“Rachel Foster over in dispatch told me about it. All you have to do is show them six months’ worth of pay stubs.”
“Are you kidding me?” Amanda hadn’t been able to get her apartment without Duke guaranteeing the rent. If not for the city providing her a car, she’d be on foot. “They just gave it to you? Just like that?”
“That’s right.”
“They didn’t ask to speak to your husband or your father or—”
“Nope.”
Amanda was still dubious. She handed back the card. Franklin Simon was all right, but they were doomed to bankruptcy if they were handing out credit so freely. “Listen, can you do me a favor today and ride with Peterson?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
The guttural sound of someone vomiting filled the room. It was joined by other men making similar disgusting noises. Butch Bonnie walked into the station, his fists held up as if he was Muhammad Ali. Amanda had forgotten how ill he’d been at the crime scene last Friday. Obviously, the rest of the squad had not. People clapped and laughed. There were even cheers from the black side of the room. Butch did a sort of victory spin as he made his way toward Amanda.
He leaned on the table. “Hey, gal, you got my stuff for me?”
Amanda reached into her bag for the typed report. She dropped the pages on the table beside him.
“Why you bein’ so cold?” he asked. “You on the rag?”
“It’s what your partner did to Evelyn Mitchell,” Amanda shot back. “He’s an animal.”
Butch scratched the side of his cheek. He looked rough. His clothes were wrinkled. His face was unshaven. There was a distinct odor of alcohol and stale cigarettes sweating from his pores.
Amanda stared straight ahead. “Is there anything else?”
“Jesus, Mandy. Cut him some slack. His wife’s been giving him enough crap at home. He don’t need to come to work and catch lip off another skirt.”
She forced herself not to soften. “Your notes had a factual error.”
Butch tossed a cigarette into his mouth. “Whattaya talkin’ about?”
“You said you ID’d Lucy Bennett off a license in her purse. The evidence receipt didn’t list a license of any type.”
“Shit,” he mumbled, then, “S’cuse the language.” He skimmed his notebook, compared it to her typed report. “Yeah, I see it.”
“How did you ID the victim?”
He lowered his voice. “Off a CI.”
“Who?”
“Never you mind who,” he told her. “Just fix the report.”
“You know they can’t change the evidence receipt. The carbons are in triplicate.”
“Then change the report so it says someone recognized her.” He handed back the typed report. “There was a witness on scene. Call him Jigaboo Jones. I don’t care. Just make it work.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “You’re the one whose signature goes at the bottom.”
He looked nervous, but said, “Yeah, I’m sure. Just do it.”
“Butch—” She stopped him before he could leave. “How did Hank Bennett find out his sister was dead? You usually specify that in your notes, but this time, there’s nothing.” Amanda pressed a bit harder. “Lucy didn’t have a record, so it seems strange that you and Landry were able to locate next of kin so quickly.”
He stared at her, unblinking. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. She didn’t know if Butch was just now asking himself the question or wondering why Amanda had posed it. Finally, he told her, “I don’t know.”
She studied him, trying to detect duplicity. “It seems like you’re telling me the truth.”
“Jesus, Mandy, hanging around Evelyn Mitchell’s turning you into the wrong kinda gal.” He pushed himself up from the table. “Get that report back to me first thing tomorrow morning.” He waited for her to nod, then went to the front of the room.
“Wow,” Vanessa said. She’d been strangely quiet. “What’s going on with you and Butch?”
Amanda shook her head. “I need to make a phone call.”
There were two telephones in the front of the room, but Amanda didn’t want to make her way through the crowd. Nor did she want to run into Rick Landry, who’d just walked into the station. The clock on the wall was straight up at eight o’clock. Sergeant Woody was still not here. Amanda wasn’t surprised. Woody had a reputation for hitting the bars before work. She might as well use his office.
Nothing much had changed since Luther Hodge had vacated the space. Paperwork was scattered across the blotter. The ashtray was brimming over. Woody hadn’t even bothered to get a new mug for his coffee.
Amanda sat down behind the desk and dug into her purse for her address book. The black leather was cracked and peeling. She thumbed to the C’s and traced her finger down to Pam Canale’s number at the Housing Authority. They weren’t close friends—the woman was Italian—but Amanda had helped Pam’s niece out of some trouble a few years ago. Amanda was hoping the woman wouldn’t mind returning the favor.
She checked the squad room before dialing Pam’s number, then waited while the call was transferred.
“Canale,” Pam said, but Amanda hung up. Sergeant Luther Hodge was heading back toward the office. His office.
She stood from the desk so fast that the chair hit the wall.
“Miss Wagner,” Hodge said. “Has there been a promotion about which I am uninformed?”
“No,” she said, then, “Sir.” Amanda scuttled around the desk. “I’m sorry, sir. I was making a phone call.” She stopped, trying to appear less flustered. The fact was that she was stunned. “Did you get transferred back here?”
“Yes, I did.” He waited for her to move out of his path so that he could sit down. “I suppose you think I’m holding water for your father.”
Amanda had been about to leave, but she couldn’t now. “No, sir. I was just making a phone call.” She remembered Evelyn, her boldness in confronting Hodge. “Why did you send me to Techwood last week?”
He had been about to sit at his desk. He paused midair, hand holding back his tie.
“You told us to investigate a rape. There was no rape.”
Slowly, he sat down. He indicated the chair. “Have a seat, Miss Wagner.”
Amanda started to close the door.
“Leave that open.”
She did as she was told, sitting opposite him at the desk.
“Are you trying to intimidate me, Miss Wagner?”
“I—”
“I realize your father still has many friends in this department, but I will not be intimidated. Is that clear?”
“Intimidated?”
“Miss Wagner, I may not be from around here, but I can tell you one thing for sure. One thing you can take straight back to your daddy: this nigger ain’t goin’ back into the fields.”
She felt her mouth working, but no words would come out.
“Dismissed.”
Amanda couldn’t move.
“Should I repeat my order?”
Amanda stood. She walked toward the open door. Her competing emotions compelled her to keep moving, to work this out in private, to formulate a more reasoned response than what actually came out of her mouth. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
Hodge had been writing something on a piece of paper. Probably a request to have her transferred to Perry Homes. His pen stopped. He stared at her, waiting.
Words got jumbled in her mouth. “I want to work. To be good at … I need to be good at …” She forced herself to stop speaking long enough to collect her thoughts. “The girl you sent us out to interview. Her name was
