3 The Road to Hell
That was the story I told Amy Larkin.
Most of it was true. Rusty. The knife. The busted lip. The cash.
But I had left things out and cut the story short. I hadn’t sent Krista home. No way would I tell Amy Larkin what really happened. The unedited version would feed her suspicion that I had a motive for wanting Krista to disappear.
“I don’t believe you,” Amy said, flatly.
“Why the hell not? If I was gonna lie, I’d have a better story.”
“It’s a smart story. Better than if you claimed to be a hero.”
“Right. Who would believe that?”
“You come out looking like a shit, but not a rapist or a killer.”
We were standing next to my Eldo convertible in the Justice Building parking lot, nearly empty now, the afternoon sun beating down on the pavement. A snowy white egret had migrated across the street from the river and was scratching at the asphalt where someone had spilled a bag of potato chips.
“Problem is, you’re lying,” she said.
“So you’re a human polygraph, that it?”
She pulled out a leather case and handed me a business card. Amy G. Larkin. Fraud Investigator. Auto Division of some insurance company in Toledo, Ohio.
“I interview liars every day,” she said.
“Lot of fender-bender cheats in Toledo, I’ll bet.”
“Do you have any witnesses? Anyone see Krista get into that cab? Who’ll back up your story?”
That’s the problem with lies, I thought. To keep them going, you have to fertilize and water them. Then they grow like strangler weeds.
“I told you the truth. Take it or leave it.”
“So even by your own account, you had a chance to be a Good Samaritan, and you turned away.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that I’m not the last person to see your sister alive.”
“The cabdriver you can’t name?”
“And the guy she didn’t want to go home to.”
“And his name is …?”
“No idea.”
Three toots of a horn came from the direction of the river, a freighter asking for the drawbridge to open, pissing off motorists who’d be stuck for the next five minutes.
“You might want to track down where Krista was living in Miami Springs,” I said. “Maybe there’s some record of who paid her rent.”
“I know how to investigate, Lassiter. It’s what I do.”
“Great. Then if there’s nothing more you need from me …”
“Why so anxious to get rid of me?”
I imagined her asking the same question to a guy with an inflated bill to repair his rocker panel.
“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Why’s it taken you so long to find me? Your sister disappeared what, eighteen years ago?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Fine.” I pocketed her card. “I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
“No, you won’t.”
She turned and headed toward her rental at the other end of the lot, forgetting to say what a pleasure it had been to meet me. I stood there a moment in the tropical heat, watching her go. Only when she had ducked into a red Taurus did I bring up the remaining memories of that long ago night.
The whole truth? I did not put Krista Larkin in a cab and send her home. Oh, I tried. But she refused to get in. Instead, standing in the street in front of Bozo’s, she thrust out a thumb and tried hitchhiking up LeJeune Road. It took about thirty seconds for a car to stop. Four guys were inside, windows down, hooting and hollering, and bragging about the size of their equipment. I grabbed her and dragged her to my car.
She was laughing as soon as her butt hit the seat. She’d gotten what she’d wanted. I drove to my apartment, telling myself it was with good intentions. Yeah, yeah. I know what paves the road to hell.
I gallantly gave Krista my bedroom. I’d sleep on the sofa, and in the morning, we’d figure out what to do.
Deep inside, I knew it was bullshit, and so did she. Teenage girl, beautiful and willing. Horny jock-or is that redundant? It was a sure thing, and no guy I knew would have turned it down.
The mating dance was a simple two-step. I asked if she wanted to shower.
When I awoke, I had no regrets. No pangs of conscience. My only worry was making my one o’clock practice. Being late would cost me $500 and enhance the possibility of finishing my career with the Saskatchewan Roughriders.
Krista found a white dress shirt in my closet. She wore that and nothing else and padded off to the kitchen, where she tried making French toast, creating a lake of egg yolks on the counter. Getting all domestic after one night of play.
My head ached from the booze. She was already talking about how we might spend the weekend.
“How old are you?” I asked. “Really.”
“Twenty.”
“Bullshit.”
It took some persuading, but she finally admitted the truth. “Almost eighteen.”
Shit. Jailbait.
“You gotta go now, kid.”
“Whadaya mean?”
“I’ll drive you to your place.”
“I wanna stay with you.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“The stuff I did last night. I can do even better.”
Her eyes brimmed. I felt sorry for her, just as she supposed I would. Still …
“Get dressed Krista. We gotta go.”
“Asshole!” She tore off my shirt, popping all the buttons. She stamped into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, I was driving west on 36th Street through a frog-strangler of a storm, thunder rattling the windows of my old Camaro. When I pulled up to the curb, I saw a man standing under the awning of Krista’s apartment building, smoking a cigar. Blocky build. Blue jeans and a brown suede jacket, an urban cowboy look. Thinning hair with a bad comb-over. He tossed the cigar into the bushes as we pulled up.
“Shit, it’s Charlie,” Krista said.
The guy’s hands were balled into fists at his sides.
I did the semi-chivalrous thing. Double-parked next to a puddle and said, “see ya,” as she got out of the car. The guy she called “Charlie” stayed under the awning, the rain drilling the canvas like gunshots.
“In the car, babe.” He gestured toward a lobster red Porsche, the water beading on its waxy finish.
“I gotta get cleaned up, Charlie.”
“Now! You’re late and you’re costing me money.”
“You gonna be okay, kid?” I called through the window.
“Fuck you, asshole.” She shot me the bird and headed for the Porsche.
Charlie stepped off the curb and splashed toward my door. He sized me up and didn’t seem impressed. “Have fun, stud?”
“What’s it to you?”
