37

Harrison Clinton, I said to myself as I piloted my car home from the station. Was I surprised? Numb? Shocked? Angry? Angry, yes, because I’d believed a man who had a set of credentials, a deferential drawl, a face and body that stood up to close scrutiny. Had attraction made me blind? Shouldn’t I have questioned his distrust of Jamieson? Instead my own dislike of Jamieson made Clinton seem more reasonable.

Good old Harry Clinton. A man whose work might take him from Boston to Texas to Boston again, with no one asking too many questions about his comings and goings.… A man with access to any one of the boxy neutral sedans, the Aries, Reliants, and low-cost Chevys the INS kept as agency cars. A man who lied as easily as he breathed. “If I’d been tailing you, you wouldn’t have known it, ma’am.” I’d believed him.

A man who’d kissed me. To be honest, a man I’d kissed. A man I’d almost invited to bed. A man who extorted and raped and killed. I sucked in air and sped through the tail end of a yellow light.

I should have—I stopped myself on the edge of a pit of self-recrimination. I know it’s useless, but the habit clings.

The Toyota made the turn into my driveway of its own accord. I rummaged in my handbag for keys. It took all my concentration to fit the key into the lock and make the door work.

I hollered for Roz, but there was no answering yell. Still out looking for Paolina. I thought about joining the search, but I knew damn well I needed a couple hours with the covers over my head before I could function.

I wrote Roz a note in bold red Magic Marker: “If you hear from Harry Clinton, wake me immediately! Don’t trust him!”

I thought about adding another brief sentence. “He’s a killer.” Then I tried “He’s a murderer.” Either way Roz wouldn’t believe me.

There was a note on the fridge reminding me not to miss tomorrow’s volleyball practice. Biggest game of the season coming up. I took the note down and replaced it with my larger red warning. Then I checked the meager contents of the refrigerator, yanked out a carton of orange juice, and stood in the chill of the open door, gulping it down.

T. C. came yowling into the room, and I wondered when I’d last fed him. I fetched a can of his favorite FancyFeast and tried to make amends. He sneered at me, but he gobbled like a starved alley-cat.

Barely managing to negotiate the stairs and kick my sneakers off, I fell asleep fully dressed, sprawled across the bedclothes. I woke a seeming instant later to the shrill demand of the telephone. My mouth felt dry as bone.

The voice was a familiar Texas drawl. I sat up in bed, suddenly alert and focused. My hand tightened on the receiver.

“Uh, hi,” I said, willing my voice deliberately casual.

“I’m calling about Saturday night.”

“Uh, yeah,” I managed.

“Think you can make it? Dinner?”

“Sure,” I said evenly. “Glad you remembered. Looking forward to it.”

There was a long pause. I could hear him breathing. He gave a snort that might have been a laugh. “You know, you’re good. Real good. Almost good enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I know,” he said. His voice was different, colder. The words came faster and the good-old-boy accent had diminished.

“What do you know?”

“You’re the bitch who screwed it up. She’d never have gone to the cops on her own.”

“Where are you?” I said.

The voice got lazy again. “You knew about me, didn’t you? That’s why you put me off. Otherwise we’d have gone upstairs and fucked, right? I never have trouble with women. I mean, I don’t have to buy it or beg for it, you know.”

I tried to picture Harry Clinton. This man on the phone had his voice, but it seemed to me, listening to him, that his appearance must have changed. How I hate it that monsters look normal. The deception of that outward normality prickled up my spine as I listened to him rant.

“I mean, I had to cut up Manuela, didn’t I? Once I realized the stupid bitch didn’t have the damned card on her. Somebody finds the card, matches it to the corpse, they’re going to start checking Immigration files, right? Lead ’em to my little side business. You know, everything that happened, it’s Manuela’s damned fault. She stole my ID folder, stole it while she was doing me in the back room at Hunneman. Cutting her was bad, you know? She was okay, smart. Too smart. Like you. Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“I had to kill those other women too. Can you believe that Manuela, telling all those other bitches about me? About where I worked and what my real name was? Cutting them was bad, but I cleaned it all up. I can think rings around any cop. Jamieson, he up and asked me about phony green cards. Hell, it wasn’t phony, just blank. I did the photo for Manuela, to gain a little time. The damn blackmailing bitch. You listening?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“You’re gonna help me get out of this. There’s no real evidence against me. I cleaned everything up. There’s just that damned woman, the one the police have, thanks to you. She can say it’s me, convince a jury. Other than her word they’ll never get squat. I want her, and you’re going to deliver her.”

“Forget it. There’s plenty of evidence. Once they start doing forensics with you in mind, they’ll be able to—”

“Shut up. There’s nothing a good lawyer can’t knock down. I’m no moron. I’m a pro. I wanted to be a cop, you know that, but I got into this immigration stuff instead. I know all about forensics. But that woman, she gets all teary-eyed and a jury buys anything she says. Juries don’t give a damn about fingerprints and expert testimony. But give ’em a victim, an eyewitness, and they slobber all over the floor. Hell, what am I talking trial for? There won’t be a trial. I’m walking away from this. You’re gonna help me. Help me get that Ana girl away from the cops. So listen.”

“I’ve been listening.”

“This part you might want to write down.”

“What?”

“My terms.”

“For giving yourself up?” I grabbed an old bank statement and a pencil from my bedside table while I spoke. I stared at my wristwatch, noted the time.

“Go ahead, play stupid. Go ahead. You don’t need to understand. Just tell your cop friend I want to deal. I want that Spanish girl they’ve got in jail. I want her delivered to me today, this afternoon, at three o’clock. You’ll escort her.”

“Where?”

“I’ll call back in an hour.”

“The cops aren’t going to go along with this stunt. Why the hell should they?”

“Well, I sure thought I was in trouble,” he said as if he hadn’t heard my question. “Jamieson sniffing around, you out at Hunneman’s. Thought I might be in too deep, but I guess I’m a lucky man.”

He made that noise again, the one that might have been a laugh. “I got me a guest in my office. You want to say hello to your baby sister? You hang on now, and I’ll put her right on the line.”

“Paolina?” I could barely get the name out.

“Carlotta,” came her small, scared voice. “I’m sorry—”

“I’ll be in touch,” drawled Clinton. And the line went dead. I kept jiggling the little button and repeating her name.