"He's on the road. Truck driver. Been away for three days. No, four."
"All right then, ma'am. Thank you for your time."
"Sure, Officer. Will there be a funeral or anything?"
"Couldn't say. Good day to you." Madigan was loping back toward the trailer but Dance turned the other way, followed the woman back to her trailer and her brood.
"Excuse me."
"Uh-huh?"
"If I could ask a few more things?"
"I'm sorry. I really have to get back to the kids."
"How many?"
"What?"
"Children?"
"Oh. Four."
"I have two."
Tabatha smiled. "I heard this, like, expression. Diminishing returns. I don't exactly know what it means but I think of it having two kids sets the stage, you know? You can have ten more and it's not a whole lot worser."
"Diminishing returns" probably wasn't what the woman meant but Dance grinned understandingly. "Two is fine for me."
"But you work."
The tiny sentence carried a lot. Then Tabatha said, "I really don't know much else than what I told that man." She looked at Dance's trim figure, pressed jeans and her sunglasses, whose frames were the color of canned cranberry sauce.
A whole different world.
And I work.
"I left Sheryl and Annette watching the little one."
The woman kept walking, fast for her bulky frame. She drew hard on the cigarette, then paused to crush it out carefully. Smokers did that in California, the land of brushfires.
"Just one or two questions."
"If the baby starts crying--"
"I'll help you change him."
"Her."
"What's her name?"
"Caitlyn."
"Pretty. Mine's Maggie."
Then they were at the screen door of her trailer. Tabatha peered through the dusty, rusted mesh. Dance couldn't see much other than toys: plastic tricycles, castles, doll houses, pirate chests. The house was dim inside but exuded still heat. The TV was on. One of the last remaining soap operas.
Tabatha lifted an eyebrow.