Lynch talked about his day. The nearly naked woman across the table from him got turned on by cop talk, otherwise he would have just as soon pretended none of it ever happened. Chaz was the highlight of the story.
“We’re watching this high-haired drummer who is hopelessly lost in the eighties run the length of the property, giving himself a coronary in the process.”
“Any moonwalking?”
“If only. If I weren’t on duty, I’d have recorded it. It was truly viral.”
Neither of them had to make lewd gestures or eat seductively. Just them being them was enough.
He stood behind her as they washed the dishes together. The album looped back to the beginning, and they went to the bedroom as “Let’s Go Crazy” played for the third time.
Are we gonna let the elevator bring us down? Oh no, let’s go!
Afterwards, Lynch got up to fetch the backgammon board, but Julie pulled him back.
“Screw board games. I don’t need a round two.”
“Good. Me either.”
She snagged her iPhone and switched off the music. They watched the ceiling fan for a while, holding hands, before Julie decided she wanted to hear more cop talk.
“So, you’re sure Samuel didn’t do it?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but it’s unlikely at this point.”
She turned on her side and stroked his chest.
“I lost track of the Unjudged in all this.”
He took her hand and kissed it. He knew she was hoping that at least one of the UJ had something to do with Ryan’s murder, since she was the one who made the connection to the painting.
“They all have alibis.”
“Does anyone like them for Reilly’s injury?”
“You’d have to ask Warner. I’m going to keep my nose out of it, unless she asks for help.”
“What about the girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend? You mean Kelly?”
“The pedo-bait you met at the mall.”
“You’re funny.”
“Did she reach out to you again?”
Lynch grabbed his cell phone from the bed table and brought up his texts.
“She sent me a text last night.”
I HAD NOTHING 2 DO WITH IT.
Julie squinted at the screen and spoke.
“Nothing to do with what? Ryan or Reilly?”
“Ryan…well, now that you mention it, I’m not sure.” He sat up and tapped out a reply.
DO YOU MEAN RYAN OR REILLY?
He reached to put the phone back, but it buzzed in his hand before it made it to the table.
SAME PLACE 2MORROW 10:30?
Julie sat up and read the text. Lynch could see her eyes twinkling with excitement in the screen’s glow.
SURE
Kelly replied seconds later.
THX
Julie waited for her cop boyfriend to put the phone down before hopping up and straddling him. Needed or not, there was going to be a round two.
22. The Cloister
The gathering was winding down. Bodies covered the room. Traci finally arrived shortly after eight o’clock and patched up Bubbs as best as she could. Other than his pride, all of his wounds were superficial. She, once again, had found her way out of her outer vestments and into Arthur’s cot…face down and passed out.
Arthur was slumped on one of the couches next to a lesser-active UJ member named Eric. They lit up and passed a bong back and forth simply for something to do.
“Eric, my man, when was the last time you saw Kelly?”
After an absurdly long toke, Eric exhaled and replied.
“I don’t know. Couple o’ weeks maybe.”
The thing Arthur liked the most about him was the fact that his physical features were relatively nondescript. It made him perfect for situations that required being forgettable. He also had a knack for getting things…specific and unusual things.
“I think she’s going astray. Find out, would you?”
Eric answered with bloodshot eyes and a huge craving for pistachio nuts.
“No problem.”
THE PAINTING PARTY
Wednesday
1. The Shed
Philip looked at himself in the cracked, full-length mirror next to his uncle’s work bench. The bare-chested man in a diaper staring back didn’t exactly give off the musk of the hero he felt himself to be. He had to make a joke of it, or he’d never leave the shed. He puffed out a faux-Asian grunt, took the stance of a sumo wrestler, and stamped his feet on the weathered hardwood floor one at a time. He tried a second, beefier grunt, but all that came out was a snort and a laugh.
The day was going to be either a major triumph or a colossal waste of time. With music that reminded him of a happier time blaring from a dusty, paint-spattered boom box, he got dressed and checked his gear.
He’d dug up an old backpack that no one knew he owned and filled it with his weapon, ammo, the latest incarnation of his collapsible tree stand, three bottles of water, a handful of protein bars, a tan wool hat, and a camouflage bandana that was pre-tied to fit over his face.
He dressed in earth tones that wouldn’t draw attention when he walked from his parking space to the church. He knew the resulting investigation would be intense, and the police would probably find fibers and DNA all over his perch. It wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t in the system. He hadn’t received so much as a parking ticket since he was in high school. True, after today, he (or at least his remnants) would be in the system, but that wouldn’t be an issue until they caught up with him. By then, it would all be a moot point.
He would get caught in the end. He knew this. It was not only anticipated, but necessary.
The half-fixed motorcycle sat before him as he pulled on his green windbreaker. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he felt two different kinds of pride.
The smell of wood and motor oil permeated his senses. He took a quick look out of one of
