Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(54)

“Would you rather get dinged for the weed or as a possible suspect in a homicide?” Foster asked.

Li leaned forward, whispering across the table. “Be smart. Go for the weed.”

“Another reason I was skipping town. Exactly this. You guys get a sniff of something and latch on like leeches. I figured the train station was safe; I mean, who hangs out at the train station?” He rolled his eyes. “The one time one of you is not somewhere eating a cruller.”

“We’re going to need the name of your weed guy,” Foster said. “And anyone else who can place you.”

“Or?” Rimmer asked, his eyes moving from Li’s to Foster’s.

Foster flipped the page in her notebook. “Your date said you made an interesting comment about her hair. She said you twisted it, caressed it, and remarked that you wished it were red instead of blonde. Red, like Peggy’s. Odd thing to say.”

“Really odd,” Li said.

“I sold a couple of bags to Monk in the cemetery on Irving Park Road,” he blurted out. “Around eleven. Then I went back home. When I heard about the second girl, I knew I’d be the one you guys would be looking for, so I knew I had to bounce. My buddy Blake cut my hair, his girl Caroline helped me dye it, and I made for the station. I figured you guys would be too busy to check, right? Bigger fish and all that?”

Foster slid over a legal pad and pen for Rimmer. “Write down their full names, addresses, and phone numbers, please.”

“Even Monk’s?”

Foster let a beat pass. “Especially Monk’s.”

Li sat stone faced, watching Rimmer sweat and wrestle with his predicament. Rimmer flicked her a look every second or two. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked Foster.

Foster looked over at Li, then turned to smile at Rimmer. “Nothing. Names, addresses, and telephone numbers.”



They needed the rest of the afternoon to confirm it all, but the info checked out—the haircut, the dyeing, even the Sunday-night weed selling. Joe Rimmer was an infant in a man’s body, a weed pusher, a lousy boyfriend, a disappointing lay, but he couldn’t have killed Peggy, and they didn’t yet know enough about Rea to push him on that. As Foster suspected, Li’s mention of the video had been a ruse to get Rimmer talking. He’d also agreed to a DNA swab before they let him go, so at least they had that if they needed to match it to any physical evidence left behind on Rea. It was the best they could do.

Li looked up from her computer at 9:00 p.m., well past end of shift. “That’s it. My eyes are crossing. I’m going home to kiss my baby.” She stood, stretched. “Before he forgets what I look like and starts calling someone else Mama.”

Foster checked her watch. She hadn’t realized it was so late. She’d eaten nothing but frustration and a McDonald’s side salad all evening. “See you in the morning.”

Li slipped on her jacket. “What about you? There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

“I won’t be much longer,” Foster said.

Li hesitated. “Okay, then. Ma?ana.”

Foster watched her go. “Right.”





CHAPTER 32


The lights were on in the loft apartment. The windows were hers. It was late but not too late. A little after ten. Why were all the lights on? Why wasn’t she asleep in bed? She was an adult, of course, no longer a child, so bedtimes were long ago a thing of the past. Still. The trees across the street provided good cover, though the bench was hard and cold on a cool, crisp night. It was easy enough to sit and wait and watch her pass back and forth in front of the windows, not knowing anyone was watching. Maybe she was expecting company? That would be interesting. Maybe she was worrying a problem and couldn’t sleep, pacing the floor hoping to find a solution.

How alive she was, how striking. An artist. Of course. The creative mind was truly a marvel. To have in one’s nature and in one’s very bones the conjurer’s art of transformation, the ability to cobble beauty from nothing or turn light to dark or the reverse.

Art was humanity in reflection. It was invention and God spark, both expression and divination. Was she thinking about these things now? Had she ever thought about the origins of her strength? About how deep the power to transform ran and how far it could go? There was an indomitability in sea change and mightiness in a creator’s hand. Did she know this yet? Sense it?

The lights flicked off. The windows went dark. Bed, or . . . ? No. Amelia emerged from the building moments later dressed in a leather moto jacket and tight jeans. Art in motion. She slid into a sleek silver convertible parked at the curb. It suited her. Like a modern-day Argo sailing off toward adventure and glory. Pleasing. Truly. She revved the engine, checked herself in the rearview, and sped away. Where was she off to, this goddess, this Diana, this originator? This learner, this tyro.

A slow whistling started, unhurried, unfazed. It echoed in the still night. Someone to watch over me. Fitting. An inside joke. There was time yet. All the pieces weren’t yet assembled but soon would be. Everything had its season. Turn, turn, turn. No need to rush.





CHAPTER 33


She’d meant to only drive around, get some air, feed her soul, but she’d somehow ended up in front of Bodie’s apartment watching the sleeping block as though it were a job she was being paid for, as though she alone were responsible for all the messed-up lives sleeping in the city, not just her brother’s. As though she alone were the sentinel, the one who kept the brakes on.