Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [63]
“She’s a ganja head,” he added after a little while. “Gets stoned two and three times a day. It’s a ‘spiritual practice.’”
“And nobody knows this at the department?”
“Let’s not get off on Margaret.”
“She said you were applying for a job in Fresno.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Don’t you ever think of getting out?”
“Are you?”
“How the hell do I know?” Then, viciously, “The Black Widow. Drove the Hat to death. I’m telling you, she’s death.”
“Like at this point I care.”
He stood up so resolutely that tears sprang to my eyes and I cried out, “Don’t go,” like a child.
“Pride is important to me,” he said sternly. “You keep beating me up.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“In front of my supervisor, my friends—I don’t know, is this a thing you have for men?”
“I love men. Is this a thing you have about women?”
He shook his head and laughed bitterly. Another impasse.
“Pride is important to me, too.” I took a step forward. “I’m sorry about the thing in the bar, I was just so hurt—”
“You’ve got to leave me alone,” he said almost desperately.
“I want safe passage, too.”
I was pleading.
“Go ahead.”
Then I didn’t know how to say it. “You’ve changed since we started going out, but especially the past few weeks. Something’s different, something’s weighing on you and it’s not just work. I never know what you’re really thinking. You’re always holding back.”
“That’s what my second ex-wife used to say.”
“Why?” I replied stupidly. “Is this a pattern?”
I wanted to prolong it, know more, have another chance—I did not want to be discarded like the others—but he was picking up his keys.
“Do me a favor. Whatever you think of her, don’t blame Sylvia Oberbeck.”
“Sylvia?”
“Sylvia’s going through a bad time.”
He should not have said her name. He should not have defended her, out loud, in my house, at that moment, to me. Like some rajah he seemed to believe all the wives and girlfriends should know the score and be grateful to be poked by him.
“What do you see in that dumb blonde jock?”
“What is it with blonde? They all want to be blonde. Can’t decide which half?” He gripped the hair at the side of my head and for a moment we were face-to-face. “Dark is good, baby. Mamacita.”
Then he let go. I was beyond furious.
“My grandfather was right.”
“The racist was right?”
“Yeah, he was right when he said, ‘Don’t tell anyone you’re mixed race. You can pass for white, so pass. Because when you get into a fight, the first thing your husband’s going to say is, he’ll call you a filthy little spic.’”
Andrew looked hurt. “I’m not calling you a spic,” he protested. “I never use that word. That’s not what I said—”
“You’re right. You should leave.”
“I’m leaving.” He was gentle now, and soothing, as he had been with the distraught bank tellers. I had seen more sides of him than a carousel. “Just so we’re straight.”
“Straight on what?”
“What we have … is a working relationship.”
“Right,” I snorted. “I wish. Unfortunately, the Santa Monica kidnapping is not the only thing we’re working on.”
He gestured, confused. What was I talking about?
“Mission Impossible,” I replied with contempt, as if he were the dumbest fuck on earth.
“That will go away. Barry already forgot about it.”
“Not on our end. I officially reopened the case and got creamed for it, by the way.”
He had stepped toward me and we were facing each other again, only a few feet away. His hips were square, his hands hung down, deceptively relaxed.
“Why did you reopen the case?”
“To help you out, you stupid shit! You say you’re in trouble with your boss, the chief of police made it a priority, so here is me, going out of my way to go back to a case that I’m not even on anymore, in order to do something nice, because you were so upset—”
“I was pissed.” His fingers flexed.
“Well, maybe we’ll know something. Close it out and be done.” I crossed my arms. “The lab is doing the DNA.”
“On what?”
“The ski mask they found.” God, when would he get it? “Maybe