see what you do with this: “He asked me whether I knew anybody who had an STD.”
Watkins doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at him in what appears to be shock, and Jim smiles inside. Then Watkins explodes. Clenching his fist and stomping his boot, he shouts, “Dammit. Dammit fucking all.”
“I don’t know how he knows,” he decides he’d better interject. “She—Kristen—must have said something to someone at some point. I don’t know. I told him I didn’t know anybody. He seemed to buy it.”
“Fuck me,” Watkins says. “Fuck me with a drain pipe. Did he say anything else?”
“No. Those were the two main things. He wanted to know whether I’d seen her with anybody else and whether I knew of anybody who had a VD.”
“What’d he ask first?”
“About the VD.”
“And what was his tone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he being pissy about it? Or was he just asking?”
“Just asking. I swear, I don’t think he knows who was involved. He’s got a clue, but he’s just fishing.”
Watkins starts pacing back and forth in the small space that’s afforded him, muttering a mix of profanities while hosting his own question-and-answer session. “How much does he know? If he’s asking specific questions like that, too much . . . and who knows what Mr. P. really told him . . . did he walk out of here with the answer he was looking for? Depends on how P. said what he said . . . subtle nuances to take in to consideration . . . how much time?”
He goes on like that for several minutes. It’s pretty disconcerting to watch. Watkins pacing and ranting, waving around the gun a little too liberally even for a fake, lost in his own world. And then he stops all of a sudden, pivots toward him and asks, “How long was he in here?”
“I don’t know. Not long. Maybe seven, eight minutes max.”
“Did he touch anything?”
Jim starts to say no, but then he catches himself and exclaims excitedly, “Yeah, he did actually.” He goes to the dresser. “This photo,” he said, reaching for the frame.
Watkins grabs his wrist, stopping his hand short of its destination. “Show me where. Did he touch the frame or the glass?”
He doesn’t know exactly where. Maybe both. He wasn’t really watching. He just remembers him picking it up and looking at it.
“Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“No.”
“Well, go to the bookstore and get one.”
“Right now? I’ve got a final to study for.”
“If you don’t go right now, it may be the final final you study for.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Me being a fucking genius,” he says. “I’ve got a brilliant idea.”
“What sort of idea?”
“I knew a girl once, back in Florida. She had this guy who liked her a lot.”
“So?”
“So he sent her a pizza. A special pizza that had all these funky toppings on it.”
“Like what?”
“Like rose petals. Like candied hearts. You know, those little Redhots. Sappy shit.”
Jim’s still puzzled.
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“You’ll see. Just go get the magnifying glass.”
36/ THE PIZZA
May 11, 2007—9:24 p.m.
THE CALL COMES IN LATE, AROUND 9:30 THAT SAME FRIDAY. Madden’s at home, helping his son set up a model roller-coaster in the basement, when his wife knocks on the door to tell him his cell phone is ringing. She hands him the phone at the top of the stairs.
“Detective Madden?” he hears a woman’s tense voice ask.
“Yes.”
“This is Samantha Pinklow,” she says, a little out of breath. “Carrie’s mom. I’m sorry to disturb you, but you said if anything came up we should call.”
He feels a little butterfly flutter in his stomach. “Yes, Mrs. Pinklow, what can I do for you?”
“Someone delivered a pizza to our home a few minutes ago.”
“OK,” he says, not knowing quite what to make of that.
“For starters, we didn’t order a pizza.”
“So you don’t know who delivered the pizza?”
“No. It just . . . well . . . appeared.”
Carrie, she explains, peeked out the front door to check why their dog was barking, and there it was, a large pizza box, sitting on the welcome mat. There was no note, no bill, nothing except the box. They thought maybe it was a wrong delivery.
“Is there a pizza inside?” he asks.
“Yes, but it has an unusual set of toppings.”
“Excuse me?”
“Can you please come over? We didn’t touch it. Carrie, she’s hysterical.”
“Mrs. Pinklow, what’s on the pizza?”
“Horrible things,” she says. “Please come. And hurry.”
About ten minutes later, Madden is on his haunches, looking down at the mystery pizza.