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Authors: Sean Doolittle
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producer said, “Stand by. If you get more, we’ll break in after sports.”
But she was already walking out of the shot.
Deon turned as she passed him. “Um … where ya going, Maya Lamb?”
Maya handed him the mike and stripped out the IFB, letting the earpiece hang over her shoulder by the cord. She kept walking toward Third Avenue. She waited for a break in traffic, then hustled across, picking up the tree-lined sidwalk on the opposite side of the street.
Behind her, Deon called, “You know the news is on now, right?”
She ignored him and kept walking, past the ivy-covered apartment buildings facing the college, scanning the cars parked along the east side of the avenue. Something had caught her eye on the way in, though she’d had her mind on more-immediate matters at the time.
But while Deon had set up the gear, she’d found herself looking back the way they’d come. Then, rightin the middle of her stand-up, a disturbing thought had popped into her head.
Just beyond the Children’s Theatre, she finally found the car she was looking for, still sitting where she’d noticed it the first time: a dented-up, rust-punched Buick Skylark with a cracked windshield and Minnesota plates, burgundy paint job baked dull by the sun.
Maya stood and looked at it. She walked all the way around and returned to the sidewalk.
Nah
, she thought, then flashed to the view from Benson’s house in Linden Hills. She saw herself standing alone at the wall of glass, looking out over Lake Calhoun, just before Juliet Benson announced herself in the room. Looking out over the lake, and the skyline beyond. And the street below.
She took one last long look at the beat-to-shit Skylark at the curb.
Then she turned and started running. Maya ran back up the sidewalk, back into Third Avenue, not waiting for traffic this time. Tires squealed. A horn blared. She hurried across, as fast as her heels would carry her, all the way to where Deon stood smoking a Parliament. Watching her with interest.
“This morning,” she said. “You shot roll outside Benson’s house, right?”
Deon nodded. “You know I did. We cut it in the pack.”
“The master. Is it in the truck or at the station?”
“Brought it with,” Deon said. He tossed his unfinished cigarette in the gutter, where it died with a hiss. “Why?”
Maya grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along after her, toward the truck. “Because I think I saw that car,” she said.
“What car?”
“That one,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the street, remembering the Skylark clearly now. It had looked just as out of place sitting at the curb in front of Benson’s house as it looked camouflaged by its surroundings here.
“You mean that one?” Deon said five minutes later, as they crowded around the mobile deck inside the truck.
Maya was already on the phone. Three rings, then a voice in her ear: “Barnhill.”
“Detective,” she said, belly sizzling as she stared at the image Deon had found for her on the small monitor. “It’s Maya Lamb. I think I have something you need to see.”
When the news went to commercials, Hal picked up the remote, muted the sound, and stood for a moment, facing the back bar. When he finally turned to Mike, his eyes seemed to express Mike’s own thoughts:
Did I see that right?
The photo of the girl they’d just shown on the news hadn’t come from any high school yearbook. But it put Mike immediately in mind of the photo of Becky Morse they’d shown last night. Wade Benson’s daughter actually looked a little like her. Not sisters or anything, but not Abbott and Costello. They were even the same age.
The comparison didn’t appear to be lost on Hal either.He looked like he was trying to figure out a math problem in his head. Mike didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer Hal came up with.
The bell over the door jingled then, and they both turned to see Regina hurry in, digging in her giant purse with one hand, applying an
But she was already walking out of the shot.
Deon turned as she passed him. “Um … where ya going, Maya Lamb?”
Maya handed him the mike and stripped out the IFB, letting the earpiece hang over her shoulder by the cord. She kept walking toward Third Avenue. She waited for a break in traffic, then hustled across, picking up the tree-lined sidwalk on the opposite side of the street.
Behind her, Deon called, “You know the news is on now, right?”
She ignored him and kept walking, past the ivy-covered apartment buildings facing the college, scanning the cars parked along the east side of the avenue. Something had caught her eye on the way in, though she’d had her mind on more-immediate matters at the time.
But while Deon had set up the gear, she’d found herself looking back the way they’d come. Then, rightin the middle of her stand-up, a disturbing thought had popped into her head.
Just beyond the Children’s Theatre, she finally found the car she was looking for, still sitting where she’d noticed it the first time: a dented-up, rust-punched Buick Skylark with a cracked windshield and Minnesota plates, burgundy paint job baked dull by the sun.
Maya stood and looked at it. She walked all the way around and returned to the sidewalk.
Nah
, she thought, then flashed to the view from Benson’s house in Linden Hills. She saw herself standing alone at the wall of glass, looking out over Lake Calhoun, just before Juliet Benson announced herself in the room. Looking out over the lake, and the skyline beyond. And the street below.
She took one last long look at the beat-to-shit Skylark at the curb.
Then she turned and started running. Maya ran back up the sidewalk, back into Third Avenue, not waiting for traffic this time. Tires squealed. A horn blared. She hurried across, as fast as her heels would carry her, all the way to where Deon stood smoking a Parliament. Watching her with interest.
“This morning,” she said. “You shot roll outside Benson’s house, right?”
Deon nodded. “You know I did. We cut it in the pack.”
“The master. Is it in the truck or at the station?”
“Brought it with,” Deon said. He tossed his unfinished cigarette in the gutter, where it died with a hiss. “Why?”
Maya grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along after her, toward the truck. “Because I think I saw that car,” she said.
“What car?”
“That one,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the street, remembering the Skylark clearly now. It had looked just as out of place sitting at the curb in front of Benson’s house as it looked camouflaged by its surroundings here.
“You mean that one?” Deon said five minutes later, as they crowded around the mobile deck inside the truck.
Maya was already on the phone. Three rings, then a voice in her ear: “Barnhill.”
“Detective,” she said, belly sizzling as she stared at the image Deon had found for her on the small monitor. “It’s Maya Lamb. I think I have something you need to see.”
When the news went to commercials, Hal picked up the remote, muted the sound, and stood for a moment, facing the back bar. When he finally turned to Mike, his eyes seemed to express Mike’s own thoughts:
Did I see that right?
The photo of the girl they’d just shown on the news hadn’t come from any high school yearbook. But it put Mike immediately in mind of the photo of Becky Morse they’d shown last night. Wade Benson’s daughter actually looked a little like her. Not sisters or anything, but not Abbott and Costello. They were even the same age.
The comparison didn’t appear to be lost on Hal either.He looked like he was trying to figure out a math problem in his head. Mike didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer Hal came up with.
The bell over the door jingled then, and they both turned to see Regina hurry in, digging in her giant purse with one hand, applying an
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