“My God! What about the driver?”
“Not much older. He’ll make it. He was flying so high he probably thinks an airplane hit him.”
“Why don’t you come over here and sit down, Dillon?”
Sergeant Veasey put his arm gently around her shoulders and led her to his patrol car. He was one of the old-timers, past due for retirement. Jen couldn’t remember ever hearing anyone call him by his first name, not even the chief. She sat sideways on the passenger side of the bench seat, her feet on the ground, and rested her face in her hands.
“I should have backed off earlier,” she said. “We’d have gotten them later. We usually do.”
“Dillon, listen to me.” Veasey squatted on the ground and took Jen’s hands in his, pulling them away from her face. “There is a man in the emergency room fighting for his life. The odds are good he’s not going to make it. He’s fifty-three years old. He was out for a jog, probably thinking about how the exercise was going to keep him from having a heart attack like all his buddies his age. Now he’s probably not going to live long enough to die from a heart attack. If he dies, two kids killed him. Remember that. And remember that you did the only thing you could do. You went after them. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You didn’t cause them to be hit by the train. They made their own choices, and this is what it got them. It’s not your fault.”
“I know all that,” Jen was almost whispering. “I’m not stupid. I know all that. But you didn’t see her, Sergeant. She’s so young!”
“That fellow in the emergency room’s grandkids probably are, too,” Veasey said. “It happened, Dillon. There’s nothing that can be done about it now.”
She stared at him, knowing he was right. It didn’t make it any easier, but he was right.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He stood, grimacing as his knees popped. “That’s why I’m paid the big bucks. I’ll get Peters to drive you down to the building in your car. You don’t need to be behind the wheel just now.”
“I guess it’s going to be a long night.” Jen sighed. “Were there any witnesses besides Trish and me?”
“One.” Sergeant Veasey motioned toward Vic Hensley. “Vic’s talking to him now.”
Hensley was standing by his cruiser, taking a statement from a man in jeans and a black T-shirt who was sitting in the passenger seat, the door open. Jen couldn’t see his face. “Who is he?”
“Works for the post office,” Veasey said. “Mail carrier. Apparently he was behind the two of you.”
Jen remembered the red car that had been behind them at the intersection. She got up and walked over to the cruiser. As she approached, the man glanced up at her over Vic’s shoulder and smiled. She was surprised to see it was Carter Holiday, the mailman who had found Vicki Kaufmann’s body.
“Detective Dillon, hello,” Holiday said. “We’ve got to start meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”
“I agree.” Jen couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned against the side of Vic’s cruiser. “I understand you were behind us when the accident occurred?”
“Not directly behind,” Holiday said. “Two cars back.”
“Did you witness the accident itself?”
“Not the actual impact,” he said. “My view was blocked for that. But I saw the car approaching and heard the noise. Then I saw that poor man go flying, and the car take off with you after them. Of course, I didn’t know at the time it was you.”
Jen looked around, but she didn’t see any red vehicles parked nearby.
“What happened to the red car that was between us?”
“It took off,” Holiday said. “I was kind of surprised at that. Most people stick around at a bad accident—out of curiosity, if for no other reason.”
“What kind of car was it?” Vic said.
“A Corvette.” Holiday looked back at Jen. “It looked like the one I told you about the other day. I doubt that it was the same one, but it was the same model.”
“Did you see the driver or get a license number?”
“I’m afraid not. I think there was just the driver in the car, no one else, but I’m not even sure of that.”
“Well, thank you for stopping, Mr. Holiday.” Jen smiled at the man. “You’re turning out to be one of the department’s best witnesses.”
Holiday cringed and shook his head.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I think this is about all the witnessing I care to do.”
As Jen walked back to Trish and Sergeant Veasey, she hoped for his sake that Carter Holiday didn’t have to witness any more of the sort of thing he’d seen this week. He seemed to be handling the shocks pretty well, but she could see the strain around his eyes. A brutalized body and a violent hit-skip were more than most citizens saw in a lifetime.
“I guess we should get going,” she said to Trish, “if we want to get our reports done before morning.”
CHAPTER 30
They were in the detective section working on their reports when the communications desk officer notified her that the chief was in his office and wanted to see her. Now.
“This ought to be fun,” she said after hanging up the phone. “The chief’s here, and he wants to see me.”
“I suppose I’ll be next,” Trish said. “Good luck.”
Police administration was housed in a large room, the center occupied by two desks belonging to the secretary and the administrative assistant. The sides of the room had been walled off into separate offices for the captains. The conference room where the Task Force had met occupied the corner on the right, while the left corner—the one with the windows—was the chief’s office. Jen had learned from a management class she’d taken
