“You made a date with Shiro?” Could Emma Jan be Shiro’s mystery date from the other night?
Emma Jan blinked. “Not a date, exactly. A competition. Did you not hear all that ranting I just did?”
Sorry, Emma Jan, but I was the partner of George Pinkman. Ranting was about as unusual as George snorting Splenda.
I tossed my bag on my desk and shrugged out of my Man Coat. (Yes, okay, I bought it in the men’s section at Target. It was an unattractive brown, and too big, and it also kept me warmer than any Woman Coat I’d ever bought.) “Shiro can’t just … just make appointments with
my
body.”
“She did, though,” George said, still not looking up.
“You stay out of this. Please.” Emma Jan was dressed in yet another suit that looked gorgeous on her (brick red, with a matching jacket and a tan blouse) that would have been a disaster on me. “Listen, if Adrienne scared you or hurt you, I’m really—”
“Oh, no! It was fine. I mean, it was weird and cool, but also fine. You just sort of … okay, your eyes sort of rolled up and then you were
leaping
at Behrman, and then his friend made the mistake of trying to help him, and then the dog got out—you know what? It doesn’t matter. Did Michaela tell you? They aren’t pressing charges.”
“The one piece of good news I’ve had in the last two days.” I sighed, moved my bag, and slumped into my chair. “Bet you had no idea what you were signing on for when you got your transfer, huh?”
“I like it here,” she said cheerfully. “It’s always interesting.”
Yes, that was one word for it.
“When do you think Adrienne might show up again?”
That
brought George’s head up. “Proof you’re the New Girl. Nobody ever looks forward to seeing Adrienne. Except me, sometimes, and I’m…” He shrugged. He didn’t need to finish.
I’m a sociopath. I feel nothing, but live for pleasure. People are objects. I am the center of the universe. And the center of the universe really hates skinheads, for reasons I will never discuss. There is no room for skinheads in
my
universe.
Sometimes George reminded me of that funny guy from
Braveheart
, the one they all thought was crazy and who claimed Ireland was “his” island. “My island. Yup.” “I’m the most wanted man on my island, except I’m not on my island, of course.” “It’s mine!” Like that.
“I’m looking forward to seeing Shiro later.” Emma Jan was still talking, which, if I didn’t think she was such a weirdo, normally wouldn’t bother me. “Not that I don’t like spending time with you,” she added hastily, seeing my expression, “but Shiro and I had
such
a fun dinner. What with all the competitive betting and shouting. And tonight’s the range! Sorry about the upcoming overused word, but I’m psyched. I’m … I’m so psyched it’s awesome. It’s totally, totally … give me some more eighties slang.”
I rolled my eyes. “Emma Jan…”
“I’m new; I don’t really know anybody up here. We couldn’t believe it … we thought we’d been only talking for about half an hour, but it was past eleven! Did you try the leftovers? She said she was bringing home the doggie bag for you.”
So she
was
Shiro’s mystery date!
Ah. A glamorous evening out for Shiro, dog-rescuing antics for Adrienne, and I had meetings. And, probably, dog poop to clean up. Of the three of us, I was the one who’d clearly lost a bet with God. And he was a vindictive entity if there ever was one.
“Just don’t be upset if she can’t make it to the … where’d you say you were going?”
“The gun range.”
“Right, for your little contest.” Hmph. A perfect date for Shiro, unless she stumbled across a combat dojo and took on all comers. She was scary-accurate with a gun. With anything.
Michaela stalked past us carrying a stack of files and gripping the handle of a cleaver in the other, so much so that I could see how white her knuckles were.
Wüsthof,
I thought.
Maybe Shun.
She was a huge knife snob. She was into knives the way some people were into antiques, or breathing.
“Cadence, go talk to Gallo and then get back as quick as you can. When you’re back, meet me in my other office. JBJ briefing. Go,” she ordered, and I heard and obeyed.
It … it was wrong that I was so interesting in seeing Dr. Gallo again, wasn’t it?
It’s for the job, dummy
, I reassured myself. And I was sprinting through the building toward the parking garage for the job. Yep.
Sure.
chapter thirty-six
“Official capacity?”
“Yes, well … I couldn’t really get into it at the time.” I was once again hooked up to another machine designed to deprive me of my bodily fluids. I reasoned that I might as well donate while I was here, and let Shiro whine about it as much as she liked. They were
my
platelets, drat it all. “Stuff about the case … we’re keeping the media out of it as much as we can … and confidentiality issues…”
“Not much confidentially anymore,” Dr. Gallo said sorrowfully. He was dressed yet again in scrubs that were so soft they were almost tattered. When he frowned, as he was now, the planes of his face really stood out. Was there an American Indian somewhere in the family woodpile? He was lean, but not geek-skinny. I’d never seen cheekbones you could cut yourself on, on a
guy
. And I had the feeling the small laugh lines near his eyes were stress lines, or grief lines. It made me want to fix him a meal and offer him a shoulder to cry on. Or a mouth to— Whoa. Whoa! I was happily involved with Little De—uh, Patrick. I
had
a boyfriend.
Was that it? Was I so unused to having a serious relationship that I was compelled to smash it once I’d had it? Or was I so sure I’d be dumped any second I was always on the prowl for a new guy? Shiro would say it was pathetic, that both reasons were pathetic, and she’d be right.
“Pathetic!” I said aloud, apropos to nothing, and bless his heart, Dr. Gallo didn’t so much as raise his black eyebrows.
The donating area was almost deserted except for another patient across the room, donating whole blood and chatting with her nurse. She’d been tucked in with a couple of Red Cross blankets. Oooh, lucky girl, I could feel ’em now. They kept them in a special dryer, so the blankets were always piping warm and snuggly. Donating blood was the closest I ever got to being tucked in by a mom.
Ohhhhh, boy. I just heard that. I mean,
really
heard that. Behold, my sinister motive for selflessly donating blood all these years: because I missed my mommy! As Adrienne would say, “The wheels on the bus go boo fucking hoo.” Then she’d find a bus. Then she’d blow it up. Then I’d get sued by the bus company. Round and round, my big flabby tuchus.
I’d trailed after the doc and gotten settled for yet another donation … but I wasn’t taking any warm blankets
this
time, thank you very much! They weren’t going to trick me with their fake mothering and soft snuggly blankets and warm chocolate chip cookies that they pretended were homemade but which anyone dating a baker knew were
store bought
. Fascists.
Dr. Gallo and I had relative privacy—as much as anyone could have, I s’pose—so while I donated and fumed, I also bugged the poor guy.
“Here comes a dim one,” I said in an apologetic tone, “but how’s your family taking it?”
“They’ve turned into total fucking basket cases, that’s how.” His black eyes were narrow slits of dark fury. You know how some people are like oatmeal? They take a long time to boil over but when they do, it’s a big old mess? Dr. Gallo was the opposite of that. On short acquaintance, he seemed like one of those people who always had a reservoir of rage to draw on. I grew up with one; I know of what I speak. “They’ve lost it in pretty much every way possible: emotionally, financially, religiously … their world turned to shit in half a second. Their world turned to shit when they were looking away—just for a few hours. They took their eyes off their boy for a few hours. And why not? He was fourteen, not two. And now they have to live with that. They also have to live with my nephew’s death.” He blinked, and seemed to really see me for the first time. “I don’t usually drop the F-bomb with patients.”
“I’m an FBI agent.”
“Good.”
“I’m so s—”
Dr. Gallo stepped on my platitude. “They’re taking pills to wake up and more pills to go down. They’re drinking to forget and forgetting to drink. They are, to sum up, as dead as my poor nephew … they just don’t have the sense to find a goddamned cemetery plot to nap in for the rest of their miserable fucking lives.”
I couldn’t think of a thing except, “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. Sorry about the language, again. None of this is your fault. I’m … I’m kind of relieved to hear you guys are still working the case.”
I hid my smile. Dr. Gallo had watched too many episodes of
Law & Order
. Nobody in the biz said “working the case.” We also didn’t talk about “collaring perps,” or “taking the death penalty off the table.”
“Of course we are! Shame on you for thinking otherwise, Dr. Gallo. We are working the heck out of your nephew’s case. We are working that case morning, noon, and night. Dr. Gallo, believe me—”
“Max.”
“Ah … yes. Max.” Mmmmm … Max! Mad Max? Maximum damage? (I should have definitely been paying more attention to this interview.) I won’t deny it; I really liked his name. Max Gallo! He sounded like a cartoon superhero. Or a real-life underwear model. “We want this guy, Dr. G— Max. We want him so bad—we want him
so
bad.” Just the thought of what Shiro daily fantasized about doing to JBK once we got him was enough to make me run for a toilet, both hands clapped over my mouth. “We want him almost as badly as you do.”
He nodded and sat on the bed across from me. “So what can I tell you?”
Little enough, as it turned out. His nephew, Chris Glazier, had been alone in the house. His sister and brother-in-law had found their son’s body when they returned from a fishing trip. They were now thoroughly addicted to Ambien, the sleeping pill, which seemed like a thoroughly sensible response.
Their son had been beaten to death. They wished it had been them. They went over everything in their minds again and again and again. They’ve thought up a dozen different scenarios where their son wasn’t murdered. They’ve come up with a hundred revenge fantasies about their son’s killer. They wished it had been them, oh God, they wished it had been them.
Dear God: You’re fired. Sincerely, the Glaziers.
The usual, in other words. His family was going through the usual. It was almost textbook, and who wanted to hear that about their grieving process?
So sorry, and did you know what you’re feeling is so common it’s been documented all over the world?
“You said you were glad to hear we were still working the case. Does that mean you were going to try and do some detective work yourself?”
“It meant I was going to try and find the guy and then shoot him in the fucking face,” Dr. Gallo replied crisply.
He looked capable of it. Of that, and more. His fists were clenched and the veins in his arms stood out like garter snakes. His eyes were gleaming with … with terrible, wonderful things. Yes indeed, “capable” was putting it mildly. And why was that turning me on? There was no room for horniness in an FBI interrogation. Or while I was donating platelets.
Still: the question. Why
was
that turning me on? Because I was still a virgin, so all sorts of odd conversations turned me on? Because I couldn’t picture safe, sane Patrick doing such a thing? Sick, sick, sick!
“Sorry again about the language.”
“Don’t be sorry.
You
don’t have anything to apologize for, unless it’s loving your family and wanting to take away their pain. And we’re on it, Dr. Gallo, my partner and I are on it until JBK is dead, or in custody, or dead.”
“Good. Because so am I.” He stuck out his hand. We shook. I could feel his strength of purpose; I could feel his anger—it practically slammed up into my arm from his. I wasn’t quite sure what we were shaking on, but it seemed the thing to do. And I could always be counted on for stepping up and taking care of the right thing. You know, when I was in the driver’s seat.
And I was a bad enough person to be glad Dr. Gallo’s thoughts were only of his slain nephew, and not of my chart and (on paper, at least) spotty medical history. I’d dodged crucial questions … again.
Sick, sick, sick!
Beyond the usual, even.
chapter thirty-seven
I had nothing
to show for my meeting with Dr. Gallo except inappropriate tingling. Which I was going to try to keep out of my report. Meanwhile, I’d raced back to BOFFO just in time for Michaela to spot me (uncanny how she always showed up wherever we were … she must have cameras stashed everywhere, including our molars), stick one of her Wüstofs back in its sheath on her hip (which did not and never would go with her very pretty suit), and bark, “My other office. JBJ briefing. Five minutes.”