. With a new baby your life isn’t your own.”
“Hey.”
We avoided each other’s eyes.
“Outstanding job on the serial rapist,