Simpson case, who became the butt of months’ worth of late night jokes on television.
“The good news better be really good,” I say.
“I think it is. The witness heard the argument when Kenny was dropping Preston off at his house. He saw Preston get out of the car and Kenny’s car pull away.”
She’s right; this is very good news. For Kenny to have committed the murder later that night, he would have had to come back. If he was going to do that, why leave in the first place? It doesn’t exonerate him by any means, but it makes it more reasonable to argue that someone else entered the picture that night.
“Did he say what they were arguing about?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not really… he just heard bits and pieces. And he didn’t actually see Kenny, but he ID’d the car. I wrote a full report; there’s a copy on your desk, and I have one with me.”
This is such intriguing information that for a moment I forget the Findlay disaster. I’m prepared to bring it up when Laurie starts talking about this great walk and run she went on with Tara today. Is it possible she’s letting me off the hook?
We get home without any mention of the dreaded F-word, which is how I’ve come to think of Findlay. Tara meets me at the door, tail wagging furiously and head burrowed into me to receive my petting. Her excitement at seeing me is something I never take for granted; it’s a gift to be loved this much.
I take Tara for a walk and go back to the house. Laurie is in the bedroom, looking much as she did when I left, except for the fact that she’s not wearing any clothes. It’s a comfortable look, so I try it myself. I like it, so we try it together. It works really well.
After our lovemaking my mouth decides to once again blurt something out without first having discussed it with my brain. “I was in Findlay,” I say. “I met Sandy Walsh.”
She nods, though she seems slightly groggy and ready for sleep. “I know. He called me. He liked you a lot.”
“And I liked him. But I went there behind your back to check up on him… and on you. I was looking for ammunition to use to keep you here.”
“Mmmm. I know. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
I’m anxious and nervous about this subject, and it’s barely keeping her awake? “Laurie, I’m sorry I did it. It was devious and petty, and you deserve better.”
“It’s okay, Andy. I’m not angry with you. I appreciate what you did.”
“Excuse me? Earth to Laurie, Earth to Laurie, come in please, come in please. Why aren’t you pissed at me?”
She gets up on one elbow, apparently having given up for now on the possibility of imminent sleep. “Andy, you did what you did because you love me, because you don’t want to lose me. You also might be concerned that I could make a decision I’d regret. So what if you didn’t tell me about it in advance? What you did wasn’t terrible, nobody got hurt. All in all, it makes me feel good that you did it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
A few minutes later my mouth opens up again. “Laurie, I’m not sure I can stand it if you leave.”
She’s asleep. She can’t hear me.
TODAY’S A ROUGH day for Kenny Schilling. Not that there’s an easy day for him in County Jail, awaiting a trial that will determine if he’ll ever have another day of freedom. But today is the day of the Giants’ first exhibition game, and it’s a further, agonizing reminder to Kenny that he lives in a seven-by-ten-foot world, with no road trips.
My arrival today is a welcome diversion for Kenny from the boring hours with nothing to do but lie around and worry, but he no longer has that look of hopeful expectation when he sees me. It’s gotten through to him that there are not going to be any miracle finishes here, no Hail Mary passes. If we’re going to prevail, it will be at trial, and the road is straight uphill.
I ask Kenny about the death of Matt Lane, and his initial reaction seems to be surprise rather than concern. He tells pretty much the same story that Calvin told, though of course he claims to have had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, he says, no one has