I am not a political columnist. I need rapport with my readers.”
“Rapport? What good’s rapport when the bottom falls out? I’m talking about people that need help.”
“Stark, let’s discuss this another time. Right now I could use some help. Actually I’d like a favor. How about let Biscuit
stay a few days longer here with me?”
“The life of a lapdog? No way, Cutter. She’s in training. I put together a swim-dive program, and we gotta talk about her
diet. She needs a protein regimen… wait, this isn’t strictly about the dog, is it? Something’s going on. You got new
locks, I saw chisel marks on the front door. Don’t give me bull about upgrades in the hall. You look scared. What’s up?”
My throat shuts. I force a swallow and say murder and sketch the last two days from the blue car to the police. He doesn’t
move a muscle. His eyes narrow to gray oceanic slits. “So the cleaners are coming for the upstairs, right? What about your
front door? Let’s look.”
I drag myself with him. Biscuit hangs back as we lift the tissue. Stark lets out a piercing whistle. “Son of a bitch.”
“It’s deliberate, isn’t it? Oriental? I took some pictures.”
“Looks Chinese, maybe more than one character. What’s it say?” Neither of us can guess. “You gotta find a translator fast,
Cutter. Another thing, what kind of car ran you down?”
“Steven said it was a BMW, but I thought Japanese.” We look at the door as if East Asia conspires against me. “Before Jo died,
Stark, did she say anything about a ‘deal’ with Steven? Anything at all?” He says no. “Did she mention his name? Or anything
about any younger man in her life? Steven worked at a business called Corsair Financial. There’s nothing in her files. I’ve
been through them twice. Did she ever mention that name?” Again, no. “Did she talk about her ship coming in?”
“What ship?”
“I don’t know. A couple of people heard her talk about
her
ship.” We agree it doesn’t sound like Jo. I check the time. “The cleaner is due, Stark, and I have to trace the door mark.
About Biscuit—”
“She stays here. You need her.”
“And I’m thinking about a gun course. The timing’s wrong for motorcycle lessons. Anyway, I’m bruised and banged up from that
fall in the street.”
“Show me.” I thrust my purpled elbow. He laughs. “Not even a decent case of road rash.”
“What’s road rash?”
He laughs and tells me that I’ll find out. “About the gun course, Cutter, you need to be clear-headed.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this isn’t prime time for you and your .38. Or the John Wayne .44 either.”
It’s a moment when I wish Stark didn’t know about the guns. He found out one midnight last summer. It couldn’t be helped.
He pulls out the Harley ignition key. “I’m heading out for now. If you hear Fatso in the middle of the night, take it as a
lullaby. If you hear Fatso roar, Cutter, turn over and sleep well.”
Chapter Twelve
S leep? It’s unimaginable. I complete the ghastly tracing of the blood mark, fold the tissue with utmost care, and slide it
into my bureau drawer with my bras. The rustling noise, it’s from my trembling fingers.
The door knocker sounds—Right True Clean, half an hour late. It’s two guys in jumpsuits with equipment. Quickly I show them
the door and lead them upstairs and into Steven’s apartment, my breath short and heart pounding as we step in. The playful
furniture, the bright colors made for fun—all are shoved and upended as if the police search was a rampage. The cleaners lift
a blond oak boomerang table upright, and I put the Lava lamp on top.
Somehow the primitive domestic order helps. The imprint of the search is clear—the drawers pulled out, contents rifled, the
papers, envelopes, shirts, socks, kitchen implements, two computers, both hard drives ripped and taken as evidence. The blood-soaked
rug. The bloodstained
“Rapport? What good’s rapport when the bottom falls out? I’m talking about people that need help.”
“Stark, let’s discuss this another time. Right now I could use some help. Actually I’d like a favor. How about let Biscuit
stay a few days longer here with me?”
“The life of a lapdog? No way, Cutter. She’s in training. I put together a swim-dive program, and we gotta talk about her
diet. She needs a protein regimen… wait, this isn’t strictly about the dog, is it? Something’s going on. You got new
locks, I saw chisel marks on the front door. Don’t give me bull about upgrades in the hall. You look scared. What’s up?”
My throat shuts. I force a swallow and say murder and sketch the last two days from the blue car to the police. He doesn’t
move a muscle. His eyes narrow to gray oceanic slits. “So the cleaners are coming for the upstairs, right? What about your
front door? Let’s look.”
I drag myself with him. Biscuit hangs back as we lift the tissue. Stark lets out a piercing whistle. “Son of a bitch.”
“It’s deliberate, isn’t it? Oriental? I took some pictures.”
“Looks Chinese, maybe more than one character. What’s it say?” Neither of us can guess. “You gotta find a translator fast,
Cutter. Another thing, what kind of car ran you down?”
“Steven said it was a BMW, but I thought Japanese.” We look at the door as if East Asia conspires against me. “Before Jo died,
Stark, did she say anything about a ‘deal’ with Steven? Anything at all?” He says no. “Did she mention his name? Or anything
about any younger man in her life? Steven worked at a business called Corsair Financial. There’s nothing in her files. I’ve
been through them twice. Did she ever mention that name?” Again, no. “Did she talk about her ship coming in?”
“What ship?”
“I don’t know. A couple of people heard her talk about
her
ship.” We agree it doesn’t sound like Jo. I check the time. “The cleaner is due, Stark, and I have to trace the door mark.
About Biscuit—”
“She stays here. You need her.”
“And I’m thinking about a gun course. The timing’s wrong for motorcycle lessons. Anyway, I’m bruised and banged up from that
fall in the street.”
“Show me.” I thrust my purpled elbow. He laughs. “Not even a decent case of road rash.”
“What’s road rash?”
He laughs and tells me that I’ll find out. “About the gun course, Cutter, you need to be clear-headed.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this isn’t prime time for you and your .38. Or the John Wayne .44 either.”
It’s a moment when I wish Stark didn’t know about the guns. He found out one midnight last summer. It couldn’t be helped.
He pulls out the Harley ignition key. “I’m heading out for now. If you hear Fatso in the middle of the night, take it as a
lullaby. If you hear Fatso roar, Cutter, turn over and sleep well.”
Chapter Twelve
S leep? It’s unimaginable. I complete the ghastly tracing of the blood mark, fold the tissue with utmost care, and slide it
into my bureau drawer with my bras. The rustling noise, it’s from my trembling fingers.
The door knocker sounds—Right True Clean, half an hour late. It’s two guys in jumpsuits with equipment. Quickly I show them
the door and lead them upstairs and into Steven’s apartment, my breath short and heart pounding as we step in. The playful
furniture, the bright colors made for fun—all are shoved and upended as if the police search was a rampage. The cleaners lift
a blond oak boomerang table upright, and I put the Lava lamp on top.
Somehow the primitive domestic order helps. The imprint of the search is clear—the drawers pulled out, contents rifled, the
papers, envelopes, shirts, socks, kitchen implements, two computers, both hard drives ripped and taken as evidence. The blood-soaked
rug. The bloodstained
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