before the jury. She’d had enough of the police for a while. And she didn’t entirely trust the system. Furthermore, she knew that the local authorities would not be eager to investigate a report of a murder in a far jurisdiction when they had plenty of homegrown crime to keep them busy. She couldn’t claim to have known Lukipela. Her accusation was based on her faith in Leilani, and though she was convinced the cops also would find the girl credible, her own testimony was hearsay.
She kept her reply succinct: “Luki’s disappearance has to be investigated eventually, sure, but right now the issue is Leilani, her safety. You don’t have to wait for the cops to prove Luki was murdered before you can protect Leilani. She’s alive now, in trouble now, so it seems to me that her situation has to be addressed first.”
Eschewing comment, turning to her computer once more, F typed for two or three minutes. She might have been entering a version of Micky’s statement or she might have been composing an official report and closing out the file without further action.
Beyond the window, the day looked fiery. A nearby palm tree wore a ruffled collar of dead brown fronds. California burning.
When she stopped typing and turned to Micky again, F said, “One more question, if you don’t mind. You may consider it too personal to answer, and of course you’re under no obligation.”
Wary, applying a smile no more sincere than lipstick, Micky hoped that the.machinery of Child Protective Services would get the job done in spite of how badly this interview had gone. “What is it?”
“Did you find Jesus in jail?”
“Jesus?”
“Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Vishnu, L. Ron Hubbard. Lots of people find religion behind bars.”
“What I hope I found there was direction, Ms. Bronson. And more common sense than I went in with.”
“People take up lots of things in prison that are pretty much religions, even if they aren’t recognized as such,” the caseworker said. “Extreme political movements, left-wing and right-wing, some of them race-based, most with a grudge against the world.”
“I don’t have a grudge against anyone.”
“I’m sure you realize why I’m curious.”
“Frankly, no.”
F clearly doubted Micky’s denial. “We both know Preston Maddoc inspires hatred from various factions, both religious and political.”
“Actually I don’t know. I really don’t know who he is.”
F ignored this protestation. “Lots of people who’re usually at odds with one another are united on Maddoc. They want to destroy him just because they disagree with him philosophically.”
Even with her bottomless reservoir of anger to draw upon, Micky wasn’t able to pump up any rage at the accusation that philosophical motives drove her to character assassination. She almost laughed. “Hey, my philosophy is to make as few waves as possible, get through the day, and maybe find a little happiness in something that won’t land you in a mess of trouble. That’s as deep as I get.”
“All right then,” said F. “Thank you for coming in.”
The caseworker turned to the computer.
A long moment passed before Micky realized that she’d been dismissed. She didn’t get up. “You’ll send someone out there?”
“It’s got a case number now. There has to be follow-through.”
“Today?”
F looked up from the computer, not at Micky but at one of the posters: a fluffy white cat wearing a red Santa hat and sitting in snow. “Not today, no. There’s no physical or sexual abuse involved. The child isn’t at immediate risk.”
Feeling as though she had failed completely to be understood, Micky said, “But he’s going to kill her.”
Gazing wistfully at the cat, as if she wished she could crawl into the poster with it, trading the California meltdown for a white Christmas, F said, “Assuming the girl’s story isn’t a fantasy, you said he’ll kill her on her birthday, which isn’t until February.”
“By her birthday,” Micky corrected. “Maybe next February— maybe next week. Tomorrow’s Friday. I mean, you don’t work on weekends, and if you don’t get out there today or tomorrow, they might be gone.”
F’s stare was so fixed, her eyes so glazed, that she appeared to be meditating on the image of the cat.
The caseworker was a psychic black hole. In her vicinity, you could feel your emotional energy being sucked away.
“Their motor home is being overhauled,” Micky persisted, though she felt drained, enervated. “The mechanic might finish at any time.”
With a sigh, F snatched two Kleenex from the box and blotted her forehead carefully, trying to spare her makeup. When she threw the tissues in the waste can, she seemed surprised to see that Micky hadn’t left. “What time did you say you had a job interview?”
Short of sitting here until security was called to remove her, which wouldn’t accomplish anything, Micky had no choice but to get up and move toward the door. “Three o’clock. I can make it easily.”
“Was it in prison you learned all about software applications?”
Although the caseworker looked harmless behind a heretofore unseen smile, Micky expected that the question had been prelude to another insult. “Yeah. They have a good program up there.”
“How’re you finding the job market these days?”
This appeared to be the first genuine woman-to-woman contact since Micky entered the office. “They all say the economy’s sliding.”
“People suck in the best of times,” said K
Micky had no idea how she ought to respond to that.
“In this market,” F said with something that sounded vaguely like sisterly concern, “you have to go into a job interview perfect — all pluses, no minuses. If I were you, I’d take another look at the way you’re dressing for it. The clothes don’t do what you want.”
This coral-pink suit with the pleated white shell was the nicest outfit in Micky’s closet.
As though she’d read that thought, F said, “It’s not because the suit’s from Kmart, or wherever it’s from. That doesn’t matter. But the skirt’s too short, too tight, and with all the cleavage you’ve got, don’t wear a scoop- necked blouse. Honey, this country’s full of greedy trial lawyers, which makes you look like you’re trying to sucker some executive into making a pass so you can slam his company with a sexual-harassment suit. When personnel directors see you, it doesn’t matter if they’re men or women, what they see is trouble, and they’re full up on trouble these days. If you have time to change before that interview, I’d recommend it. Don’t look so … obvious.”
F’s black-hole gravity drew Micky toward oblivion.
Maybe the advice about clothes was well meant. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she thanked F for her counsel. Maybe she didn’t. One moment she was in the office, and an instant later she stood outside; the door was closed, yet she had no memory of having crossed the threshold.
Whatever she’d said or not said as she’d left the room, she was sure she’d done nothing to alienate F further or to harm Leilani’s chances of getting help. Nothing else mattered. Not her own dreams, not her pride, at least not here, not now.
As before, just four chairs in the reception lounge. Seven people waiting instead of the previous five.
The corridor seemed hotter than the office.
Hotter than hot, the elevator broiled. Pressure built during the descent, as though Micky were aboard a bathysphere, dropping into an oceanic trench. She placed one hand against the wall, half expecting to feel the metal panel buckling beneath her palm.
She almost wished that her quenched anger would flare up again, raw and hot, balancing the summer heat with that inner fire, because what took its place was a quiet desperation too much like despair.
On the ground floor, she located the public restrooms. Warm, oily nausea crawled the walls of her stomach, and she feared that she might throw up.
The stall doors stood open. The room was deserted. Privacy.
Harsh fluorescent light bounced off white surfaces, ricocheted from the mirrors. The icy impression couldn’t chill the hot reality.
She turned on the cold water at one of the sinks and held her upturned wrists under the flow. Closed her
