Deb Baker - Goodbye Dolly

April paused as though listening and grinned at Gretchen.

"Yes," she said smugly into the phone. "We'll pick you up on the drive-by, and I'll give you the details then."

"See?" she said, hanging up. "You have to appeal to the adventuress in her. Let's go."

Peter Finch moves aside and grudgingly allows the uniformed police officer to enter his apartment. The cop eyes him suspiciously, or so Peter thinks, and he hopes he isn't some sort of suspect.

Don't let on that you know, he reminds himself. If Gretchen Birch hadn't told him that Brett might have been pushed, he would still think it had been an accident, that Brett had stepped out into the street without looking. Like everybody else thought.

What a shock, if it is true. Then again, it must be true. Why else would this cop be standing in front of him, saying he is confiscating Peter's equipment?

Don't let on that you know, he says to himself again. For some reason, he instinctively knows that won't be wise. Play dumb.

Unless the cop is here about Ronny Beam. Just his luck to be at Chiggy's house at the same time as Brett and Ronny, and now both of them dead and the cop with a search warrant and eyeing him up like he's a common criminal.

But didn't he hear that they caught the guy who killed Ronny? The cop should pay more attention to the news. Peter spreads a hand across his gaunt face and rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, a dull throb pulsing under his fingertips.

"I can make copies of anything you want," he says again, grasping desperately for alternatives. "This is my lifeline. You take it, I don't have any income. I'll get you copies. What's the difference to you if it's originals or copies?"

The cop brushes past him, a little roughly, pushing Peter against the wall, stalking across the room, arms swinging loose and alert, elbows bent slightly in readiness, prepared for trouble.

Why me? Peter thinks.

And don't these guys travel with backup, other cops?

Before closing the door, Peter sticks his head out. No other uniforms outside.

The cop looks vaguely familiar. Where has he seen him before?

Peter looks at the name on the badge.

Never heard of him.

The cop begins bagging Peter's camera equipment, his flash cards, his downloaded discs. Taking everything instead of sorting through and taking only the photos from the auction. Although the cop has given no explanation for seizing his possessions, Peter knows it pertains to last week's auction and the dolls.

"Let me do it," he says, aghast when the cop starts throwing things haphazardly into plastic bags. "I have padded camera cases. You'll ruin everything that way."

Dumb cop.

Peter gently places his digital camera in a bag. Most of the doll pictures are already on the Internet, already a commodity, but the pictures taken at the auction are gone now. He wonders if he'll ever get them back. Then he remembers the woman and the extra copy he made for her. What a relief.

He recognizes this cop from someplace recently. The auction, perhaps, or the doll show.

That's it.

The doll show.

Peter opens the door for the officer, who has an armful of bags and a camera case slung over his shoulder. Peter watches him store the equipment in his vehicle. He returns, and Peter's heart drops a little lower in his chest when he sees what else the officer plans on removing.

"You can't take my computer." He watches him disconnect the cables and heave the heavy processing unit into his arms. He's strong, like a body builder.

Peter is scared, but he'll file a complaint as soon as the officer leaves. "You can't take a man's only source of income."

The officer doesn't reply. Can't the cop talk?

And why's he putting everything in the back of a pickup truck? Don't cops usually announce their presence better, drive squad cars with flashing lights and sirens?

Peter can't see any lights mounted on top of the truck. The officer adjusts his holster and comes back in. Now what? Peter wonders. There isn't anything left to take.

"Wait a minute." It suddenly dawns on him where he's seen the cop before. He's even photographed him. "I know you."

The cop's eyes narrow. Staring into them, Peter realizes how brutally cold they are and what a deadly mistake he's just made.

Or maybe nothing he said would have made any difference anyway.

Detective Albright's estranged wife, Kayla, lived in the Fairview Place Historic District in Central Phoenix. Taking directions from her two backseat drivers, Gretchen drove along McDowell Road and turned on Sixteenth Avenue.

"Slow down. That's it right there," April announced, pointing at a Tudor with a For Sale sign in front of it. Garbage cans lined the curb up and down the street. Nina undid her seat belt when Gretchen stopped the car. She leaned forward. "I never noticed how small your Echo was until I had to sit in the back."

"You'd have a lot more room if you'd leave the dogs home," April said, voicing what Gretchen thought but was afraid to say. Communication with her aunt was still tenuous.

Nimrod, Tutu, and Sophie, the Yorkie trainee, bounced back and forth across Nina's lap, smearing the windows with wet nose goo. It looked like doggie day care in the backseat.

"Cozy," April said, gazing at the house.

"Unpretentious," Nina added. "Bonnie told me that Matt's staying with a cop friend until the house sells. Bonnie wanted him to move home, but he refused. Probably all those dolls in Bonnie's house. Even though he's working on his phobia, that would be hard. Besides, who wants to move home with their mo-" She clasped a hand across her mouth.

Gretchen pretended not to hear. She had to look for her own apartment ASAP.

"We're in luck," she said, pulling to the curb. "It's garbage pickup day, and there it is."

How lucky could she be? The box sat right out in the front yard. No need to confront Matt's wife over it. She'd simply swipe it back.

That is, if the dolls were still inside the box.

"Everyone stay here," Gretchen said, unlatching the trunk from inside the car. "We'll make this as quick as possible."

"I'll get it," April said, making a move to open her door.

"No," Gretchen said firmly. "I made the mistake of giving it to the wrong person, and I'll fix my own mistake."

What she didn't say was that the words April and quick created an oxymoron, impossible to use together in the same sentence. Even on a good day, April moved with the speed of a tarantula.

Gretchen popped out of the Echo before April could react, ran around the front of the car, opened the box flaps to make sure that the broken doll pieces were still there, and picked up the box.

"What do you think you're doing?" an angry voice shouted from the house.

"Just salvaging a few things before the truck hauls it away," Gretchen replied, keeping her back to the woman in hopes that she wouldn't be recognized. "For our church rummage sale."

"Get out of my yard, Gretchen Birch. Haven't you done enough damage?"

Gretchen turned and risked a glance at the enraged woman. She was everything Gretchen wasn't. Wispy thin, fine bones and features, silky brunette tresses featuring both highlights and lowlights. With the right gown and necklace, she could have been the lead model for the stacks of paperback romance novels sold in every airport.

Gretchen felt chubby, awkward, mousy, and a multitude of other unattractive adjectives.

Kayla picked up a decorative stone from the base of a prickly pear cactus and flung it toward Gretchen. It bounced off her car, and a small scratch appeared in the finish.

"Drop the box," Kayla said, picking up more stones.