He pushed back from the table. “You’re right. I’ve had it. So have you. Christ, I didn’t mean for it to go like this,” he said again. “I came over here to cheer you up. I feel terrible . . . ” His apologies continued as we went down the hall. Before I could open the door, he was kissing me and I could taste the wine on his breath and feel his heat. My physical response was always immediate, a frisson of spine-tingling desire and fear running through me like a current. I involuntarily pulled away from him and muttered, “Good night.”
He was a shadow in the darkness heading to his car, his profile briefly illuminated by the interior light as he opened the door and climbed in. I was still standing numbly on the porch long after red taillights had burned along the vacant street and disappeared behind trees.
Chapter 8
The inside of Marino’s silver Plymouth Reliant was as cluttered and slovenly as I would have expected it to be – had I ever given the matter a moment’s thought.
On the floor in back were a chicken-dinner box, crumpled napkins and Burger King bags, and several coffee-stained Styrofoam cups. The ashtray was overflowing, and dangling from the rearview mirror was an evergreen-scented air freshener shaped like a pine tree and about as effective as a shot of Glade aimed inside a Dumpster. Dust and lint and crumbs were everywhere, and the windshield was practically opaque with smoker’s soot.
“You ever give this thing a bath?” I was fastening my seatbelt.
“Not anymore I don’t. Sure, it’s assigned to me, but it ain’t mine. They don’t let me take it home at night or over the weekend or nothing. So I wax it to a spit shine and use up half a bottle of Armor All on the inside and what happens? Some drone’s going to be in it while I’m off duty. I get it back looking just like this. Never fails. After a while, I started saving everybody the trouble. Started trashing it myself.”
Police traffic quietly crackled as the scanner light blinked from channel to channel. He pulled out of the parking lot behind my building. I hadn’t heard a word from him since he abruptly left the conference room on Monday. It was late Wednesday afternoon now, and he had mystified me moments ago by suddenly, appearing in my doorway with the announcement that he wanted to take me on a “little tour.”
The “tour,” it turned out, entailed a retrospective visit to the crime scenes. The purpose, as best I could ascertain, was for me to fix a map of them in my head. I couldn’t argue. The idea was a good one. But it was the last thing I was expecting from him. Since when did he include me in anything unless he absolutely had no choice? “Got a few things you need to know,” he said, as he adjusted the side mirror.
“I see. I suppose the implication is had I not agreed to your ‘little tour’ then you might never have gotten around to telling me these few things I need to know?”
“Whatever.”
I waited patiently as he returned the lighter to its socket. He took his time settling more comfortably behind the wheel.
“Might interest you to know,” he began, “we gave Petersen a polygraph yesterday and the sucker passed it. Pretty telling, but it don’t completely let him off the hook. It’s possible to pass it if you’re one of these psychopaths who can lie as easy as other people breathe. He’s an actor. He probably could say he’s Christ crucified and his hands wouldn’t sweat, his pulse would be steadier than yours and mine when we’re in church.”
“That would be highly unusual,” I said. “It’s pretty hard, close to impossible, to beat a polygraph. I don’t care who you are.”
“It’s happened before. That’s one reason it’s not admissible in court.”
“No, I won’t go so far as to say it’s infallible.”
“Point is,” he went on, “we don’t have probable cause to pop him or even tell him not to skip town. So I’ve got him under surveillance. What we’re really looking for is his activities after hours. Like, what he does at night. Like, maybe does he get in his car and drive through various neighborhoods, cruising, getting the lay of the land.”