know me.
I plopped back on my bed and pulled up the covers. When I closed my eyes, the leggy, confident brunette leaned against Nick Stiles and twined her arms around his neck. My face itched. I scratched my cheeks and tossed but finally gave up and went downstairs, wishing I had someone to talk to. Susan was right about one point: People weren’t meant to be alone, especially at night. I flipped on the television. A car blew up in some old detective show. I changed the channel. A televangelist made an appeal for money. I changed again. A woman ran out of a house, chased by a man with a gun. I clicked the set off, and the house was silent. The StairMaster, ever persevering, offered its companionship.
“Forget it,” I said out loud. Great. I was talking to a machine. I sat down, glaring at it. It glared back, daring me to climb on, silently listing all the reasons I should, including Beverly Gardener’s legs. That did it. I flung an afghan over it and went into the kitchen.
Dawn was still far off. Molly wouldn’t be up for hours. I yearned for morning. The newspaper, coffee, my daily routine. Traffic on the street. Grinding decaf, I gazed out the window. Victor’s house was completely dark, a shadow in the night. Construction vehicles partly blocked my view, but there was a light in Charlie’s basement. I could see his shadow moving around down there, tinkering. Awake, like me.
Phillip Woods’s Santa blinked on and off, beating at the darkness. I turned on the coffeemaker and waited, sniffing the rich aroma. It was strong and familiar, reassuring. I poured a mug and felt its steam on my face. Then, letting my mind wander toward exhaustion, I stared out the window at the frigid night. Crystalline ice still coated the trees, and the glazed streets were bleak and deserted. In the black intervals between flashes of the Santa, I watched the glow of Charlie’s window and sipped warm liquid through aching lips, until finally, sometime after three, I was able to drift off. I lingered, though, wavering between wakefulness and sleep, bothered by images of seduction and murder, while faces of missing women peppered my dreams.
TWENTY
THE NOISE WAS LOUD AND JANGLING, AND IT TOOK A WHILE for me to realize it was the phone.
“Okay, I’ve relapsed. I’m crazy again. Make me a reservation at the Happy Home.” Susan sounded frantic.
Damn, I thought. Here she goes again. Maybe I should refer her to someone, get her some medication.
“Zoe, you won’t believe what happened—”
Molly ran in and jumped onto my bed, giggling. “Mommy, are you ever going to get up?”
“What?” I pulled Molly onto my bed and rolled her over for ahug.
“Did I wake you up?”
“Of course not.”
“Yes, I did. I can hear it in your voice. Get the hell up—it’s almost ten o’clock. I’ve already purchased a gun for Bonita, worked, come back, and had a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m up. You got the gun?”
“Not yet. It takes a few days. This isn’t about the gun.”
“So what happened?” Molly lay on her stomach beside me, watching me talk.
“I was in the Roundhouse this morning about that Drews case—you know, that robbery-homicide—and who do I bump into? My buddies Pete and Ed. And some new guy named Stiles.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. For real. I met him.” “Did he know who you were?”
“He said sort of cryptically that he’d heard of me, so I guess he made the connection.” “And?”
“And he’s very . . . intriguing. Too bad about that scar. Imagine what he looked like before he got shot.”
I couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “So what happened? Please tell me you didn’t—”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything that would embarrass you.” “You swear?”
“Nothing. I didn’t even directly mention you, except—” “Except?”
“Except I asked if there was any news about your finger—” “Oh, great. Now he’ll think—”
“Wait a second—hear me out. Stiles looks me over like I’m nuts and says, ‘You must mean the finger found in Washington Square.’ I said no, I meant the first finger. The one Zoe Hayes found. And he said he knew nothing about anyone finding another finger.”
“Wait—he said what?”
She repeated herself, doing a not bad impression of Nick. “Believe me, I was tempted to show him another finger—”
“But why would he say that? He knows you know about it.”
“Dunno. Maybe he didn’t want to discuss it. He doesn’t really know me, after all.”
“But he knows who you are—he sat in front of your house last