Slidell pulled out the picture I’d taken of Candy.
“Know her?”
Mrs. Tarzec glanced at the photo but said nothing.
“The kid’s not looking tip-top, lying on a gurney at the morgue and all.” Slidell waggled the photo. “Try again.”
Mrs. Tarzec uncrossed and recrossed her legs, keeping her eyes averted from the image.
“Yeah. I don’t like looking at dead kids either.” Slidell’s tone went harder than granite. “Last chance. Where did you take them?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Tell this to Darth. Wherever you turn, I’ll be there, day or night. Here on in, I’m your worst nightmare. You’re done.”
No reaction.
“And here’s the part you really won’t like.”
“Imagine that.”
“See you tomorrow.” Slidell clicked air through his teeth and winked.
Mrs. Tarzec’s foot angled up and her leg started pumping. But she held her tongue.
“We’re outta here,” Slidell said to Rodriguez.
I got an angry scowl as he pushed past me to climb the stairs.
Rodriguez and I made our way up and out the front door. The SWAT guys were already piling into their SUVs.
Slidell was in the cruiser when Rodriguez and I got in. His anger felt like voltage sparking in the small space.
“Who the bloody fuck tipped them?” Slidell’s palm slammed the wheel.
I knew better than to respond. So did Rodriguez.
Slidell swiveled to face me.
“And who the bloody blue fuck cleared you to leave this vehicle?”
“I waited a full—”
“This isn’t done.” Slidell twisted the key. “I’ll get every document ever filed on this joint. Learn every penny ever earned or spent. The last time a fly was swatted or a toilet was flushed.”
Rodriguez and I let him vent.
“And no more pussyfooting around with Rockett. That fuckwit’s coming back in.”
Slidell threw the car into gear and gunned from the lot.
I settled back, knowing my own castigation was far from over. But I understood. Slidell wasn’t just frustrated at being outsmarted. Behind the bluster, he was feeling the same guilt he’d warned me to shake. We’d questioned D’Ostillo, and now she was dead.
And Slidell’s anger wasn’t all bad. An irate Skinny isn’t a man you want on your trail.
THE NEXT MORNING I SLEPT later than on any day since my return. Nevertheless, I awoke anxious and restless.
I had coffee and Raisin Bran, then washed my bowl and mug, feeling as though my skin wasn’t properly sized. The failure of the Passion Fruit raid. Concern for other girls who might suffer Candy’s fate. Frustration at still not knowing Candy’s identity. Anticipation of Slidell’s ongoing wrath. Guilt over D’Ostillo.
Guilt over avoiding Larabee’s crapper skull.
Apprehension because some nutcase put a tongue on my stoop.
The ankle felt pretty good. I decided it was time to try it out.
I phoned the main switchboard at the MCME. Mrs. Flowers answered. I told her I was going for a run and that I’d be in shortly. She asked if I planned to do the Booty Loop. Surprised that she knew of it, I said yes, though I hadn’t really decided on routing.
I donned my Nikes and usual spicy jogging attire—bike shorts and an oversized tee. The morning was cool but sunny. In tribute to Mrs. Flowers, I set off for the Booty Loop, a five-mile stretch circling the Queens University campus. Named for, well, that needs no explanation.
I hadn’t run in weeks and the first mile was a slog. But the ankle felt strong.
By the second mile, lactic acid burned my leg muscles. I pumped on, determined to finish the circuit.
Sweating and panting, I finally reached the Clock Tower. I was doubled over, breathing hard, when someone called my name.
Straightening, I saw a man slide from a bench and walk toward me. He was tall and thin and wore a Tar Heels cap, jeans, and a black nylon jacket. A plastic bag dangled from one hand.
What the hell?
“I called your office. The woman who answered said I might find you here. She was very helpful with directions.” Scott Blanton smiled, revealing the errant incisors. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”
A bad time? I was perspiring, drained, and puzzled. I’d last seen the NCIS agent at Bagram. Why was he lying in wait on my jogging route?
Blanton extended his free hand.
I raised mine high and offered an apologetic grin. “Sweaty.”
Blanton scanned me from head to toe. “But looking very fit.”
“Thanks.” Suddenly conscious of the butt-molding spandex.
“How’s the ankle sprain?”
“Completely healed.”
“After the exhumation, I got sick as a dog. Was quarantined for two days before they let me come home.”