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Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
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But without
a body all you have is a mystery that eats the soul like acid.
Jillson turned and looked
at Hess. The expression on his face didn't match the face—it was like a guy in
a surfboard ad ready to shoot somebody.
"I smelled
him."
Hess's heart seemed
to speed up a beat.
"I didn't tell the
other cops because the other cops didn't ask. Some guy named Kemp? He's the
reason some people hate cops. Anyway, Lael disappeared on a Thursday night.
Friday morning her car was found and towed I was called to get it out of hock.
When I let myself in to drive it away, I could smell him."
"And?"
"Faint. Cologne or
aftershave maybe. Real faint. But I smelled him. If I ever see him I'll kill
him."
Hess nodded. There wasn't
much you could say to that, except to be practical. "I'd like to, too. But
don't. You wouldn't like prison very much."
"It would be worth
it, just to punch a few holes in his face with my magnum."
"It's a better
thing to dream about than do. "Hess looked out to the west. There were other
mansions, acres of rolling yellow foothills, clean asphalt roads and the sharp
blue Pacific rising up to the sky. Robbie was still stuck in paradise, his Eve
departed.
Hess could say it wasn't
fair but he'd already said it a million times in his life. In spite of its
truth, the idea counted far less than it should.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Colesceau sat on his stool behind the
counter and looked out the dusty window. He read the words aviJomoiuA jjei off
the glass for the billionth time in his life and looked at his watch.
Twenty minutes. He could hear Pratt and Garry out back with the Shelby Cobra,
and the occasional cackle of Pratt's wife, Lydia. Every day, half an hour
before closing they'd start drinking beer and Colesceau would hear the rising pitch
of their conversation punctuated by the cchht, cchht, cchht of the cans popping open. All Pratt and Garry
talked about was cars and the body parts of women.
His job was to count and bag the money at closing, so he
counted and bagged it. There was $14 in cash and $220 in checks. He noted the
amounts and check numbers on the deposit slip and added the subtotals twice
before writing down the total.
"Hey, hey, Matty."
It was Lydia, sneaking up behind him again, hanging her hand over his
shoulder like they were on the same football team or something. She took
liberties with his first name, which he had clearly explained was M atamoros or Moros for short. But Lydia
was always playing with words and had called him Matamata for a while. According to a library encyclopedia
that Colesceau had consulted, the matamata was a "grotesque" river
turtle of South America that caught prey by distending its huge lower jaw and
sucking unwary animals down its gullet along with the water. He had asked her
not to call him that any longer and she had not.
"How did your interview go?"
"Very well."
"They're not
going to rat you out to your neighbors, are they?"
"I don't think so."
"Well," she
said, hand resting on his shoulder again, "I hope they don't. It's hard
enough to get on in this life without the cops stirring up the water every
place a man tries to go."
He wondered if this
water metaphor was a veiled reference to the grotesque matamata, but with
Lydia you couldn't say for sure. "I hope for the best."
"You're an
optimist. I admire that. You carry the weight for yourself. You're the only one
around here isn't always complaining."
"You don't."
She rolled her eyes
and shook her head. "I can keep my own counsel."
With Lydia, it was
always between you and her. She would be vague and playful, then pointed and
prying, all in one minute. But she had never betrayed a confidence to her
husband or Garry, at least Colesceau had never caught her at it She had this
way of pairing off, of making you think that somehow she was in this with you.
She stood beside him
now. With him sitting on the stool they were the same height Her breasts were
heavy and low in the tank tops she always wore and she had a
a body all you have is a mystery that eats the soul like acid.
Jillson turned and looked
at Hess. The expression on his face didn't match the face—it was like a guy in
a surfboard ad ready to shoot somebody.
"I smelled
him."
Hess's heart seemed
to speed up a beat.
"I didn't tell the
other cops because the other cops didn't ask. Some guy named Kemp? He's the
reason some people hate cops. Anyway, Lael disappeared on a Thursday night.
Friday morning her car was found and towed I was called to get it out of hock.
When I let myself in to drive it away, I could smell him."
"And?"
"Faint. Cologne or
aftershave maybe. Real faint. But I smelled him. If I ever see him I'll kill
him."
Hess nodded. There wasn't
much you could say to that, except to be practical. "I'd like to, too. But
don't. You wouldn't like prison very much."
"It would be worth
it, just to punch a few holes in his face with my magnum."
"It's a better
thing to dream about than do. "Hess looked out to the west. There were other
mansions, acres of rolling yellow foothills, clean asphalt roads and the sharp
blue Pacific rising up to the sky. Robbie was still stuck in paradise, his Eve
departed.
Hess could say it wasn't
fair but he'd already said it a million times in his life. In spite of its
truth, the idea counted far less than it should.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Colesceau sat on his stool behind the
counter and looked out the dusty window. He read the words aviJomoiuA jjei off
the glass for the billionth time in his life and looked at his watch.
Twenty minutes. He could hear Pratt and Garry out back with the Shelby Cobra,
and the occasional cackle of Pratt's wife, Lydia. Every day, half an hour
before closing they'd start drinking beer and Colesceau would hear the rising pitch
of their conversation punctuated by the cchht, cchht, cchht of the cans popping open. All Pratt and Garry
talked about was cars and the body parts of women.
His job was to count and bag the money at closing, so he
counted and bagged it. There was $14 in cash and $220 in checks. He noted the
amounts and check numbers on the deposit slip and added the subtotals twice
before writing down the total.
"Hey, hey, Matty."
It was Lydia, sneaking up behind him again, hanging her hand over his
shoulder like they were on the same football team or something. She took
liberties with his first name, which he had clearly explained was M atamoros or Moros for short. But Lydia
was always playing with words and had called him Matamata for a while. According to a library encyclopedia
that Colesceau had consulted, the matamata was a "grotesque" river
turtle of South America that caught prey by distending its huge lower jaw and
sucking unwary animals down its gullet along with the water. He had asked her
not to call him that any longer and she had not.
"How did your interview go?"
"Very well."
"They're not
going to rat you out to your neighbors, are they?"
"I don't think so."
"Well," she
said, hand resting on his shoulder again, "I hope they don't. It's hard
enough to get on in this life without the cops stirring up the water every
place a man tries to go."
He wondered if this
water metaphor was a veiled reference to the grotesque matamata, but with
Lydia you couldn't say for sure. "I hope for the best."
"You're an
optimist. I admire that. You carry the weight for yourself. You're the only one
around here isn't always complaining."
"You don't."
She rolled her eyes
and shook her head. "I can keep my own counsel."
With Lydia, it was
always between you and her. She would be vague and playful, then pointed and
prying, all in one minute. But she had never betrayed a confidence to her
husband or Garry, at least Colesceau had never caught her at it She had this
way of pairing off, of making you think that somehow she was in this with you.
She stood beside him
now. With him sitting on the stool they were the same height Her breasts were
heavy and low in the tank tops she always wore and she had a
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