“Hey, that’s what we’re here for! Your tax dollars at work.”
“Have a great one, Don.”
“You too.”
Kristine Kjarstad lay back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her breath came irregularly, in spasms. It was almost like being in labor again. She called the switchboard and got the numbers of the Atlanta and Evanston City Police, and then a kind of paralysis descended on her. Every time she dialed, she found herself setting the receiver down the moment the ringing tone began. This was the moment of truth. The whole edifice she had constructed in her mind was either about to be revealed as a delusion, or not. It was hard to say which prospect she found more disturbing.
Finally she just steeled herself and dialed the Evanston number. She discovered that Eileen McCann did in fact exist-for some reason even this had seemed doubtful-but that she was “away from her desk.”
“My name is Kristine Kjarstad. I’m with King County Police, in Washington State. It’s about a suspect named Dale Watson. Could you please have her call me?”
Once again, Kristine found herself in the classic female position of waiting helplessly for the phone to ring. She was just about to call Atlanta when it did.
“Kristine? Paul Merlowitz.”
“Oh! Oh, hi. Hi, Paul.”
“You called.”
“Right. I did, yeah.”
“So how you been?”
“Good. You?”
“Good.”
“Good. The thing is, you caught me at kind of a bad moment, I’m expecting a call, but I was wondering, maybe could we get together sometime? The thing is … It’s kind of difficult to explain on the … There’s this house …”
“Thursday any good for you?”
“Thursday? That’s …”
“Or I could do Tuesday next week. We’re talking lunch, right?”
“That sounds …”
“The Painted Table, Thursday, noon, OK?”
“OK.”
“Great to hear you, Kristine.”
The line went dead. But the moment she put the phone down, it started to ring again.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking with Officer Carstad?”
It was a woman with shoulder pads built into her voice and a crisp, pedantic delivery.
“That’s right.”
“This is Detective Eileen McCann, Evanston City Police. I understand you have information concerning our inquiry with regard to an individual named Dale Watson.”
“I may have.”
There was a pointed silence at the other end.
“And when will you be sure?”
Kristine Kjarstad took a deep breath. This was clearly going to be one of
“I’d like to know a little more about the present status of the case,” she replied.
The Evanston detective sniffed audibly.
“The basic information is on the inquiry we sent. It is not the policy of this department to give out progress reports regarding ongoing investigations over the telephone.”
“Wait a minute!” Kristine snapped. “I don’t work for some tabloid TV show. Can’t you cut me a little slack here?”
“I repeat, it is not department policy to-”
Kristine cracked.
“OK, if you won’t talk, listen! The reason I’m calling is because I’ve received notice that a Dale Watson is currently being sought by another law enforcement agency in connection with a case which has certain resemblances to one on our files. Let me just run the outline past you. If it means nothing, go ahead and hang up. All right?”
“I’m listening.”
“Our case involves an apparently motiveless quadruple homicide. The attack took place in broad daylight at the family home. The victims were restrained with handcuffs, gagged with lengths of duct tape and shot at point- blank range in the back of the head. The weapon was a.22 handgun, probably a revolver, loaded with Stinger cartridges.”
She had spoken fast, the words gusted along on a tidal current of adrenaline and anger. Now she’d done, and sat tight, grasping the receiver tightly, probing the long silence at the other end.
“You are describing a crime which you currently have under investigation?” the Evanston detective inquired at last.
“Correct. And I know of at least one more.”
Another silence.
“Then I consider it expedient that we should meet up as soon as possible,” Eileen McCann pronounced at last.
Success went to Kristine’s head.
“Thursday any good for you?” she demanded. “Or I could do Tuesday next week. We’re talking lunch, right?”
“That’s logistically problematic,” was the unruffled reply.
“OK,” said Kristine, getting a grip on herself. “Fax me through details of your case, and if it looks like we’re on to something here I’ll get out there to see you within forty-eight hours. How’s that sound?”
“Let’s diarize.”
Whatever Eileen McCann lacked in charm, she made up for in efficiency. Twenty minutes later, Kristine had the entire dossier of the Maple Street shootings on her desk. She was still poring over it when Steve Warren appeared. He handed her a waxed cup filled with a creamy foam.
“Thought maybe you could use this,” he mumbled. “Double tail’s how you like it, right?”
Kristine barely looked up.
“Steve, you’re a fucking genius!”
Warren flinched. He didn’t deserve this! OK, so he’d screwed up earlier, but he’d tried to make it up to her, running over to the espresso stand and getting her a latte. There was no call for mockery.
“This thing has hair all over it!” Kristine exclaimed almost hysterically. “And if it hadn’t been for you, it would have passed us right by. No one else would have bothered to read those details about the MO that tie in with the Renton case.”
Steve Warren shrugged awkwardly.
“Hell, I’m just an average Joe …”
Kristine shook her head decisively.
“No, you’re not, Steve. You’re one of a kind.”
He looked at her as though she’d slapped his face, then turned without a word and walked out. Kristine shook her head and returned to her reading. She kind of liked Steve, but there was no getting away from the fact that the guy was a total fruitcake.
It took her another thirty minutes to get a clear fix on the Evanston case. As soon as she had, she called Atlanta. At first it seemed that she was in for another round of the old crapola with some dickette who’d flunked out of charm school, but the woman who answered the phone turned out to be merely a call catcher. Detective Wingate, she informed Kristine, wouldn’t be on duty for another three hours.
Kristine glanced at the clock. The idea of waiting seemed intolerable.
