“I want to give you my number,” he said. “I sleep with my phone next to my pillow.”
I said, “Who doesn’t?”
“I never miss a call.”
“Sweet dreams,” I said. I heard him calling my name as I moved the receiver toward the hook.
I said, “What is it?”
“Just take my number, okay? You may change your mind about talking to me.”
I said, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” pretending to write down his number, then I hung up. I was dying for a Corona, but instead I had a big glass of full-fat milk, got into bed with Martha, and put my feet up on some pillows.
Martha put her head on my belly, about where I thought the baby’s little butt might be. I talked to them both for a few minutes, laughed at myself, and then turned on the news.
I fell asleep with all the lights on. I hadn’t set the alarm. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. And then came the call from the crime lab, from Charlie Clapper, who was pulling a double, maybe a triple shift.
Clapper said, “We found a gun inside the car. Thought you’d want to be the first to know.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A twenty-two. The number had been filed off, but we recovered it with acid and traced it. We already know all about that gun.”
“It was one of the guns stolen from our evidence room.”
“Well, you took all the fun out of that,” said Clapper.
“Brady is going to want to know.”
“He’s next on my call list.”
I thanked Charlie, said good night.
I stared at the ceiling until six, then got dressed and took Martha for a run. The killer Jason Blayney had nicknamed Revenge had taken out seven people, one of them an undercover narc.
Revenge was on a spree, and he was stepping up his timeline, doing multiple homicides. He was growing into his job as an executioner and he was becoming fearless.
These days, I couldn’t walk through the Hall of Justice without looking at every cop and wondering, Did you do it? Are you the one who’s gone rogue? I had the sense that I knew Revenge, that he was a regular cop, hiding in plain sight.
Chapter 39
AT 8:00 A.M. WE were in an unmarked Chevy Malibu, Conklin at the wheel.
“I slept on the couch again last night,” he told me. “If this keeps up, I’ve got to upgrade to a king-size couch. Or cut my feet off.”
“Cindy’s upset, you’re saying?”
“She said it was because I stunk and whatnot, but it wasn’t the smoke in my hair, Linds. She’s pissed.”
“I know. I know. What should we do? Tell her we’re looking for a cop who’s taking out drug dealers? Then she’ll get the scoop, and we’ll be whistling and wearing white gloves directing traffic.”
Conklin laughed. “That’s not funny.”
“She’ll get over this.”
“When?”
“Sorry I can’t do more to help your love life,” I said. “She’s mad at me too, you know.”