Chapter 31
"'Nother donut?" said Dunkin' Dave.
"Fuck yourself another donut," said the thickly built Lieutenant Gary Stubbs. Since Dunkin' Donuts moved to Southard Street, just around the corner from the station, the waistband of his pants had started folding down across the top half of his belt, his thighs had filled in the last pucker of his boxer shorts, and he walked around all day with an oily feeling at the corners of his mouth.
"Come on," said Dave. "'Sa last one onna tray."
Stubbs looked at the donut. Hot grease had pocked its surface beautifully, it had a perfect mix of sheen and craters. He took it. "Only 'cause I'm having such a shitty day."
It was a slow time, just around eleven in the morning. Cops had crazy schedules, that's why Dave could talk to them. He rested the corner of the tray against the counter. "How come shitty?"
Stubbs had dunked his donut, coffee dripped back out of its honeycombed insides. "Ever had a cat sleep in your motor?"
"Huh?"
"Cool nights like lately," said Stubbs, "the strays, they climb up underneath your car and sleep on top the motor."
Dave rearranged the angle of his paper hat. " Whaddya know."
"'Cept this morning," Stubbs went on, "some asshole cat, he's sleeping in the fan. Go to start 'er up..."
"Oh shit," said Dave.
Stubbs made a clattering but glutted sound.
"Cut'im right in half?"
"Thirds," said the lieutenant. "His tail was wrapped around. Some fuckin' way to start the day, huh? Pieces a cat glued to the radiator. Then they find a body out around Cottrell."
"Cottrell? Way out in the Gulf?"
"Fishermen found 'er. Thought she was a bundle a rags. Red sweater, gray skirt. One black shoe. Ever seen a body been drowned a coupla days?"
Dave shook his head. Making donuts all night long wasn't any picnic but it was better than a lot of jobs.
"'S weird," the cop went on. "No two are alike. Sometimes the skin pops open. Ya know, like a plum that's overripe. Usually there's pieces missing. Shark eats a leg, the nose is nibbled off. Eyes, the gulls sometimes—"
Dave hadn't eaten since last night, he had a lot of acid in his stomach. He raised a hand. "Accident or someone killed her?"
"Hard to say," said Stubbs. "Had one big bruise across her chest. Narrow, even—not like from a punch. Too high up to be a gunwale. Coulda been a boom swinging across, but she wasn't dressed for sailing. No other signs of struggle and she was breathing when she hit the water."
"Any idea who she was?"
"No ID," said Stubbs. "Not much face to tell the truth. One little kinda crazy clue."
"What's that?" asked Dunkin' Dave.
"Her underpants."
"Underpants?"
"The label," said the cop. "Seems to be in Russian."
Dave had been at work since midnight, sweating under bare light bulbs, tending fryers big as kiddie pools, squirting jelly, squirting cream. By late morning he sometimes got a little giddy. "Exhibit A," he said. "The victim's underpants."
"Not funny," said Stubbs. He dunked his donut deep down in his tepid coffee, and then his cell phone started ringing.
Dunkin' Dave picked up his tray and moved discreetly toward the kitchen, going slow enough to hear the homicide detective curse then drop some money on the counter.
Gary Stubbs and Donald Egan knew each other vaguely, in the way that cops and newspaper guys were acquainted. They were usually cordial and they didn't trust each other worth a damn; they traded information and if the swap was even someone felt like he had lost. Cops were big on order; editors made their livings from freedom; they were dogs latched on to opposite ends of the gristly bone of power, and neither dog was programmed to let go.
Now Stubbs stood in the wrecked old classroom as Egan began his story, and after listening for a while the cop said, "Is the Cold War back or what? I am all of a sudden hearing altogether too much bullshit about Russians."
Egan was sucking a cigar. Smoke was painting his lungs like a satin roller on a wall. "Oh yeah? What else are you hearing?"
"First you show me yours," said Stubbs.
The editor picked tobacco off his tongue. He was sitting on a rolling chair in the middle of the room, and he gestured at the mess around him. "My desk," he said. "Vandalized. Nothing taken." He pointed to his right. "Reporters' desks. Ditto." He pointed to his left. "Ad sales desk. Suki Sperakis, woman's name is. Drawers rifled. Stuff taken. Names, addresses."
Stubbs said, "So?"
"She was playing journalist. Wanted to do an article on the T-shirt shops. Russian Mafia, she said. Went out with Lazslo Kalynin. Hasn't been seen since the night he died."