“No, you didn’t,” I say, shocked.
“Yeah, we did,” the younger one agrees with his partner. “It was all in the report. He said all that stuff last night, about the key.”
“Not the stuff about Steve,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure there was a Steve in the report,” the older detective says.
“Steve,” the younger one says. “Or a John, maybe.”
“There’s no John,” I say. “Only a Doug. Or maybe a Mark. Mark was the dead girl’s boyfriend. Well, except she was seeing a guy named Doug on the side. And now there’s Steve. Only there’s no Steve that I know of—”
“We already got all that,” the younger detective says again, looking annoyed.
I glare at them. “Where’s Detective Canavan?”
“He couldn’t get into the city this morning,” the older one says. “On account of the road conditions where he lives.”
“Well,” I say, “are you going to call him and tell him about this Steve guy? Or do I have to do it?”
The younger detective says, “We already told you, miss. We know about—”
“Sure, we’ll call him,” the older one interrupts.
The younger one looks startled. “But Marty—”
“We’ll call him,” the older one says again, with a wink at the younger one. The younger one goes, “Oh, yeah. Yeah. We’ll call him.”
I just stand there and stare at them. It’s clear Detective Canavan already told them about me. It’s also clear he didn’t say anything good.
“You know,” I say truculently, “I have his cell number. I could just call him myself.”
“Why don’t you do that?” Marty, the older detective says. “I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
The younger one cracks up.
I feel myself blush. Am I really that big a pain in Detective Canavan’s ass? I mean, I know I am. But I never thought he went around complaining about me to the rest of the detectives. Am I the joke of the Sixth Precinct?
Probably.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll just be going now.” And I turn to leave.
“Wait. Ms. Wells?”
I turn back to face them. The younger detective is holding out a pen and a notepad.
“Sorry, Ms. Wells, I almost forgot.” He looks totally serious. “Can I have your autograph?”
I narrow my eyes at him. What kind of joke is this?
“Seriously,” he says. “I told my kid sister you hang around the station a lot, and she asked me to get your autograph for her, if I could.”
He looks sincere. I take the pen and notepad, feeling a rush of embarrassment for having been so huffy to him.
“Sure,” I say. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Oh, she just wants your signature,” the detective says. “She says autographs don’t sell as well on eBay when they’re personalized.”
I glare at him. “She wants my autograph just so she can sell it?”
“Well, yeah,” the detective says, looking as if he can’t believe I’d think anything else. “What else is she going to do with all those old CDs of yours? She says she has a better chance of selling hers if she can throw in an autograph. She says it’ll make her stand out from all the millions of other people selling their Heather Wells collection.”
I hand the pad and pen back to him. “Goodbye, Detectives,” I say, and turn to go.
“Aw, come on,” the detective calls after me. “Heather! Don’t be that way!”
“Can’t we all just get along?” Marty wants to know. He’s laughing so hard, he can barely get the words out.
When I get to the elevator, I turn and tell them what I think of them. With my middle finger.
But this just makes them laugh harder.
They’re wrong, what they say about a crisis bringing out the best in New Yorkers. It so doesn’t.
18
Don’t let love pass you like a headlight
Carrying your heart on through the night
No use in waiting for things to happen
Pull on over, put up a fight.
“Don’t Let Love”
Written by Heather Wells
I make it back to Fischer Hall in one piece…more or less. I can’t find a cab—there just aren’t any. The few cars I see on the road are cop cars. One of them bottoms out on Sixth Avenue, then sits there, its rear wheels spinning, while a bunch of people come out of the nearby coffee shop and Gap to help them get unstuck.
Not me, though. I’ve had my fill of cops for the day.
I’m still grumpy about the autograph thing when I finally step into my office…only to find Tom in my seat, and the door to his office closed. Behind it, I hear the murmur of Dr. Kilgore’s voice.
“Oh, come on,” I say, yanking off my knit hat. I can feel my hair floating in the air because of all the static, but I don’t care. “You’re telling me she’s here again?”
“For the rest of the week, I’m afraid,” Tom says glumly. “But cheer up. Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“Still.” I pull off my coat and slump into Sarah’s chair. “I feel violated. Who’s in there?”
“Cheryl Haebig,” he says.
“Again?”
He shrugs. “Her roommate got killed. She’s all broken up about it.”
I glower at the Monet print on the wall. “Lindsay wasn’t as great as everyone thinks she was,” I hear myself say.
Tom raises his eyebrows. “Hello?”
“Well, she wasn’t,” I say. “You know she totally sweet-talked Manuel into giving her his key to the caf. What did she need it for? She told him she left something in there that she had to get. But why didn’t she go to one of the RAs if that was the case? They’d have been able to let her in just as easily as Manuel, if all she needed to do was grab something. No, she went to him because he was on his way out to a date and she knew he didn’t have time to wait for her to get whatever it was, and would just hand over the key if she asked for it. So then she’d have it all night. She was working him. The way she worked all the boys. And the girls, even. I mean, Magda was gaga for her.”
“You seem to have a lot of issues with Lindsay,” Tom says. “Maybe you need to talk to Dr. Kilgore next.”