“Yeah, that cat’s kind of famous in the department. We gave Frank hell about those scratches.”
“Well, then you know I’m safe. Thanks for everything, Pete.”
“See you later, Irene. I’ll just wait out here for a while.”
“I’m okay, really. If you’re going to wait around until Lydia comes in, you may have a long wait. Might as well come in.”
He shrugged. “Tell you what. Could I use your phone?”
As we walked in, Cody bit me on the ankle and then ran off down the hallway, apparently unhappy about having been abandoned. Pete called in to the department and arranged for a patrol car to make a few extra passes down our street.
“So long, Irene,” he said as he walked out.
I locked up and climbed into bed. Cody joined me a few minutes later, acting as if nothing had happened. I pulled back the bedroom-window curtain and wasn’t entirely surprised to see Pete still sitting out in his car at the curb.
I knew he was tired, but he wasn’t going to break his pledge to Frank to watch over me.
I lay awake a long time, petting Cody, listening to him purr. “Cat, you miss me?” I asked him. He gave me a sandpaper kiss. I heard Lydia come in, but didn’t get up to talk to her — I was afraid she’d think I’d stayed up waiting for her. I heard Pete’s car drive off, and still I couldn’t sleep. I decided to think of some pleasant memory. I put myself back on my grandmother’s farm in Kansas. I was standing in a wheat field, watching the wind move the wheat in undulating waves of gold. Somehow the memory became a dream, and I was dancing through the wheat, feeling it brush against me while I held my face to the sun. I held my arms out to its warmth and whirled in slow, lazy circles, laughing as I turned. My grandmother, still alive in the dream, called to me, and I ran to her. I felt her soft apron and the smell of cinnamon as she hugged me with her thin old arms, and she said, “Child, what am I going to do with you?”
I woke up feeling fine.
29
HMM — SOMETHING SMELLS GREAT . You making breakfast?” Lydia called out to me as she made her way to the kitchen.
“Yeah, cinnamon toast. Here, have some.”
“You always cut it up in little strips like this?”
“My grandmother did. I had a dream about her last night.”
“I haven’t had this in ages.”
“Me neither.” I sat down next to her, dishing out some scrambled eggs and bacon. “A country breakfast. Hardens your arteries, but we’ve all got to live on the edge sometimes.”
“This is great, Irene.”
“Thanks. How was the date with Michael?”
“Eh.”
“‘Eh’?”
“There was all this animal magnetism between us, but we couldn’t make much conversation. We just didn’t have anything much to talk about. We saw a movie, or it would have been the longest evening of my life. After the movie, it was either make out all night or come home alone and get a good night’s sleep. God knows I’ve been horny lately, but this is the nineties, not our college days, so Michael and I left it at a goodnight kiss.”
“You went that far on a first date?” I said with mock horror.
“First and last, I’m afraid,” she said, shoving the morning edition toward me. “You see the paper yet? People are going to get jealous.”
Good old John Walters had given me another page one. The story of Jennifer Owens was as public as it was going to be.
There were a pile of messages and O’Connor’s mail waiting for me at work. The mail made me think of the second envelope from Wednesday, which I had completely forgotten. I opened my purse and found it.
It contained a note from MacPherson dated last week, saying he had found someone to do the computer drawings of the woman’s face, and he would call when they were ready. I felt a great sense of relief. I hadn’t been walking around for two days with some big clue stashed in my purse.
I sat down and began to go through the mail and messages. Yesterday, a note from Barbara, asking me to give her a call at the hospital when I got back. A call from MacPherson with “Says it’s not urgent” written at the bottom of the message slip. Some calls from people I recognized as political organizers, probably about various people and issues in our upcoming election.
The mail was much the same, with the exception of one envelope. A scrawling, shaky hand was addressed to me, care of the
I re-read Emmet Woolsey’s letter a half a dozen times. I felt uneasy holding this letter from a man who could not live with himself, who had been dead for three days. I knew it was evidence of a sort and should be turned over to the police; I also knew I should show it to John; but both actions seemed a violation of some kind of trust Woolsey had placed in me. I thought about how unwelcome an apology may sometimes be. I wasn’t in a forgiving kind of mood.
