Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [55]
He slept with Margaret, too? After her husband died?
Was that possible? Was I nuts?
I called him.
“What’s the matter? You sound upset. Is it about the case?”
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I heard you’re going out with Sylvia Oberbeck.”
“No.”
“Tell me the truth and we can move on.”
“I’m not seeing Sylvia Oberbeck. Where did you get this information?”
“Margaret Forrester.”
“Margaret is pathological.”
“I know, but she says you’re screwing Oberbeck, and also, get this, that you slept with her when the Hat died.”
“Listen to me. Ana? Are you listening?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You’re not crying, baby.”
“Just tell me the truth.”
“Do you know what we call Margaret? The Black Widow. Do you know why? Because she killed the Hat. Might as well have. Might as well have pulled the trigger on the gun.”
“I thought it was a baseball bat.”
“Whatever! She pushed that sorry bastard into an untenable situation. And he was a really good man. Work late. Move up. Volunteer for dangerous assignments. Make money. Money, money, money. She’s a greedy lying bitch, and she doesn’t like you.”
“That’s clear.”
“She’s jealous as hell because you’re the boss—”
“And sleeping with you.”
“I’m sorry it came down this way. What can I tell you? This is how she operates.”
“I don’t care how she operates, all I care about is you and me. Is that pathetic?”
“Ana—”
“I can’t talk now, I have to get back. My supervisor’s calling. We have a suspect—a guy from Arizona, five arrests for rape, no convictions, name is Ray Brennan. Former marine.”
“Bingo.”
“Your idea. Good work.”
“Feeling better?”
“No.”
“What can I do for you, baby?”
“Tell me where you were last night.”
“Chasing a Spanish guy down an alley.”
“What went down?”
“Pickpocket.”
“Where? The Promenade.”
“Yep.”
“Catch him?”
“What do you think?” Andrew said. “Sixteen years old, runs like a rabbit.”
Rick said, “It’s about your ninety-day file review.”
“I turned in my files.”
“And every one of your cases says, ‘Unaddressed work due to the Santa Monica kidnapping.’”
“Be fair, Rick, not every one.”
I had not gone into the office. After speaking with Andrew, I had been able to drive no more than a mile from the police station before pulling over in tears. Now I was parked at a meter on the Palisade above the ocean, talking robotically on the Nextel, staring through the windshield into murky space.
“Where are your communications for the past ninety days?”
“They’re in hand notes.”
“But where are they in the file?”
“Who cares? What about the fax on Brennan?”
“Deal with it, and in your spare time get this assessment up to date. By the way, what is this about you wanting to open up an old case from the bank squad?”
“Nothing. I was trying to help someone.”
“The inspectors are coming in ten days.”
I forced myself to sit there, gazing at the ocean like the rest of the midmorning unemployed sleazebag degenerates in their trashy cars. I was doing work again, although this time the thoughts came easily off the conveyor belt, greased by their own logic.
Why was Rick suddenly on this? Because he had turned on me, too.
Kelsey got to him.
Through Galloway.
She had not liked my voice mail about patriotism and the American flag. Golly gee.
A Broadway tune came tap-tap-tapping along: “And good’s bad today / And black’s white today / And day’s night today …” Something-something-“gigolo.” Was that really the next line? I laughed out loud and put the tan Crown Victoria in gear. Everything was reversed,