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“One of the Preppy Pricks stabbed her to death,” Mac said. “That’s what happened.”
…we’re caught in a trap…I can’t walk out…because I’m all about you maybe…
“Because I love you too much, baby. Jesus.” Mac scowled down the hallway. Was it too much to ask to get the words right? Was it?
Maybe he should just go home. There was nothing further to come up with tonight. He was tired and losing patience. The only reason he was staying was because there was nothing at home. His ex-wife had custody of their only son, Levi, and though Mac got the kid most weekends, now that he was at the preteen stage, he’d started making some of his own plans and even the weekends were iffy. In some ways that was fine, as Mac’s hours could be pretty unpredictable. But lately it had just left him with empty time he couldn’t fill outside of work. And the niggling feeling that he wasn’t doing as much as he could as a dad, that Levi might be headed down a wrong path, though none of his attempts at father-son talks had gotten anywhere. It was as if the kid were stonewalling him. Not a good sign. He’d brought it up to his ex, and Connie’s exact words had been: “So what d’ya expect, Super-Dad? It’s not as if you’ve been such a constant influence on him.” When Mac had started to argue, she’d cut him off with, “And don’t, I mean do not give me any BS about your job and long hours. Other cops have time for their kids and wives.”
This weekend already looked bad. Levi was waffling and had already mumbled about a sleepover at Zeno’s-was that a made-up name? Mac had never heard of the kid. But Connie had.
Lucky for him, he had a whole list of interviewees coming up. The Preppy Pricks and their girls.
Gathering up his things, he heard…come on let’s rock…everybody let’s rock…everybody in the whole cell block, was dancin’ to the jailhouse rock…
As he pushed through the door Mac tried to find fault with the lyrics, but they seemed all right. Maybe because the guy was cleaning out a police station, a jailhouse of his own. Maybe that was the key.
…Jimmy Jannie Jerry and the slide trombone, da da da da da da on the xylophone…
“Good God.” Mac headed into another rain-soaked night.
The day after she’d chased ghosts at St. Elizabeth’s and had a drink with Renee, Becca quit work in the early afternoon. She’d gotten a call from Elton Pfeiffer, one of the senior partners at the law firm and a very real reason Becca was glad to be working from home. Elton, in his late sixties, still considered himself a ladies’ man. Thrice divorced with a red Porsche, condo on the coast, and unlimited supply of Viagra if his secretary could be believed, he’d asked Becca out several times and even tried to kiss her once outside when she’d brought some papers into his office to sign.
It had been late, the glassed-in office on the twenty-second floor offering a panoramic view of the city lights and dark Willamette River rolling slowly under the Morrison Bridge when Pfeiffer, smelling of scotch, had come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her torso, and dragged her to him, his lips grazing the back of her neck. She’d promptly turned around, pushed hard, and threatened to knee him if he didn’t back off. He had, and rather than attempt to sue him for sexual harassment, Becca had turned in her resignation. It had just been so demeaning and damned predictable.
Pfeiffer, rebuffed, had offered to allow her to work from home and she’d leapt at the chance, telling herself it was temporary and a way to have a little freedom, create her own work schedule. The only time she’d been to the office in the past few weeks was to drop off the mermaid baby gift for her pregnant coworker.
Today, Elton Pfeiffer, all business, had needed a real estate contract for a strip mall retyped with some changes. “I’ve already e-mailed it. Check with Colleen,” she said, then hung up.
Though she’d never been great at picking men, Becca had known from the get-go that “El,” as he liked to be called, was a person to avoid. She’d never been looking for a father figure and didn’t want to start now. In some ways her job was perfect.
But apart from work, she felt stressed and tense, and thought about Hudson. Considered calling him.
Again.
Despite what she’d told Renee.
“Liar,” she muttered to herself. Ever since seeing Hudson a week earlier at Blue Note, she’d had trouble keeping her mind off him.
So why not call him? Why not take the initiative? Don’t be an insecure schoolgirl. You were friends once. Lovers. You nearly had a child together.
Becca picked up the receiver and put it down three times before, exasperated with herself, she dialed Hudson’s number with such speed, it was as if the touch-tone pads were on fire. She was putting way too much energy and emphasis on this one phone call. So she was calling him. So what? She wanted to see him. She was a widow. There was nothing wrong with it.
It rang six times before his answering machine picked up and then the sound of his recorded voice made her breath catch in her lungs. Which was just damned stupid! As soon as the recorder buzzed, she said, “Hi, Hudson. It’s Becca Sutcliff. I was thinking…(about you)…about things…and I feel a bit unsettled, I guess…about the bones found at St. Elizabeth’s. I keep thinking…(about yo
u)…about Jessie. If you have some time, maybe we could get together and talk? My number is…” She rattled it off quickly, almost breathlessly, then replaced the receiver with a hammering heart. Then she literally banged her forehead against the kitchen wall several times, feeling like an idiot.
“This can’t be healthy,” she muttered to Ringo, who cocked his head with interest.
Becca changed into her running shoes and threw on a lightweight jacket, then grabbed Ringo’s leash and bustled him outside, running her words through her mind again and again as she started jogging. Ringo wanted to stop and sniff every twig, leaf, and blade of grass, but Becca was having none of it. After stopping to allow him to relieve himself, she took off toward the park, the dog at her heels, running hard. Her feet slapped the pavement, water in standing puddles splashed, but she kept at it, feeling her heart begin to pump faster as she passed an apartment building and a few cottages on large lots, original houses built in the twenties or thirties that hadn’t yet fallen to the subdivider’s axe. She thought about the fact that she’d felt someone watching her, in her apartment, from the bushes, at the maze, someone evil, but she set her jaw. She wouldn’t be controlled by fear. Would not.
Ringo, sometimes nervous, wasn’t on edge. He was enjoying the exercise as much as she.
The air was cool, the afternoon clouds high and wispy as she rounded the far end of the park and cut through a copse of oaks, nearly running into a kid on a scooter. He swore at her with invectives she’d heard a million times before and she barely broke stride. Up the short hill and down the other side, across a footbridge spanning the creek, then back toward the condo. By now she could feel her muscles working, her rhythm established, the dog running effortlessly with her.
All in all, she ran nearly three miles, and by the time she walked through the front door, her face was flushed and sweat had broken out on her scalp and down her back despite the cool weather.
The first thing she did was check her messages. Zero.
What did you expect? That he’d hear your voice and hit his speed dial to connect with you? Idiot.
