to mean that the press had found a new story to pursue for the time being.
The funeral home had a question about the bill, but said it could wait until tomorrow. The other one from Hoffman had been left only ten minutes before I’d gotten home. She said she had some questions for me, and would I please call when I got the message. She left her home number.
Chapel would throw a fit, but if Hoffman had questions for me, maybe I could ask some questions of her, maybe get an idea about what was going on with Tommy. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“This is Tracy.”
“It’s Miriam Bracca, I’m calling for Detective Hoffman.”
“This is she.” She sounded surprised. “Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you.”
“You left a message.”
“I’ve got some questions I’d like you to answer.”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking I should probably talk to Chapel, first, or at least have him present.”
“Look, you’re not a suspect, and I’m not going to try to trick you into anything. I’ve got some questions, I’m hoping you can help me find your brother’s killer, that’s all this is. Chapel would just complicate it.”
“Is my father still a suspect?”
“Are you willing to talk to me?”
“Yeah, if it’s actually a conversation and not an interrogation.”
“Are you at your home?”
“Why?”
“Could I come over there? I’m in Sabin, it’d take me about ten minutes or so to get there.”
“You’re sure I’m not a suspect?”
“You’re not a suspect,” she assured me.
“Then why do you want to talk to me?”
“I’m hoping you can help me find a new one.”
It made me laugh, I don’t know why.
“Sure,” I said. “Take your best shot.”
CHAPTER 22
I’d left the porch light on, and it was her, and I shut off the alarm and let her in, saying, “Did you speed?”
“Why else become a cop?” Hoffman said. “For the perks.”
“The perks?”
“I get to shoot people, too.”
“Oh.”
I peered past her at the street, not seeing much but Hoffman’s car—it was a VW Passat, either black or blue or green, I couldn’t tell—and my trees. I stepped back in and locked up once more, but didn’t bother with the alarm, this time. After all, she had perks.
“We towed the Chevy, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Hoffman told me.
“No. Just keeping an eye out for reporters. What’d you do with the car?”
“Evidence of a crime, we brought it in, had the lab go over it. It was the receiver base.”
“So now you guys have voyeur video of me.”
“We should be so lucky. All of the storage devices had been removed from the car. If you’re on tape, you’re on tape somewhere else.”
“You know who owns it? The Chevy?”
“It was stolen out of Roseburg back in May.”
I nodded as if this was significant information, and we went into the kitchen. I parked at the table with an empty cereal bowl for an ashtray. Hoffman had come over wearing a coat and hat, one of the black watch cap ones, and she removed them both before sitting down. She had on a Lewis & Clark sweatshirt, and a turtleneck beneath that, black. She was wearing faded Levi’s, and short black boots, and she had that aura that some PNW women get, the very healthy ones who are fit and stay fit and spend summer weekends windsurfing in the Gorge and winter ones skiing or snowboarding Mount Hood.
“Bet you rock climb, too,” I said.
“Do I have granola in my teeth?” She smiled at me, and I understood she was making an effort to get us started on good terms, both with her manner and her words.
“Call it a lucky guess.”
I waited for her to take the seat opposite me, expecting her to get out a pad and a pen. She draped her coat over the back of the chair, after stuffing the cap in a pocket, then sat down.
“You’re not going to take notes?”
She tapped her forehead. “Like a steel trap.”
“You want a cigarette or some coffee or something?”
“No, I’m fine.”
I shrugged and lit one for myself. She looked me over as if trying to find clues, then pushed the bowl a little closer to me, so I wouldn’t have to reach. Her fingers were long, like Joan’s. On her right thumb was a ring, a simple silver band with an inlaid and intertwined repeating symbol. I stared at it a second before recognizing the letter as Greek.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “I get it now. You’re a dyke.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “Sure. Aren’t you?”
“What? No!”
Hoffman’s head came back a little bit, and her expression plainly was asking me to give her a break.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You speak queer.”
“Passing queer. Pidgin queer. Not fluent queer.”
“I’m not here to out you.”
“I’m not gay. God, Chapel thinks I’m gay, too. I’m not, see, what I am is
“Van’s not gay,” Hoffman said, matter-of-factly. “Everyone who is knows she isn’t. There are people in the Black Hills of South Dakota who haven’t come out to themselves yet, they know Van in Tailhook is straight.”
“So I’m the Gay One?”
“I know a lot of women who will be very disappointed if you’re not.” She looked me over, as if appraising. “Or see it as a challenge. Don’t tell me this is news to you.”
“It is news to me. You’re telling me that I now not only have to fear that every man I meet has seen naked pictures of me, I’ve got to include women, too?”
“Not all women. One in ten to one in four, depending whose study you believe.”
“That makes it so much better.”
“You’ve got a huge lesbian following, you didn’t know that? I thought you celebs tracked things like that, where you’re getting coverage. You practically have a column devoted to you in
“Now you’re just yanking my leg.”
“Maybe a little. But you do know what
“I know what
She smiled again, then said, “You still willing to answer some questions for me, Miss Bracca?”
“Mim. One dyke to another?”
“That had been my intent, but I’ll settle for closeted dyke to out dyke, if you like.”
I blew some smoke off to a side, shaking my head. “Go ahead.”
“Do you have a drug problem, Mim?”
