“Arrested?”

“Yeah. Disorderly conduct and some kind of possession by intoxication. I think they found a smidge of weed also. I heard the dispatcher come back with a warrant, but I missed most of it. They looked into burglary but the state law requires something that they couldn’t prove so they let it go.”

State statute defines burglary as entering or staying on property with the intent to commit a felony or sexual assault. There’s more to it, but if they couldn’t prove he barged in to rob, beat or rape Abigail it’d be a lost cause. And with him being intoxicated, it would be a defense that he, not in his right mind, thought Delilah was opening the door for him. It might not be a good defense, but it would be a decent kernel of doubt.

“He knew for sure Abby wasn’t this Delilah gal and he knew I could throw a punch. I also own a .40 caliber and a shovel.”

“I’d kill him next time,” I say. “One story: yours. You can make it whatever you want that way.”

He chuckles, maybe thinking I just made a joke. I did not.

“Catch his name?” I ask.

“Benny. Benny something. Last name was Greek, I know that.”

“Anything after that?”

“No. All quiet.”

“You’ve been a big help. Really.”

We exchange numbers and I roll out into fresh sheets of wind-driven frost.

Benny Something.

13

I joined the Saint Ansgar PD in 1974.

I was a patrolman, a corporal and then a sergeant. In 1982 we were blessed with a new chief and a city manager. With both of those worthless, spineless fucks came a shift from the ’70s beatdown-style to more professional stuff. They wanted folks with four-year degrees. They wanted folks who would write detailed reports instead of settling things. One of the first things they did was take away our saps. Then they changed the policy to forbid striking an active, aggressive perp with a flashlight. What kind of world were we coming to when you couldn’t beat someone with a four D cell flashlight?

I became a detective shortly after that. There was no room on the street for me anymore. I had the tricks I needed to get away with doing what I always did; but the microscope placed on us was something I could never get over. I was a detective for eight years. Partnered with Graham Clevenger for the last two.

In the car I call Graham Clevenger. The best man I know. The only man I know left in this city that has honest intentions about anything.

He was a rookie detective and he was placed with me for one reason: I was the best. Now, all these years later, he is the best. God bless Clevenger for it, someone needed to take my place.

He answers on the third ring: “Richard! How’s it been?”

“Good. I’m on a case. Wannabe missing persons. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Can you scrounge up any reports taken on a Boothe, Delilah L., white female, date of birth August 29th, 1983? Reporting party is a Boothe, Darla K., white female, date of birth March 6th, 1954. Should be dated about two months ago.”

“Leo, huh? White girl, blah blah blah. Darla her mother?”

“Yup.”

“Not a problem.” I wait. We pass the time in silence the way we did for countless nights in the detective’s car. The hushed inhale and exhale. All of it fathomless.

I turn north, then east. I pass a spot where back in the ’80s there was a damn good home cooking buffet. The owner torched it for the insurance and was caught later in the year. His lies were terrible but his fried chicken and mashed potatoes were unequaled. The old place sat at the corner of 90th and Clemmons, which means I have five blocks to go until I hit the interstate onramp.

Navigation by food.

I feel the familiar freeze rolling up my spine and whip the car into the nearest parking lot, whose entrance is mercifully only a few feet in front of me. My foot mashes the brake and then everything blossoms to red in my vision. Blooms of crimson with burnt speckling like fire to celluloid bubble up and run to orange. The orange glows with hatred and yellow flares at their ends. Cold colors creep in as they always do; greens and blues and sharp daggers as runners of color cascade down across everything I ever knew.

Then one by one they go away. Moment by moment it clears up.

Tags: Ryan Sayles Thriller
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