Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

‘‘One of the uniforms turned up a clerk in a liquor store on 23rd Street. A woman answering to Francine’s description bought two bottles of a Côtes du Rhône around eight o’clock that night. She paid cash.’’

Molly’s phone rings. ‘‘Detective Rosen.’’ It’s Larry Vander Roon. ‘‘Oh, yes, Larry.’’ She listens, frowning, makes circles with her hand to get Vander Roon to move faster. ‘‘Really? You’re sure? Yes, an empty wine bottle.’’ She thumbs through the list of evidence turned up by the Crime Scene Unit. ‘‘Two empty wine bottles. And a clerk who identified the vic as purchasing them around eight that night. Well, fax me your report.’’ She hangs up. ‘‘The tox screen came back. She had enough Seconal in her to kill three people.’’

‘‘And let’s not forget the wine.’’

‘‘He’s calling it a suicide.’’

‘‘What about the beating?’’

‘‘She had plenty of old healed fractures. The contusions were recent, but not recent enough or lethal enough to kill her.’’

‘‘She took off her own clothes?’’ Noriega answers the phone when it rings again.

‘‘It was an unbearably hot night.’’

‘‘It’s Charlotte Pagan.’’ Noriega hands Molly the phone.

‘‘Charlotte, we just got some interesting news from the ME’s office.’’ Molly listens. ‘‘Yes. That’s the story. Thanks.’’ Replaces the phone. She has the sudden strange feeling she may cry. The walls seem to close in on her. ‘‘Come on, Greg, let’s get some air.’’

They go downstairs. The humidity is gone and the dry heat feels good on Molly’s face. They hit the food wagon down the street. Molly’s hungry. Noriega’s always hungry.

‘‘They found an empty prescription bottle for Seconal in Francine’s desk.’’

‘‘So there it is,’’ Noriega says, taking a big bite from his hot dog. He loves the delicious spurt on his tongue.

‘‘Yes. They also found a paperback called Final Exit .’’ Molly covers her pretzel with mustard and takes a bite. Aces. She’s got her appetite back.

I was threading my way between cars in the dark garage when a man coming toward me said, ‘‘Hey, looks like you dropped something.’’ I stopped to see what I’d dropped before I recognized this as a classic attacker approach.

He was beefy and unshaven, out of place in this upscale mall lot, and his expression was an ugly mix of smirk and lust. I checked out escape routes, transferred my packages to one hand, and got my keys ready. He was close enough for me to smell tobacco and Old Spice as I clicked the lock and tossed in my packages, keeping the car between us.

‘‘Don’t come any closer. You’re making me uncomfortable,’’ I said.

He grinned and flexed his fingers like a strangler warming up. I jumped in my car, stabbing the door lock as I jammed it into reverse. He was right behind me, fist raised, his face demonic in the red and yellow glare of the lights. I hit the gas, and he became a dark blur as he dove out of my way.

As I braked and shifted, I glanced back. He crouched there like some malevolent animal, shaking his shaggy head. I reminded myself to breathe, my self-defense instructor’s words in my head: Don’t worry about whether he’s hurt. What’s important is your own safety. Keep moving. Get yourself out of there. If you’re breathing you can react.

I shook all the way home, a post-adrenaline chill that went right to my bones. Inside, I dumped my packages on the table and undid my coat with shaking hands, then snapped on the oven and pulled out a rotisserie chicken and salad stuff for dinner. From behind his science magazine, Karl made an incomprehensible sound.

I thought I was fine until I stopped in Cassie’s room. She lasered my face with her sharp adolescent eyes. ‘‘Mom, what happened?’’

‘‘Nothing, honey. There was just this creepy guy in the parking garage who…’’

‘‘Are you okay?’’ I nodded. ‘‘Did you tell Dad?’’ I shook my head.

Cassie pulled the iPod buds from her ears. ‘‘You need tea.’’

Blessed are those who have daughters.

Later, as I hurried past Karl, snug as a bear in his new recliner, he glanced over his copy of Nature . ‘‘Off to your ninjettes class?’’

‘‘Sure am, sweetie,’’ I said. ‘‘Tonight we’re practicing plucking people’s heads off.’’

Karl would have to help Bobby, our fifteen-year-old who often got stuck on geometry, and Cassie, who was struggling with college essays. As both required hands-on assistance, he’d have to leave his chair and go act like a parent.

Communication is my specialty. Five days a week, I visit schools and community groups around the state, helping parents and teenagers learn to communicate more effectively. I’m good at helping people talk to each other. You’d think I could make it happen at home, but Karl’s developed an invisible shield that deflects my words like armor. His conversation these days is mostly demands or complaints, as though as his body gets wider, his mind gets narrower.

They say women tend to marry their fathers. My mother used to roll her eyes at my father’s constant demands and mutter, ‘‘Maybe it would be different if he were Winston Churchill.’’ Sometimes, studying the back of Karl’s magazine, I wondered if Mrs. Churchill was lonely, too.

I probably sound bitter. I’m not. It’s just frustrating to have good communication skills and be such a failure at home. Lately I’ve been feeling desperately fragile. Between Karl, the house, two teenagers, and a job, I’m stretched so far I feel like I’m teetering on a window ledge.

It was good to get out for something besides errands and work. I punched the ON button and got Seeger and Springsteen. The last song I played was a Cher song about Jesse James. The idea of a woman like me sending some arrogant studlet down in flames always left me smiling.

My ‘‘ninjettes class,’’ as Karl called it, was actually a RAD, or Rape Aggression Defense, class offered by our local police department. It was as much common sense and safety precaution as martial arts and self-defense. My friend Katie talked me into it, saying she didn’t want to make an ass of herself alone. But Katie’s a tough lawyer who’s good on her feet and looks like you wouldn’t want to mess with her, so I wondered if she’d done it for me. She always says I should get out more.

It was a sensible step for me. Increasingly, I found myself in far-flung parts of the state crossing scary parking lots at night. When I was standing in a gym with a bunch of nervous suburban ladies, our training had seemed distant and theoretical, but today at the mall, it had been just what I’d needed. Tonight we were practicing everything we’d learned. Police officers in their Aggressor suits were going to mug us and we were going to fight them off.

In the female officers’ locker room, my classmates clustered around Natalie Burke. Natalie was a big-eyed, slender brunette, the kind of woman you think you won’t like because she’s too damned attractive. She had perky implants while we were scooping up our saggy middle-aged breasts and repackaging them with underwire and padding, a sculpted body with visible muscles, and a frightening amount of energy. While we dragged our sorry asses into the gym each week, mumbling our responses like a gaggle of middle schoolers, Natalie hit the floor with singeing intensity.

She wiped away tears and streaks of mascara while two women stroked her back and murmured comfort. As I joined them, Katie whispered, ‘‘Her husband just left her for a twenty-five-year-old.’’