Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [92]
‘‘God . . .’’
‘‘Right when they shot Philip Rumsford.’’
‘‘Remember,’’ I said, ‘‘remember when Nola spoke to somebody inside and then they shot him?’’
‘‘Oh, yeah . . .’’
‘‘Somebody who got that message . . .’’
‘‘We gotta see more of these,’’ breathed Hester.
We did. Just as easy. Just as productive. All that remained to do was to wait for the printer to finish with the first one. That’s when we heard voices in the outer office. Cops. Now how in the hell could we come out to get more paper, or to do anything else, with cops sitting right outside the door. Granted, not only were they our cops but we outranked anybody who could possibly be there. But, in the first place, it would look like Hester and I were fooling around in the evidence room. I was absolutely certain that there was no way we could come out of that room without looking guilty. And a little excited, for that matter. In the second place, as soon as that rumor got going, sure as hell somebody who knew the lab agents would pick up on it, and then the shit would really hit the fan. Stuck. I reached up and turned off the light.
‘‘Shit,’’ hissed Hester. But she obviously understood. She reached over and turned off the computer monitor.
‘‘Yeah,’’ I whispered, ‘‘but they can see the light under the door.’’ I knew that for a fact since that was frequently the way dispatchers and officers could tell that I’d left the light on.
Just to make matters worse, there was a little static on my walkie-talkie, and then Sally’s voice . . .
‘‘Don’t y’all do anything I wouldn’t.’’
Well, by the time the night-shift people had had their coffee, discussed everything from ball scores to murders, and finished a couple of accident reports, we had spent the better part of two unproductive hours in the evidence room, in the dark. Hester was asleep in the corner. It could have been the dark. It might also have been the lack of air.
When I was sure that the night troops had left the building, I called Sally on the walkie-talkie. No answer. I tried again. Nothing. Hester woke up when I turned the lights on.
‘‘What’s the problem?’’
‘‘I can’t get Sally,’’ I said.
She looked at her watch. ‘‘Holy shit.’’
‘‘Yeah. Four hours, give or take.’’
‘‘How long was I asleep?’’
No matter how uninvolved the relationship, you never want to tell a woman that you didn’t know when she nodded off. ‘‘Oh, only about thirty minutes or so.’’ I had no idea.
‘‘Sorry.’’
‘‘Not as sorry as Sally’s gonna be if she went home . . .’’
‘‘You suppose,’’ asked Hester, ‘‘that burglars feel tired like this?’’
I grinned. ‘‘Well, I know at least one who does. Have to start callin’ you the Sleepin’ Bandit.’’
I called on the walkie-talkie again.
‘‘Go ahead . . .’’
‘‘Three’s no longer ten-six,’’ I said. Ten-six being the code for ‘‘busy.’’
There was no answer, but about ten seconds later there was the soft ratchety sound of a key in the padlock, and the door opened.
‘‘You guys okay?’’
‘‘Where you been? I called two times . . .’’
‘‘We’re fine.’’
‘‘I was in the john when you called. I’m sorry, but I don’t correspond from the john . . .’’
‘‘We’re fine,’’ said Hester for the second time.
‘‘Well, you get done?’’
‘‘With the first one,’’ I said.
‘‘Did you know,’’ asked Sally, ‘‘that George and the lab agents were back after you went in the room?’’
‘‘What!’’
‘‘Oh, yeah. God, I thought I was gonna die,’’ she said.
‘‘When?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Not more than thirty minutes after you’d gotten in there. It was all George could do to keep ’em out in the kitchen.’’ She held her hand to her chest. ‘‘I thought I was gonna have an anxiety attack. I didn’t know whether or not to try to tell you or what!’’
‘‘I am so glad,’’ said Hester, ‘‘that you didn’t tell us.’’ She started to move past me. ‘‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think a rest-room call would be in order . . .’’
‘‘Is George still around?’’ I asked Sally.
‘‘He should be in his car, on the way home.’’
‘‘Get him, and see if you can get the number for his cell phone . . .’’
‘‘Over the radio?’’ she asked, raising an