jammed. She ended up parking on the third level, ran out of there with a lot on her mind having been raped and all and wanting to have Woody arrested, and then so much happened right after, ending up in the hospital. . . . She felt really dumb.
Chris said, Yeah, all that going on. He said he'd drive her to get her car. But then didn't talk much while they were having breakfast. Greta said, 'I think about my car and then I think about Woody. I don't know what to do.' Drinking her coffee she said, 'And you're no help.' She said, 'You think I'm a flake, don't you?' He told her it was no big deal, people forgot where they parked their cars all the time. She said, 'But what should I do about Woody?' Chris told her it was a gray area; it depended on how you looked at it. Giving her that much understanding. . . .
While thinking about the weekend, the two days giving him hope, seeing time enough in there to believe the investigation could all of a sudden be closed when he wasn't looking and he wouldn't be withholding anything. Would he?
In the Cadillac driving downtown Greta said, 'Oh, God, I have to tell that guy at the precinct my car wasn't stolen. I know exactly what he's gonna say.'
It gave Chris an idea. Stop by 1300 to see Wendell. Only you forgot it's Saturday, he isn't there. But whoever's on duty verifies it later on. Yeah, Mankowski was here, he was looking for Wendell.
So he told Greta he'd stop at the precinct desk and tell them the car had been returned, that's all; it just showed up. They didn't have to know she forgot where she put it. Greta said, 'Thanks,' without much life in it.
On the third level of the parking structure they pulled up next to her blue Ford Escort; Saturday morning not another car near it. Greta said, 'Thanks for a nice time.'
Chris said, 'I'll see you later.'
Greta held the door open. 'I'm going home.'
'You're coming back, aren't you?'
'I'll have to think about it.'
'What's wrong?'
Greta hesitated. 'You're different.'
Chris said, 'Wait a minute,' as she got out of the Cadillac and was closing the door. 'What do you mean, I'm different?' She was standing by her car now, her back to him. He pushed a button to lower the window on the passenger side. 'I'm not different.' She didn't turn around; she was unlocking her car. 'I don't feel different.' Maybe he was different, but not in the way she thought he was. She was in the car now, starting it. Christ. He got out of the Cadillac and went around to her car; she didn't lower her window. He tapped on the glass with the tip of his finger. 'Ginjuh? I'm not different.' She looked up at him. 'Really, I'm not.' She didn't seem convinced; she looked sad. Shit. 'What's wrong? Tell me.'
'You're different,' Greta said.
'How am I different?'
'I don't know, but you are.'
She drove off.
Chris locked his dad's car and walked the two blocks to 1300.
Squad Seven's door, Room 500, was straight across the hall from the elevators. Chris walked in, stopped and wanted to turn around and walk out. Saturday morning, and it looked like a convention going on, a gang of people, cops and suspects, or else witnesses. The head homicide cop himself, Inspector Raymond Cruz, was stroking his mustache as he stood talking to Wendell, seated at his desk. A detective by the name of Hunter was taking a Polaroid shot of a good-looking young black woman, stylish enough to be a Supreme, sitting half turned in a desk chair, her arm hanging behind it, long slender fingers heavy with rings. The squad's executive sergeant, Norb Bryl, stood by the Norelco coffeemaker with a young black dude in a cream-colored suit and sunglasses. Two uniformed evidence techs lounged against a desk with grocery-store sacks bearing red tags. All this activity. . . .
And now Wendell was looking this way and the stylish black woman was looking up past her shoulder at Raymond Cruz going by in his narrow navy suit, top cop and he looked it, his down-curved bandit mustache giving him a solemn expression. His eyes moved and he said, 'Chris, how's it going?' Chris hesitated. By the time he said, 'Not too bad,' the inspector was out the door.
Now Wendell was coming. Chris didn't move, getting ready for him. Wendell stopped by the door to the interrogation room and said, 'I can't talk to you now.' Chris wanted to go over and hug him, but gave him an easy shrug instead and said, 'No problem.' He turned to leave and heard Wendell say, 'Wait. Come here a minute.' So he had to go over to Wendell standing with his hand on the door, Wendell in shirtsleeves but his paisley tie knotted up there tight. He said, 'These are Booker's people,' keeping his voice low. 'His houseman over there with Bryl, his lady, Moselle, and we got his bodyguard in here, Juicy Mouth. You know him?'
'He wasn't around,' Chris said.
'That's what he tells me. But if Juicy didn't put the bomb in the chair he knows who did.'
Chris said, 'This hasn't got anything to do with . . .'
Wendell was shaking his head. 'Doesn't seem like the least connection.'
'What about Skip?'
'Skip Gibbs, worked for the film company. You were right. All we got so far, he turned in his rental car. We left off checking with airlines for the moment and got back on Booker.'
Chris felt he had to keep going. 'Anybody watching Robin?'
'She's not that good a suspect yet. I don't have the people to sit around in cars.'
'I read her notebook. In capital letters she says she's gonna take Mark Ricks for everything she can get.'
'And you see the date on the book, seventeen years ago.'
'I know, but it was on her desk and she didn't want us to see it. She had it out, not stuck away somewhere.'
Wendell said, 'I understand what you're saying. I like it, even if it isn't any kind of evidence would hold up. But I have to let Robin sit while I tend to this one.'
Chris said in a hurry, because he had to say it right now, get it out, 'There's something else I want to talk to you about.'
He kept staring at Wendell, the lieutenant's hand on the doorknob, about to enter, but staring back at him now, a change in his expression, his eyes. Wendell said, 'You're not working for me.'
'I know that.'
'You might, sometime, but you're not now.'
Chris didn't say anything.
'I don't want to hear a question I don't have an answer to. Or I don't want to know anything I'd have trouble explaining where I found it out. You understand?'
Chris nodded.
'Think about it and we'll talk Monday. All right?'
Chris said, 'Whatever you say,' sounding a little disappointed but dying to get out of there. He turned to go and Wendell touched his arm.
'Wait, take a minute. See if you think this guy knows anything about bombs.'
Juicy Mouth sat hunched over, arms resting on thick knees, eyes raised to them coming in: a young black guy with a build, shoulders stretching his silky jacket. He seemed to fill half of this narrow pink room that was no bigger than a walk-in closet. Next to him was a small wooden table, a tin ashtray on it full of old cigarette butts. Wendell said, 'Juicy, this is Sergeant Mankowski, the last person on this earth to see Booker alive.'
Chris had a feeling Juicy didn't give a shit, the way he yawned and leaned back against the wall, the pink surface stained from heads resting against it. Chris didn't notice anything unusual about the guy's mouth.
'I've been telling Juicy,' Wendell said, 'if he didn't actually set the bomb maybe we could lighten up on him, take it down to accessory.'
Juicy said, 'You gonna have to let me out any minute now. That's light enough.'
'Sergeant Mankowski,' Wendell said, 'was the bomb man there that time. Talked to Booker, heard his last words. . . .'
What were they? Chris seemed to recall Booker saying, 'Where you motherfuckers going?' Something like that. And saw Juicy Mouth looking at him, his head still pressed to the wall, Juicy saying, 'Is that right? If you the
