the door open with her backside and a draft of cold air rushed in. âWhat about you? Are you leaving or will you stick around?â
âI guess Iâll hit the office as long as Iâm out,â I said.
She pressed a button on the handle of her umbrella and it lifted into the open position with a muffled
thunk
. She held it for me and we walked toward my car together. The raindrops tapping on the umbrella fabric made a muted sound, like popcorn in a covered saucepan.
I unlocked my car and got in, while she moved off toward hers, calling back over her shoulder. âTry me at the office as soon as you hear anything. I should be there by two.â
My office building was deserted. California Fidelity is closed on weekends so their offices were dark. I let myself in, picking up the batch of morning mail that had been shoved through the slot. There were no messages on my answering machine. I pulled a contract out of my top drawer and spent a few minutes filling in the blanks. I checked Barbara Daggettâs business card to verify the address, then I locked up again and went down the front stairs.
I walked the three blocks and dropped the contract off at her office, then headed over to the police station on Floresta. The combination of the weekend and the bad weather lent the station much the same deserted air as my office building. Crime doesnât adhere to a forty-hour week, but there are days when even thecriminals donât seem to feel like doing much. The linoleum showed a gridwork of wet footprints, like a pattern of dance steps too complex to learn. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp uniforms. I could see where someone had fashioned a folded newspaper into a rain hat and then abandoned it on the wooden bench just inside the door.
One of the clerks in the identification and records section buzzed Jonah and he came out to the locked foyer door and admitted me.
He wasnât looking good. During the summer, heâd shed an excess twenty pounds and heâd told me he was still working out at the gym, so it wasnât that. His dark hair seemed poorly trimmed and the lines around his eyes were pronounced. He also had that weary aura that unhappiness seems to breed.
âWhat happened to you?â I asked as we walked back to his office. Heâd been reconciled with his wife since June, after a yearâs separation, and from what Iâd gathered, it was not going well.
âShe wants an open relationship,â he remarked.
âOh come
on
,â I said, with disbelief.
That netted me a tired smile. âThatâs what the lady says.â He held the door open for me and we passed into an L-shaped room, furnished with big wooden desks.
Missing Persons is included in Crimes Against Persons, which in turn is considered part of the Investigations Division, along with Crimes Against Property,Narcotics, and Special Investigations. The room was deserted at the moment, but people came and went at intervals. From the interview room off the inside corridor, I could hear the rise and fall of a shrill female voice and I guessed that an interrogation was under way. Jonah closed the hall door, automatically protective of department business.
He filled two Styrofoam cups with coffee and brought them over, handing me packets of Cremora and Equal. Just what I needed, a cup of hot chemicals. We went through the motions of doctoring the coffee, which smelled like itâd been on the burner too long.
I took a few minutes to lay out the Daggett situation. At this point, we didnât have the results of the autopsy, so the idea of murder was purely theoretical. Still, I told Jonah what had gone on to date, detailing the principal characters. I was talking to him as a friend instead of a cop and he listened as an interested, but unofficial, party.
âSo how long was he up here before he died?â Jonah asked.
âSince Monday presumably,â I said. âItâs possible
Bruce Alexander
Barbara Monajem
Chris Grabenstein
Brooksley Borne
Erika Wilde
S. K. Ervin
Adele Clee
Stuart M. Kaminsky
Gerald A Browne
Writing