The Crime Writer

I smiled politely. "How else will I find Nicole Simpson's killer?"

I zipped home, leaving the packages on the kitchen counter and walking through the house clicking on lights and whistling for Xena.

The shredded remains of several of my throw pillows were strewn through the living room. Tufts of stuffing had settled about the carpet and in the fireplace.

My house had been searched? Again? For what?

A strand of toilet paper ran from the powder room, across the entryway and living room, disappearing into the dark family room. I drew the pistol and turned on the light. The couch itself had been massacred, the suede torn to pieces. I followed the toilet paper around the ottoman to where Xena lay, snoring contentedly, the end of the two-ply strip in her drooling mouth.

I lowered the gun, surveyed the damage. "Glad your fangs work for something."

She awoke at my voice and scrambled to her feet, licking my hand, then followed me around contritely as I cursed and picked up the larger clumps of fabric.

As I plated dinner, I called Hope House and got Junior on the line.

"I gotta return Xena."

"You can't return no dog."

"She chewed up half my house."

"Homes, she just upset you leave her all day. You gots to think of your responsibilities."

I paused from setting the table. "My responsibilities?"

"Thass ride. I come talk to her, homes. Thass all you need."

"I'm dropping her off. First thing tomorrow."

"Where? Here? I can't do nuthin' with her."

"Then we'll take her back to your cousin's."

"That wasn't my cousin."

"Of course not. I'm coming tomorrow morning. With the dog.

And we're dropping her somewhere or I'm taking her to the pound." I hung up and looked at Xena. The ropy strands of saliva dangling from either jowl made her look doleful. "I'm just bluffing. I would never take you to the pound."

As I was lighting the candles on the table, my phone rang.

Junior said, "Look, homes, you wanted to know about Ms. Caroline. I tell you about Ms. Caroline."

"What about her?"

"Her face. I heard my probation officer tell the story. I was in the hallway, but he leave the door open. Ms. Caroline used to work in a prison. Assessments, all that. I guess she was on the rapist ward when a riot broke out in another wing. Guards took off to help. They did a lockdown but forgot she was in there. Trapped in with a buncha rapers. For days, homes. They pulled a train on her, cut up her face good. You know what a train is?"

My throat was dry, so the words stuck at first. "I do."

"She was barely alive when they found her. But she lived. That's how tough Ms. Caroline is." His tone changed back to the cheery fourteen-year-old. "Now will you keep Xena?"

"Good-bye, Junior." I stood over the table, the match burning down to my fingers. I shook it out and sat, watching the smoke curl and dissipate. The doorbell rang.

I took a moment, smoothed my shirtsleeves, and answered.

Caroline stood at the edge of the porch, gazing up at the house's exterior. She wore jeans and a black button-up with cuffs, the pashmina thrown across her shoulders matching her eyes as if the designer had pulled the color from them.

She looked at me, her smile vanishing. "You found out what happened to me." She leaned in close. "There's a change around the eyes. Like pity, but worse." She turned and started walking away.

I caught her at the curb, already in her car, about to swing her door closed.

"Let's make a deal," I said.

She stopped but kept her grip on the handle.

"Let's for one night suspend all awkwardness and nervousness between us. Let's just put it on hold and eat and talk and see what that feels like."

"Easy enough for you."

"Let's not be arrogant."

"You're a fine one to talk."

She closed the door. I knocked on the window.

"If you drive away, you're gonna feel bad," I said. "It's just a familiar brand of bad."

"I like my brand of bad."

"So it's gotta go this way, huh?"

She seemed to collapse into anger. "You want to play Prince Charming and rescue me from my tragic predicament? Well, I would say get in line, but I've scared away the rest of the line. And I'll scare you away, too. So why don't we just skip it and save ourselves some time?"

"Hey," I said, sharply enough that she jerked back to face me. "I know what it's like to have people afraid of you. So drive off, fine, but don't kid yourself into thinking you're the only person drawing the wrong kind of stares in public."

She squealed out from the curb, and I had to step back to keep my foot from getting run over.

I walked inside. Xena cocked her head, regarding me quizzically.

"Sometimes grown-ups fight," I told her.

I blew out the candles. Recorked the wine. Started to clear the dishes when the doorbell rang. She was holding her hands clasped at her stomach, as if it hurt, and her face was flushed except at the scars.

"Do you mind if I come in?"

"I'd love you to."

She came, not bothering to take in the view, and sat at the table. I took the chair opposite her.

"The facts are always less scary," she said. "More containable."

"When you can find them."