Jonathon King - A Killing Night

"Did they ask you for any kind of sample? Blood or a swab of the inside of your mouth?"

"No. Why would they want something from me?"

That flash of tenseness was back in her eyes, he could see it in there, her fighting it.

"Exactly," he said to her. "He's fishing for stuff, baby. He's probably done this to every goddamn girl in town who serves drinks."

He took a pull on his beer, didn't like the taste and put it down. He tried to make himself relax, get her to match him. She excused herself and went down to the other end and made up some pansy- ass Shirley Temples or whatever the hell it was the alternative boys were drinking.

He tried to get a picture of the big, lanky guy who'd walked in that night before Richards. He'd sat at the other end and acted like he was friendly with Laurie. Tanned guy, he remembered. Not an office man. He looked more like a boat captain or construction foreman. All he'd noted was that the guy was drinking his brand of beer and then that bitch had come in and he had to bolt.

Marci came back down to him, exhaled, was more relaxed.

"No big deal, baby," he said. "Nothing for you to worry about. I'll find out from the inside what the rumor is and let you know, OK?"

She nodded her head.

"This guy didn't say anything about me, did he? I mean, he didn't ask if any other cops had been in here or drank regular here?"

"No," she said. "But I wouldn't have told him anyway."

"Atta girl," he said and she had an odd look on her face when he said it, one that held some kind of inside smile, like she'd accomplished something. He ignored it, thanked her in his customer voice and walked out into the late sunlight and back to his patrol car.

He was running a plan through his head while he sat at the first traffic light on Sunrise. Should he ignore the whole damn thing? If they had anything to connect him to the dead girls, wouldn't they be on his ass already? They'd have called him into his sergeant's office for a little face time to at least warn him that the Richards bitch was coming down on him.

But what if this P.I. was teamed up with Richards and they were trying to show she was right and prove everyone else wrong? Then why come to Marci? Showing up twice meant they didn't get enough from Laurie to keep them away, and that wasn't good. When the light changed he went west on Sunrise and pulled his visor down to block the glaring sun.

The P.I. said "DNA evidence"-he kept tumbling Marci's words in his head. Of course she didn't get the conversation exact. Body parts. DNA evidence. What the fuck did the guy have, if anything? Shit. He'd just ended it with Suzy. Her body would still be pretty fresh, even if the gators did get to it. He ought to just go out to the spot now, see if there was any sign that anyone had been out there. Answer the goddamn question so he'd at least know what he was dealing with. It'd be better than most of the mopes that he arrested who just sat there waiting for shit to come through the door and then it was too late, then you were already playing their game.

He was watching half a block ahead like he usually did and saw the traffic starting to jam up on the left and he knew some dipshit was trying to make a left against the light like they always did and he slid over to the right lane. He would have gotten snared up, too, but he used his lights and a couple of hits on the siren and skirted by the on the right.

"Fucking lemmings," he said aloud and then looked up into his rearview to watch the mess and registered in his head the midnight blue pickup truck that had just run a red light half a block back. He kept driving. Maybe he ought to wait. But shit, he'd be back on shift tomorrow and that would only give him the daylight hours to get out to the Glades site and back in time, and he was even more wary about doing anything in the daylight. Only bad shit happened in the light, he thought. Right now he could stop out there and check for fresh tire tracks or signs of disturbance with a flashlight and be a hell of a lot less conspicuous.

He went through the intersection at Ninth Avenue and glanced at the old bagman starting across the street. Christ, I just busted that guy for carrying dope two weeks ago and he's already back on the street, he thought and looked back to see for sure if it was the same guy pushing the same old grocery cart. That's when he saw it again, the blue pickup, charging through the intersection, but then easing back. Following.

At the next light he made a hard right and watched his mirror. He saw the pickup hesitate and then make the same turn.

"Son of a bitch," he said and slowed down, watching his mirrors, trying to see the single driver, his image behind the windshield high up over the one car between them. A minute later he snatched up his radio.

"Two-fourteen. Two-eighteen. This is two-oh-four in need of assistance. Switch over to tack channel three," he said into the microphone.

I sat with both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock. I didn't know what Morrison might have called in, but I wasn't taking any chances. Make no quick moves and keep your hands in full view. I watched the three cops in front of me huddle at Morrison's trunk, talking and cutting their eyes to me. It was Morrison's meeting and I watched him, trying to match him up with the figure I'd seen briefly at the bar. He hooked his thumbs into his polished leather belt, turned his face to me a couple of times for emphasis. It was the same face as in the photo. They talked for a full two minutes and I did not move my hands, not even to turn off the engine.

Finally, the two other officers nodded and started toward me, one moving to the left, the other to the right of my truck. Morrison leaned back against his trunk and crossed his arms and stared into my face. His eyes felt much closer than they physically were.

"License and registration, please," said the cop who came to my open window.

"What, uh, seems to be the problem, officer?" I said, truly interested in what they were going to come up with.

"License and registration, please," he repeated.

The other cop was at the passenger window, looking into the seat and on the floor and checking what he could see in the bed of the truck.

"May I go into the glove box?" I asked before leaning over to turn the knob.

"Sure," said the cop. "Turn off the ignition first, please."

I shut down the engine and then reached in and got my registration and insurance card. I asked if I could get my wallet from my back pocket. Again he agreed, but I noticed that he had flipped off the strap on his 9mm holster and was resting the web between his thumb and forefinger on the butt of the gun.

I handed him the documentation and he said: "I'll be right with you, sir."

He was a younger man, sandy blonde hair and skin that was too fair for the semitropics. He was wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips and the short sleeves of his shirt were too tight to fit comfortably around his biceps. He nodded at the other one over the hood and then walked my paperwork back to Morrison.

We were a good forty feet apart and maybe I could feel his sneer more than actually see it. Morrison was cupping his elbows now, looking nonchalant, but there was something misshapen about his mouth that gave the effect that his whole head was tilted. He took the documents from the other one's hands and stared down at them. I got the sense that he could memorize the pertinent facts and did not write them down. In fact I doubted that he wrote anything down with the exception of work-related reports that were mandatory. He was a man whose secrets would all be filed inside his head.

After another minute, the two men nodded in affirmation and as muscle boy walked back toward me, Morrison turned and got back into his squad car.