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Authors: John Sandford
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you.”
“Oh, boy. You’re right.”
“You’re gonna have to lie a little,” I said.
“I’m gonna have to lie a lot, ” she said.
“You can pull it off if you think about it,” I said. “You’ve gotta be surprised and you’ve gotta be pissed. It’s their fault—the cops’ fault—that the place burneddown. You told them that something was going on, that your brother had been murdered. You gotta yell at them.”
“Not yell. But I’ll be mad. I am mad,” she said. “Somebody did murder him.”
“You gotta insist that you go back to Dallas, and you have to demand to look at the hard drives on the computers. That might keep them from having a local cop come around to talk to you. There’s no reason for them to suspect that you were burned in the fire, there’s no reason for them to think that they have to see you right away. And you do have to stay here for the funeral.”
“So it depends on how long it takes the burns to heal,” she said.
“Yes. But you can’t stall them: you just have to be busy. You have to leave them with the impression that you’re pissed off and you’re gonna be back in their faces as soon as you have the time.”
She thought about it for a minute, then said, “I can do that.”
“Cops aren’t dummies. Not most of them, anyway.”
“Maybe he won’t be the same guy I talked to last time. I mean, I talked to a different cop the first time. . . . That’d make it easier.”
“Whoever it is, you’ve got to be careful, and you’ve got to be real. Cops got built-in bullshit detectors,” I said.
At San Francisco, we picked up her car from a satellite lot and drove south to Palo Alto, went straight to her house, dumped the luggage: “Emergency room,” I said.
“I’ve got a doctor I see . . .”
“Emergency room is right now, and it’s anonymous, and it may stop the pain,” I said.
She didn’t argue.
W e even managed to get a little sleep that night.
At ten o’clock in the morning, after five hours in bed, I heard somebody knocking around in the house. I rolled off the bed—I’d crashed in her spare room—and pulled on my jeans and T-shirt. She was in the kitchen, making coffee.
“How is it?”
“Hurts,” she said. She’d gotten cleaned up, as best she could, but said that water hurt the burns. She was wearing loose khaki pants with a long-sleeved cotton peasant shirt, and again I could sense just a dab of the flowery French scent. She smelled terrific, and looked terrific in the peasant blouse, if you didn’t know that she was dressed to hide new burns.
Her face was all right; the burn there resembled a bad sunburn, and would heal soon enough. Her arms were the worst of it. The doc had lanced the blisters the night before, to relieve the pressure, but they were filling again.
“The anesthetic doesn’t help?” I asked. She’d gotten a spray-on topical anesthetic at the hospital. The doctors had said it was stronger than the Solarcaine.
“Helps for a while,” she said. “Then it starts to hurt again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said. “But I don’t think I could do what you do. . . . For a living, I mean.”
“This usually isn’t a part of it,” I said.
“Sometimes it must be . . .” She looked me over, and I couldn’t deny that there’d been trouble in the past.
“Nothing like fire,” I said. “Fire scares me.”
“Me, too, now.” She reached toward her neck as though she were going to scratch, stopped herself and smiled and said, “I’m going to be a really bitchy patient.”
I went out and got a sack of bagels and some cream cheese, and we toasted bagels and drank coffee and talked about Jack and the Jaz disks. When we finished, she said she was going to try to lie down again—“The pain really isn’t terrible; it just makes me want to scream. It’s giving me a headache.”
“All right. Point me to your computer first. You got a Jaz drive?”
“No. But we’re about two
“Oh, boy. You’re right.”
“You’re gonna have to lie a little,” I said.
“I’m gonna have to lie a lot, ” she said.
“You can pull it off if you think about it,” I said. “You’ve gotta be surprised and you’ve gotta be pissed. It’s their fault—the cops’ fault—that the place burneddown. You told them that something was going on, that your brother had been murdered. You gotta yell at them.”
“Not yell. But I’ll be mad. I am mad,” she said. “Somebody did murder him.”
“You gotta insist that you go back to Dallas, and you have to demand to look at the hard drives on the computers. That might keep them from having a local cop come around to talk to you. There’s no reason for them to suspect that you were burned in the fire, there’s no reason for them to think that they have to see you right away. And you do have to stay here for the funeral.”
“So it depends on how long it takes the burns to heal,” she said.
“Yes. But you can’t stall them: you just have to be busy. You have to leave them with the impression that you’re pissed off and you’re gonna be back in their faces as soon as you have the time.”
She thought about it for a minute, then said, “I can do that.”
“Cops aren’t dummies. Not most of them, anyway.”
“Maybe he won’t be the same guy I talked to last time. I mean, I talked to a different cop the first time. . . . That’d make it easier.”
“Whoever it is, you’ve got to be careful, and you’ve got to be real. Cops got built-in bullshit detectors,” I said.
At San Francisco, we picked up her car from a satellite lot and drove south to Palo Alto, went straight to her house, dumped the luggage: “Emergency room,” I said.
“I’ve got a doctor I see . . .”
“Emergency room is right now, and it’s anonymous, and it may stop the pain,” I said.
She didn’t argue.
W e even managed to get a little sleep that night.
At ten o’clock in the morning, after five hours in bed, I heard somebody knocking around in the house. I rolled off the bed—I’d crashed in her spare room—and pulled on my jeans and T-shirt. She was in the kitchen, making coffee.
“How is it?”
“Hurts,” she said. She’d gotten cleaned up, as best she could, but said that water hurt the burns. She was wearing loose khaki pants with a long-sleeved cotton peasant shirt, and again I could sense just a dab of the flowery French scent. She smelled terrific, and looked terrific in the peasant blouse, if you didn’t know that she was dressed to hide new burns.
Her face was all right; the burn there resembled a bad sunburn, and would heal soon enough. Her arms were the worst of it. The doc had lanced the blisters the night before, to relieve the pressure, but they were filling again.
“The anesthetic doesn’t help?” I asked. She’d gotten a spray-on topical anesthetic at the hospital. The doctors had said it was stronger than the Solarcaine.
“Helps for a while,” she said. “Then it starts to hurt again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she said. “But I don’t think I could do what you do. . . . For a living, I mean.”
“This usually isn’t a part of it,” I said.
“Sometimes it must be . . .” She looked me over, and I couldn’t deny that there’d been trouble in the past.
“Nothing like fire,” I said. “Fire scares me.”
“Me, too, now.” She reached toward her neck as though she were going to scratch, stopped herself and smiled and said, “I’m going to be a really bitchy patient.”
I went out and got a sack of bagels and some cream cheese, and we toasted bagels and drank coffee and talked about Jack and the Jaz disks. When we finished, she said she was going to try to lie down again—“The pain really isn’t terrible; it just makes me want to scream. It’s giving me a headache.”
“All right. Point me to your computer first. You got a Jaz drive?”
“No. But we’re about two
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