25

By early afternoon Dansk had almost finished going through the microfiche material in the newspaper morgue. He zoomed in on a photograph of Amanda taken outside a courtroom. Dressed in a dark suit with a double-breasted jacket, she was smiling into the camera. He gazed into her face. Was that fatigue he saw there? Or relief? He couldn’t decipher the expression.

The caption read, SANCHEZ PROSECUTOR RESIGNS.

He skimmed over the story. ‘Ms Scholes said she needed time for her personal life … looking forward to a vacation but gave no indication of where she plans to spend it … delighted the prolonged Sanchez case is finally over and that justice has been served.’

Justice served, and amen.

Behind Amanda in the photograph was a man identified as Lieutenant William Drumm. He had small slitted eyes and a benign smile. He was quoted as saying that the resignation of Special Prosecutor Scholes was a blow to the law-enforcement community. Amanda and the plump cop, a mutual admiration society.

The article also mentioned that Amanda’s successor was a guy called Dominic Concannon, a graduate of Columbia. Concannon said that Amanda Scholes had set very high standards, she was a hard act to follow.

She’d had a fair amount of press in her time, Dansk thought. Magazine profiles, newspapers, mainly in-State publications, but also a couple of nationals. She had views on big matters. Capital punishment (against in some instances, for in others – cop-killers, child-murderers). Abortion (pro-choice). She was critical of the legal profession, the usual gripes: too many frivolous lawsuits, too many ambulance-chasers, too many deals cut in back rooms.

He left the building, stepped out into the rain, sat in his car, took out his little notebook and leafed through it. This Amanda was one determined woman. She sailed into battle with cannons blazing. In court she harried defence witnesses, squabbled with opposing attorneys, took flak from the bench. Gutsy, and brainy, give her that.

Then out of the blue she’d had enough. Abracadabra, gone. He wondered what lay behind this decision. Maybe she realized she’d chosen a career that didn’t fulfil her, which wasn’t a decision she’d make lightly. He had the feeling she didn’t go into things in a superficial way, she’d figure the angles first, which was maybe too bad – superficial he could deal with.

He flicked the pages of his notebook to the biographical stuff. Father named Morgan Scholes, widower, rich business shark. Amanda had gone to law school in Los Angeles. She’d never married. Probably too busy being Ms Prosecutor, building the career, climbing the glory ladder. The fucking problem with microfiching your way into somebody’s life was how you didn’t get the full story, only the margins, and they were never satisfying.

For instance, did she have close friends? Old pals from college? People she’d confide in? People she’d turn to in an emergency? A support group? He wrote, ‘friends?’ in his notebook.

He gazed out at the rain streaming across the parking-lot. No sun, the city grim, passing cars making spray. Typical, you’re in the desert and it rains. He drove back to his hotel, left his car in the underground parking. McTell was waiting in reception. They went inside the empty bar and Dansk ordered a 7-Up. McTell asked for a Coors.

He hunched across the table. ‘The guy’s called John Rhees,’ he said. ‘He’s a professor. Teaches college here. Poetry or something.’

She’d want somebody smart, Dansk thought. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘According to this busybody neighbour I talked with, they’ve been living in a cabin up near Flagstaff past few weeks. Seems she was sick or something.’

Sick. Dansk wondered about that. Sick didn’t tell you much. He settled back in his chair. ‘You’ve been busy, Eddie.’

‘Nice guy Rhees,’ McTell said.

‘Don’t tell me. You talked to him.’

‘A few minutes.’

Dansk asked, ‘What did you say, you were from the electric company and had to read his meter?’

‘Trade secret, Anthony.’

‘Did you see the woman?’

‘Uh-huh.’ McTell stared inside his drink. ‘Whaddya think, Anthony? We gonna have to do surgery or what?’

Dansk said nothing. Surgery, he thought. Arteries ruptured, blood pumping.

‘We can’t like hang out here for ever,’ McTell said.

‘We like hang out until I say otherwise, McTell.’

McTell blew out his cheeks and looked sullen, resembling a puffer-fish in a bad humour.

Dansk pushed his chair back from the table. He thought about the French restaurant last night, the way Amanda and Rhees had held hands across the table. He was aware of a bleak little blue-yellow gas flame of loneliness inside his head. He recalled how she’d leaned across the table and dabbed Rhees’s lips with her napkin, the concern that was maternal and sexy at the same time. Concealed behind a vase of carnations, Dansk had picked at his salade niçoise without any enjoyment.

He’d followed Rhees inside the men’s room at one point and stood at the urinal next to him. In the strained manner of conversations conducted between strangers pissing side by side, Dansk had said, ‘It’s always a good sign when a restaurant has a spotless toilet.’

Rhees, zipping up, had agreed. Out of casual interest, Dansk had glanced very quickly at Rhees’s flaccid penis – circumcized, mid-sized number, nothing to write home about – then he’d washed his hands and held them under the hot-air dryer.

Dansk said, ‘Sanitary. Better than towels.’

Rhees said, ‘Those gadgets don’t dry as well as towels.’

‘Towels carry germs,’ Dansk had remarked.

Rhees had said, ‘I guess it’s down to personal preference,’ and smiled affably, the smile of a man who knows his love is waiting for his return. Dansk had pictured this lean man with the easy smile fucking Amanda. He’d imagined Amanda’s spread thighs and pubic shadows and moonlight on a window and Rhees saying he loved her, and he wondered what that was like, living your life as if you belonged inside it.

Dansk stood up now. Remembering Rhees depressed him. ‘I think I’ll rack out for a while.’

McTell said, ‘Later.’

Dansk took the elevator up to his room. He hung the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle and closed the door. He started to take off his jacket, then realized he wasn’t alone. The man who sat on the bed wore a long black overcoat and a black cashmere beret. His breathing was shallow and laboured.

Dansk didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He was surprised by the guy’s appearance, conscious of turbulence in his head. He had his jacket halfway off, an empty arm dangled at his side.

The man covered his mouth with a black-gloved hand and coughed a couple of times. His eyes were bloodshot and runny and, Dansk thought, disgusting.

The man opened his briefcase. He produced a thick wad of crisp banknotes, set it on the bedside table and said, ‘Payroll time for your guys, Anthony.’