Part 35 (2/2)
The anger hit me like a sucker punch, sending heat up my neck, and curling my fingers into fists.
”G.o.ddammit! Sonovab.i.t.c.h!”
I was furious with Crease and more furious with myself. Living alone, I had gotten into the habit of working investigative material at home, a practice discouraged by the lab. Now I was missing a piece of potential evidence.
Slowly, I calmed down. And I recalled something a detective once told me while working a homicide in Charlotte. Media vans surrounded the charred suburban colonial where we were bagging what remained of a family of four.
”Our free press is like a sewer system,” he said, ”sucking in everyone and grinding them to s.h.i.+t. Especially those who ain't paying attention.”
I hadn't paid attention, and now I would have to retrieve those photos.
31.
TO WORK OFF MY ANGER AT C CREASE, MY DISGUST WITH MYSELF, and my fear for LaManche, I pounded out three miles on the treadmill at the gym. Then I lifted for thirty minutes, and sat in the steam room for another ten.
Walking home along Ste-Catherine I felt physically tired, but still mentally anxious. I forced my thoughts to innocuous things.
The weather had turned heavy and humid. Seagulls screamed at the dark clouds that hung low over the city, trapping the smell of the St. Lawrence and bringing on a premature dusk.
I thought about city gulls. Why fight pigeons for urban sc.r.a.ps when a world-cla.s.s river flows a mile away? Are gulls and pigeons variations of the same bird?
I thought about dinner. I thought about the pain in my left knee. I thought about a tooth in which I suspected a cavity. I thought about ways to conceal my hair.
Mostly I thought about Lyle Crease. And I understood the rage of Islamic fundamentalists and postal workers. I would call him and demand the return of the photos. Then, if the little reptile crossed my path again I would probably get my name in the papers.
As I rounded the corner onto my street I saw a figure moving toward me, a leather-vested white-trash redneck who looked like a hyena pack of one.
Had he come from my building?
Kit!
I felt a constriction in my chest.
I quickened my pace and kept to the center of the sidewalk. The man held his path, banging into me as we pa.s.sed. His bulk was such that the impact knocked me off balance. Stumbling, I looked up into dark eyes, made darker by the brim of a baseball cap. I stared into them.
Look at me, a.s.shole. Remember my face. I'll remember yours.
He met my gaze, then puckered his lips in an exaggerated kiss.
I offered a digit.
Heart pounding, I raced to the complex and into the vestibule, taking the steps two at a time. With shaking hands I unlocked the front door, hurried down the hall, and inserted the key to my condo.
Kit was in the kitchen adding pasta to boiling water. There was an empty beer bottle by the sink, a half-full one at his elbow.
”Kit.”
His hand jumped at the sound of my voice.
”Hey. What's up?”
He poked the noodles with a wooden spoon, and took a swig of beer. Though the greeting was casual, his jerky movements belied tension.
I was silent, waiting for him to go on.
”I found some store-bought sauce. Roasted garlic and black olive. It ain't gourmet, but I thought you'd like a home-cooked.”
He gave a brilliant Kit smile, then tossed back another mouthful of Molson.
”What's going on?”
”NBA play-off game tonight.”
”You know what I mean.”
”I do?”
”Kit.” I did not disguise my annoyance.
”What? Just ask, ma'am.”
”Was someone here while I was gone?”
He swirled the linguine, tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, and looked straight at me. For several moments the steam rose between us. Then the corners of his eyes pinched, and he tapped again.
”No.”
He dropped his gaze, stirred, flicked back to me.
”What's the deal?”
”I saw someone on the sidewalk and thought he might have been coming from here.”
”Can't help you.” Another s.h.i.+t-eating grin. ”You like your linguine al dente al dente, madam?”
”Kit-”
”You worry too much, Aunt Tempe.”
It was becoming a familiar refrain.
”Are you still seeing those men from the bike shop?”
He extended his hands, wrists pressed together.
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