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Milham hung the telephone up and looked at Matt.
“Something’s come up,” he said. “I gotta go.”
Matt nodded.
“Tell you what, Payne,” Milham said, obviously having thought over what he was about to say. “Take that stack with you and go home. You all right to drive?”
“I’m all right.”
“I’ll call you about ten tomorrow morning. You read that, see if you come up with something.”
“Right.”
“OK. You’ll find some manila envelopes over there,” Milham said, pointing. “I really got to go.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yeah, if anybody asks where I went, all you know is I told you to go home.”
“OK.”
“Ten tomorrow, I’ll call you at ten tomorrow,” Milham said, and went to retrieve his pistol from a filing cabinet.
SIXTEEN
Matt left the Police Administration Building and found his car. The interior lights were on. Because, he saw, the door was ajar.
Christ, was I so plastered when I came here that I not only didn’t lock the car, but didn’t even close the damned door? No wonder Milham was worried if I was all right to drive.Or did somebody use a Car Thief’s Friend and open the door? Did I leave anything inside worth stealing?
He pulled the door fully open and stuck his head inside.
There was no sign of damage; the glove compartment showed no sign that anyone had tried to force it open.
I deduce that no attempt at Vehicular Burglary has occurred. I am forced to conclude that I was shitfaced when I drove in here. Shit!
There was a white tissue on the floor under the steering wheel.
Penny’s Kleenex. With her lipstick on it.
He picked it up and looked at it.
What the hell do I do with it? Throw it away? I don’t want to do that. Keep it, as a Sacred Relic? I don’t want to do that, either.
He patted his pocket and found a book of matches.
He unfolded the Kleenex, struck a match, and set the Kleenex on fire. He held it in his fingers until that became painful, and then let what was left float to the ground. He watched until it was consumed and the embers died.
Then he got in the Porsche and drove out of the Roundhouse parking lot.
His stomach hurt, and he decided that was because he still hadn’t had anything to eat. He drove over to the 1400 block of Race Street where he remembered a restaurant was open all night. He ordered two hamburgers, changed his mind to three hamburgers, a cup of coffee, a large french fries, and two containers of milk, all to go.
Then he got back in the Porsche and drove home.
The red light was blinking on his answering machine. He was tempted to ignore it, but finally pushed the Play Messages button.
Predictably, there was a call from his mother, asking if he was all right. And one from his father, same question. And there were seven No Message blurps; someone had called, and elected not to leave a message.
He opened the paper bag from the St. George Restaurant and started to unwrap a hamburger.
