bomb man, how come you didn't take the bomb out from under him?'
Chris didn't see anything especially juicy about the guy's mouth, even when he spoke.
'The question was how to get to it,' Chris said. 'Ten sticks of--what was it, sixty percent? Rigged to some kind of electronic pressure sensor. Where would you learn to put something like that together?'
No reaction. He wasn't sure Juicy was even listening. But then the guy said, 'You right there with him, with Booker? Looking to see what you had?'
'I cut into the seat cushion,' Chris said, 'but couldn't get to the works from the front.'
'You right there, but you didn't get blown to shit like Booker did?'
'I stepped outside for a minute.'
'You did, huh? I stepped out to get some pizza,' Juicy said. 'What'd you step out for?'
'We told him don't move, we'll be right back,' Chris said, and felt dumb, this big street kid turning it around on him. The kid wearing five hundred dollars worth of clothes, a Rolex watch. . . .
'Step outside and let the man get blown up by hisself,' Juicy said. 'Yeah, well, if it don't mean shit to you and it don't mean shit to me, why we even talking about it?'
'I still have to sit on you,' Wendell said. 'Anybody it says on their sheet kills people, been known to, that makes him a suspect.'
'Look on the sheet again, man. No convictions.'
'You did people for Booker, didn't you? Shot 'em in the back of the head, left 'em out at Metro?'
'Man, this is a bomb,' Juicy said. 'You know I didn't fool with no bomb.'
'Yeah, but you next to whatever one of the Italians put it there. Once I find out which one, then I can let 'em know it was you told me. See, then I won't have to worry about you no more, you'll be gone.'
Juicy said, 'Shit. Can't trust nobody, can you?'
Wendell said, 'It's nothing personal. It don't mean I think you're an asshole, anything like that, you understand? Hey, show Sergeant Mankowski why they call you Juicy Mouth. Go on.'
Juicy looked up. He said, 'Check it out,' and Chris thought the sole of a shoe was coming out of the guy's mouth, a big gray tongue that filled his lips from corner to corner, Chris looking at it wondering how the tongue could even fit in the guy's mouth.
'Put it back,' Wendell said.
Chris stared, Juicy grinning at him now, until Wendell touched Chris's arm and they left the room, Wendell closing the door after them.
'Can you see him on the playground when he was little,' Wendell said, 'showing that ugly thing to the other kids?'
'He's proud of it,' Chris said.
'It's what I'm saying. He's like a little kid and we playing with him, take him in there and shoot the shit. We know he helped do Booker, there's no other way it could've been done.' They stood by the door to the pink interrogation room, the stylish girl at Hunter's desk watching them over her shoulder, her hand with the rings swinging idly behind her chair. 'All these ones here,' Wendell said, 'they got their game going, living on the edge. Booker's houseman, his bodyguard, his lady, the one got him to sit in the chair. . . . We get a feel for that kind of action, huh? Know when to step outside, so to speak, let them do their own kind of freaky deaky. You remember that sexy dance? Was about ten years ago. Man, we had people shooting each other over it--two homicides I know of come to mind. You freaky deak with somebody else's woman you could get seriously hurt.'
'Or you could get lucky,' Chris said.
Wendell smiled. He said, 'All in how you look at it, huh?' and put his hand on Chris's shoulder. 'The inspector likes your style, babe. You ever move back to the city. . . . Anyway, I'll see you Monday.'
Chris waited less than a minute for an elevator, took the stairs to seven and hurried down the hall to Sex Crimes. The squad room was dim, lights off, no one here. He found Greta's Preliminary Complaint Report in the desk with the blue flowers, picked up the phone and dialed her number. He'd filled out her PCR only four days ago; it seemed more like four weeks. After five rings Greta's voice came on: 'Hi, you've reached Ginger Jones, but she isn't here right now, doggone it.' Chris thinking, Jesus Christ. 'If you want, you can leave a message right after you hear the beep. 'Bye now.' Chris waited for the beep and when he heard it he still waited. Finally he said, 'Greta? I haven't changed one bit,' and hung up. That was all he could say to a machine. He'd try her again later. But now he didn't know what to do. He sat down to think about it, looking at the blue flowers, a case file, a stack of PCR forms, a worn three-ring binder with DOWNEY written on it, and realized this was Maureen's desk. Well, he'd only been here two days officially, in and out. He looked at notes written neatly on a yellow legal pad, saw the name ROBIN ABBOTT and her phone number, her address on Canfield, and another phone number and address with MOTHER written after it, then a dash and the name MARILYN. Below this Maureen had written B.H. POLICE and a number. B.H. for Bloomfield Hills, where Maureen had said the mother lived.
Chris got up and went over to his own desk piled with case folders, looked at the typed list of Sex Crimes squad members beneath the plastic cover of the desk pad and phoned Maureen. They said hi and Chris asked her if she'd ever got hold of Robin's mother.
'I tried all day yesterday.'
'How come, Maureen?'
'Remember Robin saying she kept all those books and newspapers at her mom's? I wondered if she kept any other stuff there, since Wendell didn't find anything.'
'But you haven't talked to her, the mom.'
'I got a busy signal for about ten minutes, then no answer after that,' Maureen said, 'so I called the Bloomfield Hills police. They said the mother was away on a trip.'
'But somebody was on the phone.'
'I told them that. They said it was probably the maid, or maybe painters, rug cleaners, you know.'
'Are they gonna check?'
'They said they'd look into it. Why, what're you up to?'
'Not a thing. You tell Wendell you called and got a busy signal?'
'Yeah, but he didn't seem too excited.'
'That's all you can do, Maureen.'
'Have you talked to him?'
'He's busy. There a lot of people killing each other.'
She said, 'Where are you?'
'I'm not sure,' Chris said, 'but if I find out I'll let you know.'
He went back to Maureen's desk, dialed Robin's number and listened to four rings before she answered: her voice softer than Maureen's, sounding bored as she said hello.
'Robin? It's Skip.'
There was a silence.
Chris said, 'What's the matter?'
Now a long pause before she said, 'Who is this?'
'I just told you, it's Skip.'
She hung up.
Chris waited about twenty seconds and dialed Robin's number again. The line was busy. He looked at Maureen's notes, dialed Robin's mother's number, got a busy signal and continued to listen to it, telling himself it didn't mean it was Skip. Telling himself the hell it didn't. It was, it was Skip. During the next couple of minutes he dialed Robin's number five times before it finally rang and she answered.
'Hi. This is Chris Mankowski.'
He waited. See if she remembered him. Picturing her in that dingy room with the zingy red design painted on the wall, Robin trying to think fast, get it together, wanting to sound cool when she came on.
She said, 'You just called, didn't you?' With the bored tone.
'And you hung up on me,' Chris said. 'I tried to call you back, but I guess you were talking to Skip.'
There was a silence.
'Hang up and call Donnell this time. If he hasn't already told you about me, ask him. Mankowski?'
She said, 'I know who you are, but that's about it. You're either a cop or a two-bit hustler and I don't know why I'm even talking to you.'
