pulled a face and said, “Are you certain you didn’t know Angela Soto?”
SEVEN
The reporter from
Newsday,
Jessie Gray, phoned and said, “You’re becoming quite the story.”
“Through no fault of my own.”
“I was hoping we could have that follow-up interview soon.”
“Man, you weren’t kidding. You really are compulsive. Still checking up on me to see if I’ve had any epiphanies or revelations? Or regrets?” Flynn felt a thick tether of anger tightening inside him and yanking through his gut, pulling him forward. He leaned farther into the phone.
“That, and if you have any thoughts on who murdered that prostitute. After all, the hitter wrote you a note.”
She had good sources. And she respected them. The note was a piece of information left clear of the police reports as a way to weed out the admission addicts who’d be calling the hotlines falsely confessing to the crime. She’d left it out of her latest article too. But she knew about it.
He could just see her grinning there on the other side of the line, thinking up more things to hit him with. Her voice, with a lilt of humor because she was doing what she did best. “The police think you know more than you’re telling them.”
“They’re just trying to comb through a major mess,” he told her. “It makes sense they’d latch on to me.”
“It doesn’t make you upset?” she asked. “That you’re a suspect?”
“I’m not a real suspect. I’m just a character of questionable repute.”
“Does that salve you in any fashion?”
“More accurate anyway.”
A subtle scratching drifted over the line. He heard her writing, pen on paper. It sounded like doodling, the pen point circling and circling, digging through the sheets. If it was a sign of frustration, he couldn’t hear any in her voice. “You use that word quite a bit. Accurate.”
“Do I? I hadn’t noticed.” Actually, he had.
“Yes. As if you fear distortions and bias.”
“I have respect for precision.”
“Let’s discuss it more. Say tonight? Dinner on me?”
The noir conventions drew him in. He imagined her wafting through a high-class nightclub toward his table. The poise and confidence and clean, moderate good looks catching some attention but not enough to give her date a jealous twinge. Him sitting there in a tux, friends with the owner. Cops at the door, he and Jessie escaping out the back past a blonde in silver sequins about to take the stage. The killer only a shadow in the blizzard, turns out to be his best friend. Except he didn’t have any friends.
“Mr. Flynn?”
He still liked the way she talked, but he wasn’t in the mood for the whip-crack aggression tonight, and he knew she’d come at him strong, cutting into his soft spots. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“I’ve got a feeling about you.”
“Yeah, what kind?”
“A bad feeling, which is good for me.”
He hung up on her.
He went back to work on the Charger, refitting the headers. The cops watching him were out on the street, their exhaust pipe the only one smoking because they were running the heat. The windows were cracked to keep from steaming up inside. Flynn figured they’d keep an eye on him another two or three days and then call the surveillance quits. Raidin would probably brace him one more time just to squeeze out what last few drops he could.
Flynn had been at it over an hour when he saw the long, straight blond hair coming at him from across the lot. She was walking that same way as the last time he’d seen her in the hospital. With a forceful intent, as if heading toward an important goal. She had a natural grace. The heavy purse swung wildly, like David’s slingshot picking up speed to take down a behemoth. He didn’t like the intimations she’d made on the phone. He had the feeling she’d throw him under a train if it gave her a punch ending to her latest article. He tried to remember that she’d quoted him accurately when everyone else in
SEVEN
The reporter from
Newsday,
Jessie Gray, phoned and said, “You’re becoming quite the story.”
“Through no fault of my own.”
“I was hoping we could have that follow-up interview soon.”
“Man, you weren’t kidding. You really are compulsive. Still checking up on me to see if I’ve had any epiphanies or revelations? Or regrets?” Flynn felt a thick tether of anger tightening inside him and yanking through his gut, pulling him forward. He leaned farther into the phone.
“That, and if you have any thoughts on who murdered that prostitute. After all, the hitter wrote you a note.”
She had good sources. And she respected them. The note was a piece of information left clear of the police reports as a way to weed out the admission addicts who’d be calling the hotlines falsely confessing to the crime. She’d left it out of her latest article too. But she knew about it.
He could just see her grinning there on the other side of the line, thinking up more things to hit him with. Her voice, with a lilt of humor because she was doing what she did best. “The police think you know more than you’re telling them.”
“They’re just trying to comb through a major mess,” he told her. “It makes sense they’d latch on to me.”
“It doesn’t make you upset?” she asked. “That you’re a suspect?”
“I’m not a real suspect. I’m just a character of questionable repute.”
“Does that salve you in any fashion?”
“More accurate anyway.”
A subtle scratching drifted over the line. He heard her writing, pen on paper. It sounded like doodling, the pen point circling and circling, digging through the sheets. If it was a sign of frustration, he couldn’t hear any in her voice. “You use that word quite a bit. Accurate.”
“Do I? I hadn’t noticed.” Actually, he had.
“Yes. As if you fear distortions and bias.”
“I have respect for precision.”
“Let’s discuss it more. Say tonight? Dinner on me?”
The noir conventions drew him in. He imagined her wafting through a high-class nightclub toward his table. The poise and confidence and clean, moderate good looks catching some attention but not enough to give her date a jealous twinge. Him sitting there in a tux, friends with the owner. Cops at the door, he and Jessie escaping out the back past a blonde in silver sequins about to take the stage. The killer only a shadow in the blizzard, turns out to be his best friend. Except he didn’t have any friends.
“Mr. Flynn?”
He still liked the way she talked, but he wasn’t in the mood for the whip-crack aggression tonight, and he knew she’d come at him strong, cutting into his soft spots. “That might not be such a good idea.”
“I’ve got a feeling about you.”
“Yeah, what kind?”
“A bad feeling, which is good for me.”
He hung up on her.
He went back to work on the Charger, refitting the headers. The cops watching him were out on the street, their exhaust pipe the only one smoking because they were running the heat. The windows were cracked to keep from steaming up inside. Flynn figured they’d keep an eye on him another two or three days and then call the surveillance quits. Raidin would probably brace him one more time just to squeeze out what last few drops he could.
Flynn had been at it over an hour when he saw the long, straight blond hair coming at him from across the lot. She was walking that same way as the last time he’d seen her in the hospital. With a forceful intent, as if heading toward an important goal. She had a natural grace. The heavy purse swung wildly, like David’s slingshot picking up speed to take down a behemoth. He didn’t like the intimations she’d made on the phone. He had the feeling she’d throw him under a train if it gave her a punch ending to her latest article. He tried to remember that she’d quoted him accurately when everyone else in
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