The Crime Writer

"What I'd give to have a tape of me in college," Caroline said. "The past always seems so glamorous, once you pass it. Yet here we are, stuck in the ever-unglamorous present." She watched the young couple kissing. "Remember that age? Everything you felt, it was the first time anyone had ever felt it. Like you'd discovered emotion." The longing in her voice was palpable. "You can't burn that way your whole life or you'll burn out, but it's still a loss when it fades away."

The guy stood up. His T-shirt read it ain't gonna suck itseLf.

"Ah, yes," I said. "Young romance."

Caroline laughed, and the guy stopped and gave us his best glare.

"Right," I said, "you wear that shirt and you don't want people to look at you."

Scowling, he continued outside, tapping down a pack of smokes. The waitress came over, and I tried to pay, but Caroline insisted, a bit too firmly, on splitting the bill.

After our change arrived, Caroline said, "When I first started at Hope House, we realized we weren't getting traction with certain kids because we didn't understand some of their reactions, their hardwiring. So I implemented home visits for the counselors. To see where these kids came from. It gave us a better understanding of how to deal with them in other contexts." She paused to finish her beer, leaving me unsure where she was going. "You knew Genevieve, but all you have of Kasey Broach is a body in a photograph. If you want to figure out how to fit her in, you need to see where she lived, meet her family."

"And say what? 'I'm a suspect in your daughter's murder and I'd like to ask a few questions'?"

She shrugged. "You're creative. Presumably." Her eyes darted over to the pool table. "Wanna play?"

"You hustling me?"

Again with the beautiful smile. "I'm not very good."

Two and a half minutes later, I watched as she leaned over to draw a bead on the fifteen, her second-to-last ball on the table. I had six solids remaining and little of my barroom dignity. I'd discovered that Caroline Raine had a whole vocabulary of laughter the victorious whoop, the confident chuckle, the under-the-breath snicker.

"Is the fifteen feeling skinny? I think it's feeling skinny." Off her shot she threaded it, impossibly, through the one and the five and lined up for the nine. "The jeweler is in," she pronounced before cutting it to the side pocket on a backward vector I'd seen only in Paul Newman movies.

She circled the table, chalking her stick. Witty T-Shirt was still tied up on the pay phone, but his girlfriend's chair blocked Caroline's angle.

Caroline asked, "Would you mind letting me take this shot?"

"We were here first," the girl said. "And I already moved once. I'm not gonna keep dancing around the table."

"It puts you out that much to scoot four inches to your left?"

The girl flashed a fake smile onto her unreasonably pretty face. "Likes: water sports, long walks on the beach, kittens. Dislikes: pushy chicks with fucked-up faces."

Caroline colored everywhere except her scars; the contrast was severe. She set down the pool cue and turned to me. "Let's go." She took a few steps toward the door, then stopped and looked back at me intolerantly.

I paused next to the girl. On the table beside her Smirnoff Ice were photo proofs of her in various cutesy poses. She or her boyfriend had circled several with a red grease pencil, selecting prospective head shots.

"I know you," I said quietly. "You lucked into a decent set of genes, and you think that constitutes a contribution to the world. You don't really want to act you're just lazy, and you want to be looked at and get your rent paid doing it. You booked a mouthwash commercial and a print campaign for TJ Maxx, and your agent thinks you're the next big thing. In a few years, you'll give up on leading lady and convince yourself you'll get cast as the wry best friend or the sitcom wife. Another excuse to do more nothing for another decade. In the long meantime, maybe you should reflect on what entitles you to be cruel and smug besides high cheekbones and the word of people paid to flatter you."

I didn't see her boyfriend coming until the fist loomed over my right side. I jerked away, and the blow glanced off my jaw, and then I heard a thud and a barstool toppling, and I finished reeling to see Caroline standing over the guy, holding one twisted arm captive, foot at his jawline, applying pressure to drive his face farther into the worn carpet. His girlfriend's mouth hung open, one hand curled over her perfect teeth. She'd turned white. Maybe she was a good actress after all.

Caroline glanced up at me. "Ready to go?"

I nodded. She released him. This time I followed her out to the parking lot. We paused between our cars. Xena was at my driver's-side window, snub tail wagging.

"You're a second-rate writer with a first-rate mouth," Caroline said.

I looked for a snappy comeback I would've even taken on-the-nose but I had writer's block and my jaw hurt. I touched it gingerly.

Caroline sighed, annoyed by her concern. "How do you feel?"