tail-gating maniac. St. Louis traffic was ridiculous. It looked like the San Diego Freeway at ten-thirty in the morning. The slowest traffic seemed to be the middle lane, with the faster vehicles passing on both sides. He made it to the Rikla operation and was told Rikla was out. Where? Don't know. Any idea when he'd be back? Nope. He left a 'special agent' card with his temporary phone number and extension inked in, asked Mr. Rikla to give him a call. Wonderful.
It was amazing when you'd lived in a town so many years back and you thought you'd forgotten all the names. But you get out there trying to find your way around in the drive-time kamikaze traffic and the names and locales start flooding back over your memory. The older you are, the more cities you've lived in, the more it all blends together into a kind of Great American Vista of Gravois and Grady and Natural Bridge and Northwest Parkway and Kings Highway and Turtle Creek. He was beginning to get some of it back now, the memories of Florissant and . . . DAMN! Look where you're going, you idiot. He hadn't seen traffic like this since he left Orange County.
The day was already half over and he hadn't had lunch yet. He hated everything about this case. The people at headquarters were cold and suspicious, he didn't think he liked St. Louis anymore, the traffic was abominable, he was getting a killer headache, it looked like it might rain, he hadn't a notion what he was doing here, and to paraphrase the late Mr. Lewis, 'This was as good as he was going to feel the rest of the day.'
It wasn't the times he'd got into the dark, salty-smelling bars to chat with the guys over a Strohs or Oly Light that tested him. He could easily sip one or two cold ones and catch just enough of the buzz to enjoy himself and not feel like he was deprived of all the fun in life, go home, have a nice cup of instant or a cup of tea, and call it a night. He did it all the time-had for years. There was no demon there at all. Or so he always hoped.
Long ago he'd made himself drink a beer against his better judgment. Like a normal person. He had business in bars. The Job took him where booze was. He had to handle it. There was never a problem. A couple, even three beers led him nowhere. The John maybe. That was it.
It was the hard stuff that beckoned with that middle finger. Times like now, when he was bouncing around in same strange burg and not able to find his kiester with both hands, a nice headache coming to get him, dreading going into work every morning, going out and accomplishing nothing, coming in and accomplishing less, feeling around on the outsides of a seamless, complex case, no input, no information network, nothing but his cop sense and luck to work for him, times like now — he could taste it a little.
The fear of it kept him from falling off. He could never get used to the ease with which it could sneak up on him. Eleven-forty A.M. and driving into Forest Park. How easy it would be right now to hang a left there, pull up beside that little ma-and-pa tavern, and be raising a triple before you could say, Katie, bar the door. He was always that close to going over the edge, so when he sensed it creeping up on him he'd block it out. Fear works, he thought. At least so far.
Later, when he thought about it, he could never remember much about the first time they met again. The whole day receded into a nice blur. He'd gone into the Acquisitions Office with temples pounding and a fairly colossal-looking receptionist smiled a hello and raised her eye brows and he'd asked for Rita Haubrich and did the lady happen to have any aspirin?
And she said, when he told her his name, 'Don't you I'm-Jack-Eichord me.' With that look and smile and tone people get when they want you to know you should recognize them.
'My goodness,' he said, looking again. 'Is it Rita Paul? From a million years ago?'
'You remembered.' She smiled a sunny smile. 'And it's Rita Paul Haubrich now, and that's a hundred years ago, please. Let's not make it any worse than it is. You look just the same.' He was starting to tell her how great SHE looked, but she said, 'And I've got some Tylenols right here if that will do? Let's see ...' She began to rummage and he spoke while he looked at her.
'Rita. What a nice surprise. I just never expected to see you here.'
'I'm not the receptionist. I usually work back there,' she said, gesturing vaguely toward another area, 'but Terry had to take her child to the doctor so I'm filling in. When you called I started to say something but it took a minute to sink in that it was you. I've had so many of the local police and reporters talk to me that . . . And what are you doing back in St.
'I'm working on some gang homicides.'
'I saw your name in the papers once. Some investigation where you were in the headlines, and I wasn't surprised. I knew you were going to be famous. You were so dedicated.'
'Remember the DA's office?' They both laughed. 'That was a fun place,' he said, and she sneered and puckered her lovely mouth.
'Yeah. Real fun. I got out of there not long after you left St. Louis.'
'You married the big lawyer. That guy you were dating when we knew each other, Haubrich.'
'Yep,' she admitted. 'Good memory.'
'His name's something like Don?'
'Winslow. Winslow Haubrich.'
'God. That's right. Winslow. Good ole Winslow,' he said without conviction. 'How is old Winslow?'
'I haven't seen old Winslow for a while, I'm pleased to report. We're divorced.'
'Oh. Sorry,' he said with even less conviction.
'You still married?'
'Not for a long time,' he said, shaking his head. 'Well,' he sighed, having to force his mind back on the case at hand, 'this is great to see you. What a nice surprise.' He meant it.
'It's nice to see you too. You really haven't changed a bit.' She smiled and he loved it.
'You either.' He thought she was a lot better-looking since the last time he'd seen her — but that was years ago. Maybe he hadn't been quite as horny back then. He would never have recognized her in a crowd and he realized immediately it was her hairdo and clothing and not her face. She'd aged beautifully. 'Excuse me — just a second.' He walked across to a water fountain.
'Sure.' He took the Tylenol and walked back to the desk.
'We might get interrupted,' she told him, 'but we can go ahead and talk if you want to.'
'Sure, okay. Let me just get my notes here. What can you tell me about the Laclede Landing shooting? '
'It's just like I said to the other guys, which I know you have in your files and all. I wish I could help but I really didn't get more than just a glance at them. It all happened so quickly. I heard the noise and the man hit me almost at the same time. I just saw a car. It was a car with either two or three men in it. I know I saw a gun out the right-side window in the front seat and I just have an impression of a — a shotgun, I think it was — and I can't be sure if somebody was in the backseat or not. It was all so fast.'
'You got a look at the car?'
'Not really. I just have that impression. Of a gun out of a window and the firing. I couldn't even say it was a dark color car for sure. I just . . . Well, the shots hit that man and he hit me as he fell and I went into the wall and it was all over in just a second. I was getting up, trying to get up. It was kind of like if you had real bad whiplash in a car accident or something. I heard all the screaming and there was a lot of blood. I saw the men who had been shot then. And people were all crouched down and it was so frightening — I don't know —'
'That's fine. I just thought perhaps we could talk. Sometimes if you think back you can remember some little detail you might have overlooked. The appearance of the man with the gun, for example. You don't remember anything about his face?'
'I couldn't tell you if he had a beard, what nationality, nothing. I just didn't retain anything about him. Just that short shotgun sticking out the window as he fired again and how loud it was. It was enough to scare you to death. I'd never been through anything like it in my life.'
'You said shotgun the first time, then short shotgun. What kind of a short shotgun? What do you mean?'
'Oh, like you see in the movies. Sawed off, I guess. It was a short gun. Not a pistol. It had one barrel, not two like some of my dad's guns. I remember this gun, oh, I do recall seeing a hand move on the gun like it was cocking it or whatever you call it. That's when I got hit, as the second shot was fired and the man got hit next to me on the sidewalk.'
'Rita, I noticed in the reports you had a severe injury. Obviously you seem to be fine now.' So fine, in fact.
'Yes.' She smiled. 'I was pretty lucky. It was weird. I thought for a day or two I was going to be in some
