What You Don't Know(38)

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, and that catches him off guard, because he should be the one in charge, he’s the police and this is a crime scene, but he wasn’t expecting her, especially not like this, casually sauntering up as if they don’t have seven years separating them, as if time has stopped and rucked up so they’re back there now, before it was ever over.

“I’m a cop,” he says rudely, that’s always been his safety net when he’s uncomfortable—bad manners. “And this is a crime scene.”

“I know that,” she says. Pauses, and smiles. “Sorry. It was a stupid question.”

The house they’re in front of is big, older. A Realtor would describe it as rambling, he thought. The mailbox at the bottom of the driveway was built to look like a cat, and then painted orange with black stripes. It’s meant to be cute, whimsical, but Hoskins guesses it probably irritates the neighbors.

“What do you want?” he asks, still looking around, trying to get a feel for the place. This is how he’s always tried to do this—he keeps his eyes open, even before he gets inside, because he never knows what he might see. It’s not the space immediately surrounding a victim that’s the crime scene, some cops forget that. “You need to get the hell out of here.”

“Don’t be like that,” Sammie says, touching his hand. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring, even after all these years. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. For what I did to you.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” She looks embarrassed. “I never got a chance to apologize for how I treated you back then. I’d take it back if I could.”

He looks at her. She’s wearing all black, even her coat’s black, and she’s got makeup on. He’s never seen her done up before.

“You came out here to apologize?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“It’s been seven years. Seven years, and I haven’t heard a word from you.”

She bites her lip, looks abashed.

“Yeah, sorry it took so long,” she says.

“Did you follow me here?” he asks.

She looks up at him, then away. Toward the house, where a cop is walking around the edge of the property, stringing up yellow tape. This is a crime scene, that tape says. Something bad happened here. Already there are people wandering toward the house, people who live in the neighborhood and others who happen to be driving by and were attracted by the flashing lights, they have their cell phones in their hands, ready to take pictures and videos to repost on the Internet, they’re hoping for some gore, that’s what the world is coming to, Hoskins thinks, one big voyeuristic funbag.

“Yeah, I did,” she says.

“Don’t do that. Ever. Don’t ever do that again.”

“But I need to talk to you.”

“So, talk.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?” he asks. “You came rushing out of your car like a bitch out of hell to catch me. You must have something important to say.”

“I need to sit and talk with you, I have questions—”

“Listen, I’m not interested in dealing with the Post anymore. If you want a quote or something for an article, you’ll need to get in touch with PR. They’re handling that shit now.”

“It’s not about an article.” She’s starting to look flustered, angry, and he likes that. He always liked getting Sammie worked up, get the blood rushing into her face and her tail feathers ruffled.

“Yeah, sure.” He doesn’t believe her, because that’s what it was always about for Sammie—about her work. About getting ahead.

“It’s not.”

“All right, princess. I believe you. Calm down.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay. Then what do you want from me? You got a six-year-old kid stashed in your backseat who looks like me? I don’t make enough to pay you child support.”

She snorts.

“I’d forgotten about you calling me that.”

“What? A bitch out of hell? To be completely honest, I still call you that all the time.”

Sammie laughs, a little too loudly, and covers her mouth with her hand. He’d forgotten how beautiful she is, seven years will do that. He catches himself staring, looks away. Her face, that’s what he’d first been drawn to, those eyes that have the slight uptilt at the corners, and he’d started sleeping with her, congratulated himself on his good luck, all the while assuming that she was dumb as a bag of rocks. But that beauty is all for show, because Sammie’s funny, she’s charming, and she’s also smart. And over the years he’s learned that smart can be dangerous.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise. A nice reunion, seven years in the making.”

Hoskins sees the shock on Sammie’s face before he turns around, she’s looking at something behind him, at someone, and she looks ready to scream, to turn on her heel and run. She’s staring at the man standing behind him, a man in a three-piece suit and wire-rimmed glasses, a man with buffed nails and his hair parted sharply to the right. It’s Jacky Seever, but it can’t possibly be, because Seever’s locked up in the prison out in Sterling, the next time he’ll walk outta there’ll be his last, when they take him down to Ca?on City for his execution. Some cops out in Cleveland had tried to “borrow” Seever a few years back, hoping to pick his brain, figure out what makes a killer tick, but they couldn’t get clearance for it, because Seever’s home is where his ass is, and his ass isn’t going anywhere, no judge in Colorado is going to let that happen.