Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [37]
Which, oddly, didn’t bother Rune that much. At least he was separated and had no problem being bluntly honest about the times he saw Cheryl. Rune looked at his marriage like an air bag in a car—a safety feature. Maybe when she got older, if they were still together, she’d force him to make a decision. But for now his marriage was his business. All she wanted was honesty and a boyfriend who kept you guessing. And no boyfriend kept you guessing like one on the New York City Bomb Squad.
Rune said, “They got the wrong man.”
“I know your theory about Boggs.”
“I don’t need to prowl around the evidence room. I just want to read one file.”
“I thought you wanted to be a reporter.”
“I am a reporter.”
“Reporters don’t cheat. It’d be unethical to use me to get information.”
“Of course it wouldn’t. You know about unnamed sources. Come on, you can be my Deep Throat.”
“It’s a murder investigation. I’d get suspended for leaking information.”
“It’s a murder conviction. It’s a closed case.”
“The transcript is public record. Why don’t you—?”
“I’ve got the transcript. I need the police report. It’s got the names of all the witnesses and the bullet angles and pictures of the exit wounds. All the good stuff. Come on, Sam.” She kissed his neck.
“There’s nothing I can do. Sorry.”
“The man’s innocent. He’s serving time for something he didn’t do. That’s terrible.”
“You can talk to the public information officer. They’ll give you the department’s side of the case.”
“Bullshit is all he’ll tell me.”
“She,” Healy said. “Not he.” He stood up and walked into the galley. “You have anything substantial?”
“Well, first, everybody I’ve interviewed said that no way in the world could Randy Boggs kill anyone. Then—”
“I mean to eat.”
“Oh.” She squinted into the galley. “No.”
“Don’t mope.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I just don’t have anything substantial. Sorry. Maybe some Fruit ‘N Fiber cereal.”
“Rune …”
“A banana. It’s pretty old.”
“I can’t get the report. I’m sorry.”
“A can of tuna. That’s a pretty icky combination, though, if you mix it with the cereal. Even with the high fiber.”
Healy wasn’t buying it. “No file. Give it up.” He walked back with pretzels and cottage cheese. “So where’s your little girl?”
She was hesitating. “I took her to Social Services.”
“Oh.” He was looking at her, his face blank. Not saying anything, eating the cottage cheese. He offered her a forkful she wasn’t interested in.
She said defensively, “They were a really, really good bunch of people there. They were, you know, real professional.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What they’ll do is keep her in a foster home for a while then they’ll track down her mother….” She was avoiding his eyes, looking everywhere else. Studying his buttons, the stitching of his shirt seams, the trapezoid of floor between his shoes. “Well, it was a good idea, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Was it?”
“I had to.”
“When I was a portable, walking a beat, we found kids sometimes. If there’s any suspicion of neglect or abuse you have to bring them in or get a caseworker out to see them.”
Rune said, “Those people are okay, aren’t they?”
“I guess so.”
She stood up and paced slowly. “What was I supposed to do? I can’t take care of a baby.”
“I’m not saying—” Healy began.
“Yes, you are. You’re saying ‘I guess so,’ ‘I don’t know.’”
“You did what you thought was right.”
Clench, loosen. Her short, unpolished nails dug into her palm, then relaxed. “You make it sound like I gave her away to the gypsies.”
“I’m just a little surprised is all.”
“What am I going to do? Keep her with me all the time? It cost five hundred dollars to fix the camera because of her. I had to reshoot eight hours of film. I can’t afford a baby-sitter—”
“Rune—”
Volume and indignation rose. “You make it sound like I abandoned her. I’m not her mother. I don’t even want her.”
Healy smiled. “Don’t be so paranoid about it. I’m sure they’ll take fine care of her. Have some cottage cheese. What’s in here?”
Rune looked. “Apple? Pear? Wait, I think it’s a zucchini.”
“Should it be that color?”
She said, “It’s only