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“Same thing as doing it, and I didn’t get a whiff. The boy did. When we went back and she was nervy, he caught the whiff. And I blew it off, explained it away. I didn’t see it, didn’t smell it, didn’t hear it.”
“Guess you’d better turn in your papers, then. I hear private security’s a good gig for washed-out cops.”
“To borrow a phrase, bite me.” But it didn’t seem he could work up any steam. “She’s soft, Dallas. Mira’ll come up with her psycho-whatever, but it comes down to her being a soft sort, a little wounded, a lot tired. Mousy, if you get me. Right now, with all you worked out, I’m trying to see her going into that house, pumping Anders full of tranqs and setting him up like a kink kill, and I can’t see it.”
“You like her. You feel sorry for her.”
Irritation tightened his face. “I like lots of people, and feel sorry for some. That doesn’t stop me from seeing a stone killer when she’s in my damn face.”
“You’re taking it personal, Baxter.”
“Damn right I am.” There was steam now as he jerked toward Eve. “And don’t give me any of that objectivity crap. You wouldn’t be so fucking good at the job if you didn’t take it personal.”
Eve gave him a minute to stew. “You want me to tell you you screwed up? You missed it? You didn’t see what you should’ve seen? Nothing I’d like better because it makes my day to ream out a smart-ass pig-eater like you. But I can’t do it. You didn’t screw up. You can’t miss what’s not in play, and can’t see what isn’t there.”
“You saw Ava Anders.”
“I didn’t like her goddamn face—and yeah, some of it was personal. I wouldn’t have seen the how if you hadn’t nagged my ass off about Custer. So reschedule your pity party, Baxter. We don’t have time for it now.”
“Assuming we’re playing to our strengths, you’ll be taking bad cop.”
“And you’d be the cop with the soft spot for the tragic, little widow.”
“Yeah.” He hissed out a breath. “Fucking A. I feel played, so I’ll be picking up the hats and balloons for the pity party later.”
“Don’t forget the cake.” She scouted out a parking spot as she neared Suzanne’s address. “It’s going to spook her, seeing me instead of Trueheart. Having to go into Central. If she’s thought about any of this happening, she may have thought about lawyers. You need to reassure her. Routine, tying things up.”
“I know how to play good cop.” He got out, waited for Eve on the sidewalk. “I need to take the lead with her, initially, keep her steady, make her think I’m a little ticked that you’re insisting on the official routine.”
“I know how to play bad cop,” Eve countered.
It was a miserable post–Urban War building. One of the structures tossed up from the rubble and never intended to last. Its concrete gray walls were blackened with age and weather, scored with graceless graffiti and misspelled obscenities.
They walked into a narrow, frigid entryway and took the rusted metal stairs up to the third floor. Everything echoed, Eve noted. Their feet on the treads, the sounds leaking out of doors and walls as they passed by, the noises from the street outside.
But none of the early spring warmth pushed in to boost the chilly air.
Baxter positioned himself at the door, knocked. The over-bright sound of kids and Saturday morning screen whooped on the other side. One of those odd and somehow creepy morning cartoon deals that had the kids yammering and squealing, Eve imagined.
Who made those things?
A high-pitched girly voice called out for mommy so clearly, the door itself might’ve been made of paper.
The locks thunked, and the door scraped and groaned as it opened.
She’d been pretty once, Eve thought at her first in-person study of Suzanne Custer. She might be pretty again, given decent nutrition, reasonable sleep, a break from stress. As Eve didn’t see those elements in her future, she thought Suzanne’s pretty days were long over.
She looked exhausted, pale, too thin, as if the meat under her skin had been gnawed away. Her dull, listless hair had been pulled back, leaving her tired face defenseless. A small, round-eyed kid of the male variety (probably) stood at her side.
“Detective Baxter.”
“Mrs. Custer. Hey there, Todd!” Baxter flashed a grin, shot the boy with his finger.
“We’re watching ’toons.”
“So I hear. Hi, Maizie.”
The little girl had a year or two on her brother, and the soft prettiness that had once been her mother’s. She sent Baxter a big, beaming smile.
