I would head you,
I’d do anything that’s right
For your body’s sweet delight.”
Justin sang. Rob strummed and found chords without conscious thought. A good thing, too, right this minute. Yes, he seemed to have all the time in the world. He knew he didn’t, but he seemed to, and that was all that counted.
After the song ended, they got another hand. Somebody in the front row squirted Justin with one of their namesakes: a piece of made-in-China plastic madness from Archie McPhee. Somebody else called out, “I don’t believe in evolution!”
“Well, if you find a band called Squirt Frog and the Created Tadpoles, maybe you should latch on to them,” Justin answered easily. He was fast on his verbal feet. He got a laugh. It was still fading when he went on, “If you didn’t like that last song, you really won’t be able to stand this next one.”
They swung into “Punctuated Equilibrium.” Not everybody could make a song out of Stephen Jay Gould’s attack on classical Darwinism, but Justin Nachman wasn’t everybody. He was wasting a master’s in biology even more thoroughly than Rob was squandering his engineering degree. Well, they were having fun… weren’t they?
They were tonight. They got called back for two encores. Afterwards, they sold CDs and signed them for the people who thought autographs proved reality. They plugged the new single on their Web site. They did all the other necessary things that separated music-as-business from music-as-fun.
Then they went back to the motel, not completely alone. A little sleep, or something, would be good. They’d play in Missoula, Montana, tomorrow night. Another long haul, another university campus. With luck, another crowd. Another paycheck. Sometimes this gig looked an awful lot like work. But only sometimes.
Colin Ferguson took notes on the things he read. He found that helped him remember them better. He often kept the scribbles to himself. When they held nothing earthshaking, he didn’t bother.
Cops are no less nosy than other people. Cops, in fact, are nosier than most other people; if they weren’t, they’d make lousy cops. And so Colin wasn’t particularly surprised when Sergeant Gabriel Sanchez pointed to a sheet of paper on his desk and asked, “Who the hell is Huckleberry Tuff?”
“Not who, Gabe. What,” Colin said.
“Oh, yeah?” Sanchez said. He had a bushy black mustache just beginning to get gray flecks and sideburns a good half an inch longer than the San Atanasio Police Department’s dress code allowed anyone not on undercover drug duty. He reached for the pack of Camels in his breast pocket.
“Naughty, naughty,” Colin said. The San Atanasio PD had gone smokefree the year before. Colin’s father had died of lung cancer, one bad inch at a time. He had his share of bad habits and then some, but cigarettes weren’t one of them.
“Ah, fuck,” Sanchez said without heat. “I’ll go outside when I’m done bugging you, then. Okay, what’s Huckleberry Tuff? Sounds like a gangbanger who’s read Mark Twain.”
Colin chuckled. “Kinda does, doesn’t it? But it’s this layer of rock the supervolcano under Yellowstone Park laid down when it went kablooie two million years ago and change. There’s lots of it-I mean lots-in Wyoming and Montana and Idaho.”
“O-kay.” Whatever Sergeant Sanchez had expected, that wasn’t it. “And how come you give a rat’s ass about this super-watchamacallit?”
Normally, that would have been an altogether reasonable question. As things stood, though, Colin had a reasonable answer: “ ’Cause this gal I’ve got interested in is studying the supervolcano. Geologist, I guess you’d call her.”
“Oh. I gotcha.” The medium-brown skin on Sanchez’s hands had a lighter streak on his ring finger that testified to his own recently deceased wedded bliss. Caution-police work may be hazardous to your marriage. They didn’t issue warning labels like that, but they should have. The sergeant leered and laughed a dirty laugh. “Geologist, huh? Long as she gets your rocks off…”
“Har-de-har-har.” Colin had heard that one before, from almost every cop who knew what a geologist was. Before he could say so, his telephone rang. He picked it up. “Ferguson.” He listened for a moment, then seemed to sag in his seat. “Shit,” he said heavily. “Are they sure? What’s the location?” He wrote down an address on the sheet that held the words Huckleberry Tuff, then slammed the handset into the cradle.
Gabe Sanchez might not make original jokes, but he could sure read between the lines. “Another one from the Strangler?” he asked.
“Looks that way. Mildred Szymanski, seventy-seven, found dead in her place. Nobody saw her, she didn’t answer her door for three days, and the neighbors finally called us. Bedroom’s a mess-looks like she put up a fight. She’s naked from the waist down.”
“Jesus.” Sanchez reached for his smokes again. If he had lit up, Colin wouldn’t have said a word. But he jerked his hand away instead. “Mildred. Nobody’s named Mildred any more. Who the fuck gets his jollies raping little old ladies?”
“This guy does,” Colin answered. “It’s in one of the apartment buildings near San Atanasio Boulevard and Sword Beach Avenue. Wanna come with me?”
“Sure. We can damn near walk,” Sanchez said. Colin nodded. The scene of the crime was only a few blocks from the cop shop.
As soon as they got outside, Sanchez did light a Camel. He smoked in quick, furious puffs, and stamped on the half-smoked cigarette when they got into one of the department’s unmarked cars: a Plymouth that had seen better years. It wheezed to life when Colin turned the key.
The Sunbreeze Apartments had seen better years, too. They’d probably been a cool place to live when they went up in some 1970s real-estate boom. Now they looked more like the Sun-bleached Apartments. Lots of serious armor, added on as things went downhill, secured the entrance and the gateway to the underground parking garage. Two black-and-whites were parked in the no-parking zone out front, their red and blue lights flashing.
Colin pulled in behind one of the cop cars. A uniformed officer started to wave the Plymouth away, then recognized him. The guy grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about that, Lieutenant.”
“No sweat, Malcolm,” Colin said as he and Gabe Sanchez got out.
When reporters talked about San Atanasio these days, they called it “working class.” That meant most of the chatter Colin heard from looky-loos was in Spanish. Some was in Tagalog, some in Korean. And some was in English. The people who used English as their native tongue were up near the late Mildred Szymanski’s age. They’d liveere a long time, and hadn’t let all the changes to their town push them to places like Torrance and Redondo Beach.
An ambulance arrived, with the coroner’s car right behind it. Dr. Ishikawa and a photographer climbed out of the car. The guys in the ambulance sat tight. They wouldn’t be able to take the body away till the police and the coroner finished their jobs. Ishikawa waved to Colin. “Another one?” he called in a harsh, grating voice.
“Haven’t been inside yet,” the lieutenant answered. “I just got here, too. But that’s what the call sounds like.”
A tall, skinny bald man with tufts of white hair sticking out of his ears stumped up to Colin. “You catch the son of a bitch who done this, you hear?” he said.
“Sir, I’ll do my best,” Colin told him. What else could he say? A TV news van started sniffing for a parking space. “Keep those clowns outside,” Colin growled to Malcolm. He hurried into the apartment building, Gabe Sanchez at his heels. He hated scenes of violent death. But he hated dealing with the blow-dried vultures who gorged on them even more. And he was given to telling the truth as he saw it, which endeared him to neither reporters nor his superiors.
A glance at the mailboxes told him Mildred Szymanski had lived in apartment 251. A glance at the body on the bedroom floor in the apartment told him the South Bay Strangler likely had struck again. Sooner or later- probably sooner-he’d have to talk to the newshounds after all.
