“You get my message?” he asks.
“No, I didn’t.” Sometimes I go for days without checking my voice mail at the newspaper. In my defense, however, the phone doesn’t ring all that much. Obituary writers aren’t exactly swamped with hot tips.
Pete says, “Well, you were right.”
“The samples matched?”
“Yup.”
The blood on Janet’s carpet was hers. Cursing, I kick my heel into the door half a dozen times. Pete patiently steps back and waits for me to settle down.
“Jack, you know I’ve got to ask—” “Please don’t.”
“I can get in all kinds of trouble,” he says. “If this blood is evidence, there’s a serious chain-of-custody problem… ”
“Throw it away,” I tell him. “Now hold on—”
“Throw it away, Pete. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
25
After a rough day of kickin’ down doors and chasin’ after scumbag criminals, all I wanna do is have a cool drink, peel outta this hot gear and get comfortable.
If you wanna get comfy with me, then have your modem call my modem at 900-555-SWAT. Or, if you register now on this site, the first ten minutes of chat time are absolutely free. I accept Visa, MasterCard or Discover…
It took an hour but I’ve found Janet’s Web page, complete with a streaming-video promotion. In it she’s wearing night-vision goggles, a lacy black bra, matching panties and military-style boots. In the background I recognize the furniture in her living room. The quality of the video is typically dim and herky-jerky, but the sound of Janet’s tomboy voice fills me with unexpected sadness. I click over to her list of FAQs, frequently asked questions, and immediately get a laugh.
Q. Are you really a cop?
A. Yes, I’m a lieutenant with a major South Florida police department.
Q. Have you ever shot anybody?
A. Not fatally.
Q. What’s your favorite color?
A. Pearl.
I click back to the host page, activating a brief loop of Janet dancing. It’s high-spirited though not especially erotic. Touchingly, the accompaniment is a recording of “Derelict Sea,” sung by her late brother.
“Is that porn?” Horny young Evan, peeking over my shoulder.
“Does it look like porn?”
“But she’s stripping.”
“Not really. It’s just a goof.”
“Wow, Jack. You know her, like, personally? Check out the freaky shades.”
“They’re sniper goggles, and don’t bother calling.”
“What?”
Evan has been busy memorizing Janet’s 900 number; I heard him repeat it under his breath. “You’re wasting your time,” I tell him. “She’s not there.”
“Come on. What’s her name?”
“Forget about it,” I said. “She’s Jimmy Stoma’s sister.”
“Oh wow.”
“Evan, don’t you have some work to do?”
Be sure to check out my live chat schedule for when I’m available, but don’t pitch a hissy if some nights I don’t answer. You never know when they’re gonna call the SWAT team out on a hostage crisis or a drug raid or some other ‘mergency. I do take online appointments—but not from hard-cores and pervs. Remember, being a police officer I got automatic worldwide call tracing. Anybody starts in with that gross sicko talk and I promise there’ll be cops at your door before you can hang up the damn phone!
So let’s keep our private chats cool and sexy and nice, and I promise you a super good time, every time…
Clicking over to Janet’s chat schedule, I notice she’s got a regular two-hour block on Thursday mornings. It couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe she left a message for her regulars, or possibly she bought a new PC and is back in business somewhere else. On my keyboard I tap in the number of her Web-cam line. On the other end it rings and rings, and keeps on ringing.
Who am I kidding. Janet’s gone.
“How do you know this?” Rick Tarkington asks.
“The blood matches. Trust me.”
“I don’t doubt it, Jack, but how would you know? See my point?”
Tarkington is a major-crimes prosecutor for the State Attorney’s Office. I’m obligated to admire him because he’s a lifer. He could be making a million bucks a year as a private defense lawyer in Miami or Lauderdale, but he can’t stomach the thought of representing killers, rapists and nineteen-year-old drug lords. Instead he has a fine old time sending them to prison and sometimes Death Row. Tarkington is an old-fashioned hardhead who believes that certain feloniously bent individuals cannot be rehabilitated, reborn or redeemed. He believes that some are purely evil and others are just hopeless fuckups, but that all of them should be dealt with unambiguously. He also believes that the American penal system functions essentially as a social septic tank, and that nothing more lofty should be expected of it.