read the note: 'Please give my glasses to the Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine.'
'That's nice,' Martin's mother had said, though she had been furious to learn that the Shriners did not allow women to attend their meetings. Martin had always assumed that explained the giggle. His father had finally managed to get the last word.
'Hooty-hoo!' someone heckled. There were whistles and a few catcalls. Martin craned to see around the legs of the men standing in front of the cell bars. He saw a tennis shoe… a calf…
'Shut up, you cocksuckers,' An told the men who were reaching toward her. 'Back the fuck off before I Tase every one of you.'
Martin scrambled to stand, his heart thumping at the sound of her voice. The crowd parted and he walked forward, feeling the curious, if not outright envious, stares of his fellow cellies.
An nodded to the policeman beside her and he opened the cell door.
'This way,' she said, walking down the hallway.
Martin stumbled over his own feet as he tried to keep up with her. 'It was awful in there,' he said. 'You don't know what it does to a man. They're animals. I feel so-'
'You were in there for less than thirty minutes,' she told him, punching a code into the keypad by the door.
'Really?' he asked, surprised that it hadn't been at least an hour. 'It felt like an eternity. Thank you so much for…' Martin's brain caught up with the moment. 'Hey, where are you taking me?'
'I'm letting you out on your own recognizance.'
'What about the blood? What about my fingerprints?'
'Are you trying to talk me out of this?'
'I just… I don't want you to get into trouble,' he said, the truth coming out. His mind flashed on the image of An in the interrogation room. Was that concern he had seen on her face as he threw up all over the table? It wasn't revulsion – Martin had seen revulsion in enough women by now to know what that looked like.
She asked, 'Why would I get in trouble?'
'For letting me out,' he said. 'I mean, this is a lot of circumstantial evidence we're talking about.'
She stared at him. He saw that one of her eyelids drooped more than the other. The circles under her eyes were darker in the fluorescent light of the corridor. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to kiss the droopiness away. Or kiss the droopiness in, because it seemed like it would be easier to make an eyelid droop more by pressing into it than it would be to remove the droopiness; it was just simple physics.
'You need a better lawyer than the one you've got.'
'Max seems like a nice guy.' He had actually offered Martin some good advice about making sure to align himself with the whites as soon as he got into the cells. Had there been any white people, he would have certainly done so.
'I'm letting you go because forensic tests showed that Sandy's blood on the bumper dried before yours did.'
'You can tell that?'
'Yes,' she told him, sounding tired. 'We can tell that.'
Martin scratched his chin, wondering if he would ever be able to trust Kay Scarpetta again.
'Your car is in the impound lot. Keep your nose clean,' An warned him. 'You're still our main suspect in this case.'
'Yes, I can see why.'
'You also need to tell me what you were doing between the time you dropped off your mother and the time you came home.'
Martin pressed his lips together.
'Mr Reed-'
'I promise you that I would never hurt Sandy. She teased me sometimes, but I know that she cared about me. Sometimes, when people pick on you, it's because, for them, that's the only way they can show affection.' Martin shrugged. 'If you look at it that way, Sandy and I were actually friends.'
An stared at him. She sighed a deep raspy sigh of exhaustion. Martin thought of all the things he would do if he had her all to himself: stroke her hair, rub her feet, change her lightbulbs (even if there were spiders!). He would learn to cook for her. The art of lovemaking would come easily to him, the way that macrame and model shipbuilding had come to him in the ninth grade. And didn't his mother still have some of his ships on the top of the kitchen cabinets? Evie wouldn't still be displaying them after all of these years if she didn't think they were good!
'Mr Reed?'
She had been talking and he'd missed it. 'Yes?'
'Leave.'
He saw that she was holding the door open for him. A man sat behind a cage with the envelope containing Martin's personal effects. He turned around to thank Anther – really to get one more look at her – only to see the door slam in his face.
The man in the cage started speaking as Martin approached. 'Count your money, check your belongings and sign here.'
Martin followed each step, counting down to the last penny, checking his wallet to make sure an unclaimed scratch-off ticket was still there. 'Thank you,' he told the man, but apparently the fish were just as impolite as the screws. Or was it the screws who controlled the fish? And why did they call them fish? Perhaps because they were swimming against the tide instead of schooling along with the rest of society?
Martin considered this as he walked through the packed lobby of the jail. There was row after row of vinyl seats, enough to handle at least five hundred people, he guessed. Families were waiting in huddled groups. Grandparents sat alone. Such sadness.
There was a taxi-stand outside the jail entrance. Martin got into the first one, which smelled vaguely of vomit. Or maybe he just became aware of his own smell in the cramped quarters. The driver seemed none too pleased. He rolled down all the windows as he merged on to the interstate. Martin's hair flapped wildly around his face, stinging his cheeks, but he did not care. He stared out the window at the downtown skyline as the driver jumped on I-20, then I-285. It wasn't until they passed Atlanta Airport that Martin realized the driver was taking the longest route possible.
They pulled up in front of the Reed house exactly fifty-two minutes later. Martin was barely able to pay the price on the meter. The driver made it clear this was unacceptable. He backed the cab over a row of Evie's plants as he zoomed down the driveway. The man probably thought he was punishing Martin, but the truth was that Martin was so mad at his mother for not coming to his aid that he did not care how many flowers were sacrificed.
'What the hell are you doing home?' Evie demanded. She stood in the open doorway of the house, bathrobe hanging open. 'You're supposed to be in prison.'
'Jail,' he corrected. 'Prison is where you go when you're convicted.'
'Thank you for the lesson, Mr fucking Smarty- Pants.'
Martin walked up the front steps and went into the house. He stopped at the hall mirror, noting how much he had aged since this morning. Living life on the wrong side of the tracks would do that to you.
'Norton Shaw called. He says you're fired.'
'What?'
'He said to get your things after work and leave your keys in his office. I hope you don't think you're going to stay here freeloading off me. I'm an old woman. I have to look out for myself.'
'Why would they fire me?'
'I dunno, Martin. Lemme go out on a limb here and say it's because you murdered one of your God damn co- workers.'
Martin felt his jaw ache from grinding his teeth. 'I need to borrow your car.'
'Why, is there someone else you want to kill?'
He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. 'One… two… three…'
