The Crime Writer

Atop the crammed bookshelf by the TV, bookended between two heavy mugs, sat a row of my hardcovers. The closest thing to a display in sight. Preston always badgered me so much about my writing that I'd forgotten that maybe he liked it. The possibility that he valued me more than he let on oddly diminished my view of him. A trust-fund editor more articulate than I was, he'd taken a gamble on me five books ago, and I hadn't really updated my underlying view of him since. Though we'd become good friends, if not intimates, in my hidden thinking he'd always remained part of the unscalable edifice of New York publishing, and I felt a devotion to him for giving me that first hand up. I knew, of course, that I was an opportunity for him then and especially now. But perhaps I represented a more profound opportunity than I'd thought. Like the rest of us, Preston was busted in his own lovely way. But maybe he was also ordinary like the rest of us. Maybe he needed me as much as I needed him.

Preston had said something.

I refocused. "Sorry?"

"I said, 'Yes, you found Junior…?' "

I forged back into the story Xena and the cop and the jail cell but I couldn't convey the maddening hilarity of it. Preston humored me with a faint smile and the occasional nod, but we were both distracted and aware that the surface exchange had become a charade.

When I was finished, I said lamely, "You gotta meet this kid." I riffled the edges of the nearest newspaper section until the noise grated. The air felt unvented, claustrophobic. I was eager to get out of there, impatient to start looking into the vehicle ID Junior had given me. Finally I said, "I gotta get over to Lloyd's. Tell him about the Volvo. I just thought you'd get a kick out of the other stuff."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"You never disappoint, Preston."

He summoned a smile before rising to see me out. "No," he said. "Of course not."

Chapter 23

Lloyd sat at the kitchen table, head bent, arms folded on a place mat dotted with crumbs. I'd informed him of my tentative vehicle ID at the door, and he'd taken a few steps back and sunk into a chair.

"Unbelievable," he said. "You came up with a make, color, distinguishing body damage, and the first license-plate number?"

"Should I go to Kaden and Delveckio with it?"

"Let's think this over." He stood and poured himself a rum and Coke. I noticed that the bottle of Bacardi 8 I'd brought him two days ago was nearly empty. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, and the blanket on the couch was thrown back. In the background a talking head chattered mindlessly about avian flu, predicting calamity and ruin. "You don't know for sure that the Volvo belongs to the body dumper?"

"No. The witness split before he saw anything. It's possible that another car could've come along after, but we're talking a pretty narrow time frame here between when my witness left and when you snapped that first crime-scene photo."

"Either way it'd be worth talking to the Volvo driver. Either he's our guy, or he likely saw something." Lloyd sucked an ice cube from the glass, crunched it loudly. "How reliable is your witness?"

I tried to imagine Kaden and Delveckio taking Junior seriously.

Lloyd read my face. "Then we should load the deck. Let me run the info in the morning, see what I find. I can't check for a wheel-well dent, obviously, but with everything else? You've given me some great search criteria. If I come up with a strong suspect, you'll be better armed bringing it in to Kaden and Delveckio." He aimed a forefinger at me. "But no mention of me."

"I haven't implicated you in anything. And I won't."

A moan, cracked with dehydration, floated down the hall, and then a faint cry that I realized was his name being called.

Lloyd jerked to his feet and jogged back into the house, his steps sped by panic. The voice had been startling frightening, even and I found myself standing at the mouth of the hall peering down its length. The bedroom door was closed as usual, but through it I heard Lloyd's voice, raised with concern, and the sound of bottles clinking. I was unsure whether I should slip out, giving them privacy. I had, after all, barged in late and unannounced on a Monday night after another unsuccessful round of calls to Lloyd's various numbers. Persistence and self-centeredness useful traits for a writer, but they didn't make me the most considerate name in the Rolodex. As a penance I tidied up the kitchen, trying to make headway against the avalanche of housework that confronted Lloyd each morning.

I stacked the dishes, wiped the counters, and gathered the loose trash stale tacos included into several grocery bags, all the while thinking of Caroline's comment about trusting selfish motives. Lloyd likely wouldn't notice, but the thought of leaving him with a clean kitchen made me feel better. I finished and resolved to go.

I had my hand on the doorknob when I heard Lloyd's voice behind me. "I always thought death was beautiful."