Chance rode shotgun in the big Cadillac, and looked for signs of the best friend he’d known for most of his life. This one seemed quieter, edgy, and unforgiving. He squinted as he drove, lines at the corners of his eyes. It seemed wrong to be in a “borrowed” car, but Gibby didn’t seem to care about that, either. He spun the wheel with ease, like it was not his mother’s car. When he nodded, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “Last time I saw Sara, she wouldn’t talk to me. This time will be different. Watch and see.”
Chance knew little of what Gibby intended, only that Tyra was the dead girl, and Sara the roommate. “What do you think she’ll tell you? I mean, best-case scenario, what are you hoping for?”
“I need information about Tyra. Where she worked. Other friends. Other boyfriends. Anything that’s not right. I need a place to start. If anyone can give that to me, it’s Sara.” He slowed the big car. “This is her street.”
“Looks expensive.”
“That’s her place, the third one down.”
Chance watched the condo as the car slid to a stop at the curb. The curtains were closed. A banged-up Mercedes was parked in the driveway.
“That’s Tyra’s car. The one she wrecked at Jason’s.”
“Does Sara have a car?”
“I don’t see it.” Gibby stepped out onto the street, and Chance followed him to the sidewalk, then up five steps to the stoop. “That doesn’t look right.” The front door stood ajar.
“Come on, man. Just ring the bell.”
But Gibby was already inside, so Chance followed him to a living room littered with empty wine bottles and dirty glasses. “That’s not right, either.” Gibby pointed at an open window, curtains stirring in the breeze. “Air conditioner is running. I can hear it. Sara!”
Gibby took the stairs two at a time, and Chance followed at his heels. The first bedroom was a mess, clothing everywhere, the bed unmade. “Tyra’s, I think.”
The second bedroom was more neatly kept, with pale, pink walls and views on to the park across the street. The bed was slept-in but empty, a pile of tiny clothes beside it. Terry cloth short shorts. A tank top. Chance picked up a framed photograph: two girls in the Mercedes, top down, one of them flashing a peace sign at whoever held the camera. “That’s her?”
“The blonde with the peace sign. The other one is Tyra.”
The blankets on the bed were thrown back, the fitted sheet pulled free at three corners. A water glass had spilled on the bedside table. The lamp was knocked over and broken. On the far side of the bed, Gibby found a wad of wet cloth balled against the second pillow. He picked it up. “It’s wet. It stinks.”
“What is it?”
Gibby dropped it on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Something bad, some kind of chemical. I think we need to call the cops.”
“You mean your father?”
“Not my father. Not this time.”
It took Burklow twenty minutes to get there, and he came inside with a wary glance. “Your call was pretty cryptic.”
“I thought we should talk in person.”
“Tell me first why you’re here.”
His eyes flicked from Chance’s face to mine, and I answered with a shrug. “I wanted to talk to Sara.”
“I mean, why are you inside her apartment?”
“The door was open.”
“So you walked in?”
“Basically.”
“All right. Walk me through it.”
There wasn’t much, but I told him what I knew. The rumpled bed and broken lamp, the wadded-up ball of sticky, sweet-smelling cloth.
Burklow cocked an eyebrow. “Sweet-smelling, but with a burn?”
“Back of my throat, yeah.”
“What else?”
“A back window is open, too, air-conditioning running on high.”
“What did you touch?”
“The door. The banister. The rag on the bed.”
“That’s it?”
“The glass on the bedside table. I stood it upright.”
He pointed at Chance. “What about you?”
“I didn’t touch a thing.”
“Which room is Sara’s?”
“Top left.”
He glanced at the stairwell, then studied the living room for long seconds, taking in the bottles, the dirty dishes. “Why didn’t you call your father about this?”
“We’re not really talking.”
Burklow made a sound in his throat, his eyes on everything but me. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”
He examined locks at the door and window, then took the stairs up. He was back in two minutes, very cop. “Come with me.” We followed him to the front door. He checked the sidewalks and the street. “Did anyone see you come inside?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But people were around?”
“Yeah, sure. Cars. Bikes. Regular people.”
“Anyone especially close or paying particular attention?”
“Ken, what’s going on?”
“You boys need to leave.”
“Why?”
“Listen, kid. You called me for help, and I came. Now, I’m saying jump, and that’s what I need you to do.”
I didn’t move. I made a point of it.
“All right, damn it. Fine.” Ken leaned in close, more cop now than ever. “The window’s been forced, but the front door is undamaged. That means someone came in through the back, and left by the front. Could be a simple burglary. Smash and grab. Happens all the time. But the rag you found—that sweet smell—that’s chloroform. It’s an anesthetic.”
“What are you saying?”
“Forced entry. Chloroform. Signs of a struggle. Worst-case scenario, someone took her.”
I said, “Jesus, Sara…”
“That’s worst case for her. We haven’t talked about you.” I touched my chest, and his features hardened. “Listen, son. Tyra’s dead and Sara is missing. Martinez and Smith already have doubts about you, especially Martinez.”
Chance said, “Wait. What doubts?”
Burklow scowled, but answered the question. “After Tyra turned up dead, they found Gibby here with Sara. Given the circumstances and timing, any cop would wonder—victim’s roommate with the suspect’s brother—but these guys are assholes, too, and no fans of Bill, either. They’re being quiet about it, but deep down, they’re asking themselves if Jason was working alone or not, and if not, who else was involved. Gibby knew Tyra. He knew where she lived and what she drove, maybe her patterns and movements. He’s been romantic with Sara—that means inside access, familiarity. Now this thing with Sara … the timing is a problem.”
I understood at once. “Because Jason is in prison.”
“If something has happened to Sara, it is literally impossible that Jason had anything to do with it. Martinez and Smith will think, Accomplice…”
“And if people here saw us…”
“Easy, now. Let’s not panic.” Burklow put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Chance’s. “You boys were never here. You get me? You know nothing of chloroform or a jimmied window or a broken lamp. You didn’t call any cops. Understand?” We nodded, and he gave us both a squeeze. “Go on, then. Get the fuck out of here.”
For me, the next minutes passed in a haze. I made a left turn. I stopped at red lights. Burklow thought Sara had been taken. Chance had little doubt that he was right.
“We could have walked in on him. Do you hear me? A few minutes earlier, and he might have killed us, too. This close, man. This damn close.”
He’d said something similar twice already, but I didn’t care about the same things as Chance.
“Dude, I am talking to you. This close!” Chance showed a thumb and finger, half an inch apart. “Can you at least acknowledge that?”
I shook my head, thinking entirely different thoughts. “We need to do something.”
“Do what?”
I thought, Find Sara, save Jason.
Chance must have understood because he said, “Pull over, Gibby. Park the car.”
“Why?”
“Just park the car.”
I turned into a Rexall parking lot and stopped beside a strip of dirt littered with pull tabs and cigarette butts.
“Turn off the engine.”
I did that, too. It was hot in the shade. Traffic blew past on the four-lane.
“Now tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we should find the guy.”
“We talked about this.”
“You talked about it. I listened.”
“Find the guy. Shit. Just find him. I mean, look at your face! Find him!” Chance got out of the car, and traffic blew past. “I’m going to buy some smokes.” He went inside, and stayed for a long time. When he came back, he was calmer. He lit a cigarette, and hung his arm out the window. “How would you do it?”
“I have no idea.”
“And if you did find him?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Damn, Gibby … just … shit.” He tossed out the cigarette, barely smoked. “You’re an impossible friend. You know that, right? A pain-in-the-ass, impossible friend.” I kept my mouth shut. “Don’t smirk like that.”
“It’s not a smirk.”
But it kind of was, and Chance knew it.
He said, “Okay, genius. What next?”
“We need a new car,” I said. “Before my mother finds out we stole this one.”
“How do you propose to find a car?”
“Come with me.”
I walked to a pay phone across the lot, and dropped in two dimes. “Becky, hey. It’s me.”
“Gibson French, I was hoping you might call.”
“Was there ever a doubt?”
“Well, you did see me in my underwear.”
“All the more reason.”
She laughed.
I got to the point.
“Listen, Becky. I need a favor.”
When I stepped from the phone booth, Chance was waiting. “She’ll help,” I said.
“She doesn’t have a car.”
“No, but Dana White does.”
I started walking, and Chance trotted to catch up. “You know that Dana White is not exactly our friend.”
“True.” I slid behind the wheel of the Cadillac. “But Becky said she only looks like a brittle bitch.”
“She actually said that?”
“Yeah.” I laughed a bit. “She did.”
Half a block from home, I saw Becky, as lovely as ever in a T-shirt, denim shorts, and the same white vinyl boots where I’d seen a safety pin in the zipper, standing at the curb by Dana White’s car. I stopped before I got too close, told Chance to get out, and drove on before Becky could get a good look at my face.
That part was going to be tricky.
My mother’s car slid into the garage as if it had never left, and I skulked out of the driveway in a half crouch. On the street, I tried to keep the limp out of my walk, but Becky already had one hand up to cover her mouth. Either Chance had told her what happened or she had better eyesight than I thought. Up close, I saw the shine in her eyes, though she hardened quickly.
“Let me see,” she said. “I can handle it.”
I removed the cap first.
“Glasses, too.”
I took off the shades, and Becky studied the cuts and the cruel, black stitches. “Chance said it was bikers.”
“That’s right.”
“Because you were asking questions about your brother.”
“He didn’t kill anybody.”
Becky said nothing.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you have a good heart.” She placed soft hands on my face, and kissed the places that hurt. “I believe I like you more now than ever.”
Her hands stayed on my face until Chance cleared his throat, making it awkward. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you home.”
“What if I don’t want to go home?”
“You can’t come with us.”
“Because it’s dangerous?”
“Look at my face, Becky. Something like this could happen again, or something worse. I don’t even have a plan.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should,” I said.
But she crossed her arms, unmoved and unmoving. “Do you want the car or not?”