Stephen White - Blinded

He gazed at me over the top of his sunglasses. “You really think I’m going to tell you that?”

“Probably not. You wouldn’t happen to know when she’s going to, you know…”

“Accost you? No. But she will.”

“Maybe not. I told her everything I know.”

“No, you didn’t. You told her everything you think it’s okay for her to know. If Reynoso knows what she’s doing, she knows damn well that you have more. And she’s going to want to know what it is.”

“What have you heard about her?”

He didn’t answer that question, but he did answer my earlier one. “The search at the house didn’t go too well. There’s still plenty of stuff to go over-couple of computers and file cabinets full of paper-but they didn’t find anything damning. That can’t have been too much of a surprise after all these years, though, right? You got to look.”

“What about her-the detective? Do you know anything? Is she sharp?”

“I’m on medical leave, remember? Totally out of the loop. Trying to keep my stress level down.”

“Okay, then tell me what you hear from Sherry.”

“Simon’s missing too much school. And I’m missing him way too much. That’s all I know.”

“Come on, pick, Sam. Carmen Reynoso or Sherry. Tell me something about somebody.”

“Okay. Word is that Reynoso has a chip on her shoulder. Some incident in San Jose a few years back forced her to leave that department before she had her fifteen. She’s about as happy chasing tourists around Laguna Beach as I would be chasing tourists around Aspen.”

That wasn’t very happy.

“What kind of incident in San Jose?”

“Won’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me?”

“Won’t tell you.”

“Do you even know?”

“No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

By the time Detective Carmen Reynoso tracked me down for an interview, her outfit of wools and leathers was perfect for the weather.

The front that was carrying Pacific moisture over the mountains had collided with some supercold air that was blowing down from Saskatchewan, and together the two weather systems became a fast and furious snow machine along Colorado’s Front Range. What had likely been the season’s final Indian summer interlude was history before anyone had a chance to bid it adieu. I’d managed to drive only halfway from Sam’s house to mine before the winds moderated below gale force and snow started falling in fat flakes that left melanoma rings in the dust on my car. I looked at the time.

Twelve-thirty.

I looked at the sky.

Winter.

At nine o’clock that morning, the day had been as splendid as any November day in memory. And now it was snowing like a son of a bitch.

We were getting blasted.

Carmen Reynoso was parked on the shoulder right where the pavement ended and the dirt lane started winding along the hillside toward my house. She was sitting in the front seat of a rented GM coupe reading an Avis road map. I knew the odds were good that the dirt lane that came to a blunt end in front of my home wasn’t marked on the map she was reading.

At first I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was Reynoso behind the wheel, so I pulled alongside to get a better look. Once convinced, I lowered my passenger-side window.

“Detective Reynoso?”

“Dr. Gregory? You’ve been expecting me?”

I shrugged.

“Interesting weather you have around here. We don’t get a whole lot of this in Laguna Beach.”

What would the tourist board want me to say? “Well, I hope you enjoy the change. The storm will make the ski resorts very happy. They always love a good dump before Thanksgiving.” The meteorological reality was that Front Range upslope snowstorms often left the big ski resorts on the west side of the Continental Divide basking in bright sunshine.

“Can we talk? I’m sure you know about what.” Her words said invitation. Her eyes said something else.

I knew I could refuse. But what was the point? I wanted Reynoso to know what I knew. What I didn’t want to do was fence with her about the things I didn’t have permission to tell her, although that is precisely what I anticipated we would spend our time doing.

“Sure,” I said. “Do you have a place in mind?” I didn’t want to have the meeting at my house.

“We could have done it yesterday at your patient’s house. You know, after the search. But I heard you only stayed for the first act.”

Was that humor? I wasn’t sure. A snowflake the size of a moth blew in the open window and landed on the tip of my nose. It melted instantly, and I wiped it away.

“Give me a few minutes with this”-she lifted the road map-“and I think I could get us back in the direction of the Boulder Police Department. That’s-where? Thirty-third Street? Off, what-Arapahoe? Am I right? I’m sure they’d give us a room we could use. Everyone’s been so nice.”

I’d seen the interview rooms in the Public Safety Building on Thirty-third Street. Not my idea of a great place to spend a Saturday afternoon, blizzard or no blizzard.

I said, “You want to get some coffee somewhere?” I was thinking of leading her east into Louisville and finding some chain place like Village Inn. I didn’t know as many people in Louisville as I did in Boulder.

She fixed her eyes on my face. A deep cleft had formed above the bridge of her nose, as though she were smelling something foul or facing directly into a bright sun. After a pause long enough that I would notice that she had delayed, she suggested, “What about your house? It’s close by here, right?” She lifted the map again. “I bet I can find it.”

The pace of the snow suddenly accelerated. The lazy snowflakes that had been falling were replaced by millions of smaller, quicker reinforcements. A few superfrozen scouts started sticking to the windshield.

I was dressed in cotton cords and a light sweatshirt. Home had its allure.

“Yeah, it is,” I said. “Follow me.”

I led Detective Reynoso down the lane and then into our house.

Lauren had scribbled a few words on the bottom of the note that I had left for her about heading out earlier in the day with Sam. She and Grace were home from yoga and gone again to a birthday party in Lafayette for one of Grace’s friends. I use the word “friend” loosely. One-year-olds don’t actually have buds; they have other one-year-olds that their parents make them hang out with.

I closed my eyes and cursed silently. Taking Grace to the birthday party had been my job: I was supposed to get Grace some lunch and then take her to her friend’s party and bring her back home.

Two outings in a row taxed Lauren’s multiple sclerosis-depleted energy reserves, which meant we would all pay a price later in the day, probably increased fatigue, for my oversight.

Damn.

During my interlude of silent self-flagellation, Reynoso stood patiently in the entryway. I finally remembered my manners. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure. Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

She tried some small talk on me. “Do you know that Baseline Road is the fortieth parallel? I read that on the Boulder website.”

“No, I didn’t know that. You mean exactly? No minutes, no seconds?”

“Exactly. That’s what it says. The road is exactly forty north.”

“Well,” I said as I led her into the living room and adjusted the thermostat to bring us some heat. To the west the usual glorious panorama of the Rocky Mountains was nothing but a screen of swirling white dots. “It’s usually a nice view. In fact, on most days you get a pretty good look at the fortieth parallel.”

“Your wife’s a prosecutor,” she replied, unamused.