“Not immediately, but it’s hard to turn down free wine and popcorn. Keep a light on for me. I’ll be there in about two hours.”
“The movie will be over in two hours,” she said.
“You’re a professional—I’m sure you’ll find a way to help me cope.”
Kylie walked through the door.
“Gotta go,” I said. “Detective MacDonald has returned from her quest.”
“Don’t get snarky,” Cheryl said. “Be nice to her.”
“I will, I will, I promise,” I said. “See you later. I blank you.”
“I blank you too,” she said, and hung up.
We still hadn’t zeroed in on the best way to end a phone call. Neither of us was quite ready for I love you, but after three months, who were we kidding?
Kylie was grinning like a prospector who had just struck a mother lode.
“You’re glowing in triumph,” I said. “What have you got?”
“You were right on the money when you said let’s tail Donovan and Boyle. Matt searched the DMV database to find out what kind of cars they each drive.”
“And you wouldn’t be this excited unless one of them owns an SUV.”
“Detective David Donovan,” she said. “A 2011 Toyota Highlander, and it is black as the hills of South Dakota.”
“That’s encouraging, but guaranteed he’s not the only cop whose car fits the description.”
“I know. Matt gave me the usual blah, blah, blah warning—don’t jump to conclusions because there are two million vehicles registered in the five boroughs, and 15,811 of them are black SUVs. But still, if we’re going to stick our necks out, it helps that Dave Donovan owns a car that matches the one used in the kidnappings.”
“So now what?” I said.
“I agree with you that we can’t ask Cates if we can tail two detectives on a hunch. Even if she says yes, it would create a paper trail, and if we’re wrong, she’ll look like an idiot along with the two of us.”
“So we tail them without telling her,” I said.
“Not ‘we.’ We have too much on our plate as it is. We need to recruit someone.”
“You have anybody in mind?”
“I have a couple of thoughts,” she said. “How about you?”
I’d had twenty minutes to think about it before Cheryl called, and I did have somebody I thought could tail them and keep it under wraps. I told her.
“Perfect choice,” she said.
“Really? No counterproposal?”
“I know you have trouble taking yes for an answer, but I’m in violent agreement with you. Let’s call their boss and see if they’re available.”
“We didn’t call our boss. Are you really sure we want to call theirs? I mean, why start going by the book now? Let’s just call them direct. More Red, less red tape.”
“An unauthorized tail,” she said. “I’m proud of you, cowboy. You’re finally learning how to bend a couple of rules.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s because working with you is pretty much like taking a master class.”
Chapter 63
When I was fifteen, my mother got a regular gig doing makeup on Guiding Light. Every day I would stop by after school so I could pig out on the never-ending buffet of snacks that are always on hand for the crew.
It wasn’t long before I realized that I was racing to the studio every afternoon because I was more interested in the twisted lives of the characters on the show than the junk food on the craft services table.
I was hooked on a soap opera—not an easy realization for a teenage boy to come to grips with, and I was sure there was something wrong with me.
Mom assured me that I was perfectly normal. “We all love getting caught up in other people’s problems,” she said. “It’s human nature.”
I can’t speak for the rest of humanity, but it sure as hell is my nature. Which is why as soon as Kylie said good night and hopped a cab uptown to Shelley’s apartment, I hopped one going downtown and headed for hers.
Spence had been released from the hospital that evening, and I decided this was the perfect time to have a little heart-to-heart with him. I didn’t tell Cheryl where I was going because she had already weighed in on the subject last night.
“Stay out of it,” she’d said. “The man is an addict, and unless you know what you’re doing, stay away. It would be like sending a traffic cop to handle a hostage negotiation situation.”
Had we been at the office when she’d said it, I’d have argued with her. But we’d been in bed at the time, and I was still wrapped in the afterglow of postcoital bliss. Not the ideal moment to get into a discussion with my psychologist girlfriend about whether or not I was qualified to get involved in my former girlfriend’s marital problems. Or why I even wanted to, which was a question I hadn’t quite answered for myself. So I’d just whispered, “You’re right.”