Still nothing.
“Local businessman up in flames.” Slidell raised and lowered his palms, as though comparing objects for weight. “Two-bit importer with a shitload of cash.”
“You saying I had something to do with Story’s death?” Behind Rockett, a referee raised his hands above his head. “Are you fucking crazy?”
Seeing a possible crack in the smug self-control, I arrowed straight to the real purpose of our visit.
“Two nights ago a young girl was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road.”
I pulled out one of my flyers. Rockett gave it another of his nanosecond glances.
“The girl wasn’t killed on impact. She managed to crawl to the shoulder, where she died in pain some time later. Alone. Terrified.”
“You’re telling me this because?” Rockett’s undamaged eye bore into mine.
“The girl had something belonging to John-Henry Story in her purse.”
“So?” Cold as ice.
“Did Detective Slidell mention that he works homicide?”
The distorted face changed in a way I couldn’t interpret. I dangled the flyer square in front of it.
“You were acquainted with Story. This girl was acquainted with Story. Do you know who she is?”
“Mary Fucking Poppins.”
Anger burned in my chest. War hero or not, Rockett was repulsive.
“One other thing. The ME found semen on the girl’s body. The samples are being tested for DNA.”
Rockett shrugged. “Test away.”
“The kid’s got Story’s plastic. Story’s your partner and drinking pal,” Slidell said, clearly sharing my disgust. “You’re connected, asshole. Who is she?”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Slidell didn’t budge.
“Here’s one more fact, Mr. Rockett.” My tone was glacial. “Yesterday I received a tip. The caller claimed to know the hit-and-run victim. Said the girl was scared.”
“So?”
“Something or someone frightened this child.” I waggled the flyer inches from Rockett’s nose. “I will find out what or who that was.”
With an angry swipe, Rockett knocked the paper from my upraised hand. I retrieved it from the floor and placed it faceup on the table.
“I will not stop until this girl is identified. Detective Slidell will not stop until her killer is caught. You lied to us about knowing Story. You must have had a reason to do so, and that ties you in.”
“And remember, asshole.” Thrusting his face into Rockett’s, Slidell hiked his brows up, then down. “I’m fucking crazy.”
Without another word we walked out and drove away.
And that was it.
For the next ten days I would learn nothing about the girl with the pink purse and barrette lying in the morgue cooler.
PART TWO
SATURDAY I WOKE WITH BED linens wrapping me like a constrictor. If I’d been thrashing in my dreams, I remembered nothing.
Birdie was nowhere to be seen.
I pulled the clock into bleary view. 8:45.
When breakfast is late, my cat either chews my hair or rattles a silk plant I keep on the dresser. He’s good. Either ploy annoys me enough to get up.
Weird that Bird hadn’t tortured me into consciousness. Too heavy-handed with the oatmeal and eggs?
But I’d bought his favorite on my way home the previous night. Iams. He didn’t know I fed him the weight-control formula.
I rose on one elbow and looked around.
No cat.
Then I smelled coffee.
And heard muted music. “Good Day Sunshine”?
Puzzled, I pulled on sweats and headed for the stairs.
A box of donuts sat on the dining room table. Napkins. Plates and utensils. Butter and jam.
In the study, the Beatles were singing about needing to laugh.
I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Pete was at the counter, pouring juice from a carton.
“Sugarbritches.” Big Pete grin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Is there a nonsarcastic answer to that question? My brain conjured none.
“What are you doing here?”
Then, panic.
Which must have shown on my face.
“Don’t worry.” Pete raised a calming hand. “Katy’s fine.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“She’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Pete stowed the carton in the fridge and turned back to me. A smile twitched his lips as he took in my attire and disheveled hair. Probably a bed crease denting one cheek.
“Don’t start.” I gave him my squinty-eye warning.
“What?” Boyish innocence.
“It’s much too early for a fashion critique.”
“You look terrific, sugarbritches.”
“Don’t call me that.”