I was going to tell him no one more time, that he had it all wrong. But I wasn’t sure I could say it with complete confidence.
14
I didn’t know whether Flint was going to want Trixie’s car for his investigation. I couldn’t see why, since the murder hadn’t taken place in it. If it were peppered with incriminating evidence, she’d hardly have left it behind and taken mine.
When I was in the back of the police car, Flint had asked me for a full description of my Virtue, including plate number, which I happened to know, since I’m good with licenses, phone numbers, and the like. He was on his cell right away, passing on the description.
The thing was, I needed wheels. It would probably be easier to take the car and say sorry later, if I had to, than ask Flint for permission to drive off in it now.
I got into the front seat of the GF300, settling into the leather upholstery. One glance at the dash told me this was a more complicated vehicle than my Virtue. A multitude of buttons and switches, including about a dozen on the steering wheel itself, and a tiny screen in the middle of the dash that had to be some sort of navigation system. Turn on the car, and a map showing the car’s exact location would probably pop up.
There were some bits of paper in a recessed tray between the seats, what looked like gas receipts, a car wash ticket. Impulsively, I grabbed them and slid them into my jacket pocket, then started looking for the ignition so I could slip the key in and get on my way.
There was a sharp rapping on the driver’s window and I jerked my head around to see a very annoyed Flint looking at me through the glass.
I fumbled around, looking for the power window button. Flint, tired of waiting, opened the door and said, “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
“Heading back into the city,” I said.
“Not in this car you’re not,” he said. “Get out.”
I did as I was told, handed the keys to Flint. “But Trixie took my car. She said I could use hers.”
“Oh, gee,” said Flint, putting the keys in his pocket, shrugging elaborately. “If it’s okay with her, then I guess it’s fine.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you really work at a newspaper? Have you ever even seen a crime show on TV?”
“I guess your forensic people have to go over the car,” I said.
Flint smiled. “You can catch a train back downtown. There’s a station only half a mile from here. I’ll have one of my people give you a lift.”
It was almost an hour before I got back to the paper. I figured Sarah had returned to the office, and I felt I had no choice but to follow her there. There was still some shit left to hit the fan and land on me, and I figured it was going to happen somewhere in the vicinity of Magnuson’s office.
I wanted to head straight to Sarah’s office, to try to make her understand the bizarre set of circumstances that had brought us to this point, to ask her to forgive me for the stupid things I’d managed to get myself into lately, and most of all, to tell her that I loved her more than anything in the world.
But I didn’t have the nerve.
Instead, I wandered over to my new desk in Home!
“You missed cookie time,” Frieda said when I walked past her desk. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly five. “Where have you been all day?”
I sighed, too tired and too depressed for any sort of smart answer. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about me around here for much longer,” I told her, dropping into my computer chair. The red message light on my phone was flashing.
“What are you talking about?” Frieda said.
“The clock’s ticking,” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before Magnuson suspends me, or fires me outright. I just hope he doesn’t fire Sarah too. None of this is her fault.”
Frieda wheeled over a chair and sat close to me. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody in this much trouble.”
I smiled weakly. “Me neither.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Her concern seemed genuine, and I felt badly for all of my sarcastic outbursts the last couple of days.
I shook my head. “I imagine I’ll be out of here before I can finish your linoleum story.”
She looked sad. “And you were doing so well with it. Finding out where the word comes from and everything. That was real initiative.”
“Yeah, well.” My phone rang. I looked at it tiredly and figured, with all that was happening, I’d better answer it. It could be Flint, or one of the kids. Part of me wanted it to be Trixie, telling me where she could be found, that she would wait there for the police to arrive. And there was part of me that didn’t ever want to hear from her again.
Frieda excused herself as I reached for the receiver. “Walker,” I said.
“Hi, Mr. Walker. Brian Sandler here.”
I shook my head. Who? “Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?”
“Sandler? City health department? You called me this morning about an incident at Burger Crisp? I left you a couple of messages.”
It took a moment for me to put it all together. “Oh yeah, right, of course,” I said, glancing at the flashing red light on my phone. “I’m sorry. It’s been kind of a long day.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to put your mind at ease. Everything’s fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I paid a visit today, after your call this morning, to Burger Crisp and spoke with Mrs. Gorkin, and her daughters, Gavrilla and Ludmilla, and I was satisfied that everything was in order.”
Godzilla and what?
“But how could that be? Their freezer was off for hours, my son Paul said at least one customer returned to the store feeling sick and-”
“I understand your son was fired from Burger Crisp. Or he quit.”
“I told you that this morning. That he quit, was fired, after this incident.”
“That’s not how the Gorkins explain it,” Sandler said, a hint of condescension in his voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Gorkin says they’d already fired your son, that he wasn’t doing a very good job, couldn’t get the hang of it, and that then the two of you came back making all sorts of wild accusations.”
Anger swept over me like a hot wind. “That’s total bullshit, Mr. Sandler,” I said. “My son was working, flipping burgers on the grill, when I came in and he told me what was going on. He wanted to keep me from eating my meal. He was scared for me.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, but your story doesn’t jibe with theirs.”
“Or their story doesn’t jibe with mine. You really think I’d call the health department with a pack of lies just to get even for something, which didn’t even happen?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Walker.”
“Look, did you test the food? Isn’t there something you can do, take it into a lab and dissect the microbes or count the bacteria or something and determine whether it’s contaminated?”
“Of course. But I didn’t see any need in this case.”
“Are you serious? Okay, look, we’ve got an entire meal from Burger Crisp in our fridge. I could bring it down to you, you could have it tested, you’d know then whether the Gherkins-”
“Gorkins.”
