Real Bad Things(21)
“The last piece of business is to settle on a date.” He tapped away at his computer, minus the cheer he’d exhibited ten minutes prior. “That all depends on when they release the body. Have the police indicated when that might be?”
Jane looked up from her phone, where she’d been working on her own set of calculations. “No. How long does it usually take?”
Chuck considered. “Rather quickly in most cases. In your case, it might take a while.” The words Jane wanted to say weren’t formulating in her mind in a way that felt innocent. Luckily, Chuck stepped in for her. “Because of the nature of his death.”
“Right,” she said and smiled weakly. “They need to confirm the manner of death.”
Chuck slowly blinked his eyes to affirm her statement.
“About that discount. I appreciate it. I do. But I’m wondering if maybe there’s any way you can speed things along?” The longer that body stayed unburied, the more likely they’d find something that created suspicion as to how Warren had died.
He tilted his head and blew air out his mouth slow and steady.
“What if I pay you extra? Like a rush fee?” she asked.
All smiles now. “How much we talking?”
“That all depends on how quickly you can make this happen.” She stood. “But I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”
He shot out of his chair and followed her to the door. “What if they arrest you before I can get to it?”
She turned and shrugged. “Guess that means you better hurry.”
“If I could just get that deposit—”
“Call me when you’ve got good news for me,” she said and shut the door behind her before he could follow her.
The scent of orchids overwhelmed her nose. A florist had made a delivery and left it on a table near the entrance. In a room down the subtly lit hall, little sobs escaped to provide a mournful soundtrack. She walked toward the exit, bracing for the heat behind the glass doors and the burden of wondering Now what?
What were the cops looking for? Wasn’t her confession enough?
Outside, it felt like she’d stepped into a sauna, but without the soothing lights or lavender aromatherapy. The grass had been burned of color and drooped against patches of dirt. Across the road, an old white woman sat on the porch of her shotgun house and fanned herself with a Frisbee. A couple of Asian women sat on a bus stop bench, their necks craned toward a bend in the road. A trio of Black and Latino boys walked along the side of the road in single file to avoid cars. Despite their presence, Jane had not experienced that much quiet in a long time. Every creature seemed to doze, including grasshoppers, birds, and Diane. She reclined in her seat, an arm flung across her eyes to block the sun.
Jane propped herself against the building for some thinking. A fly buzzed about her head, drawn by her sweat, she supposed. Though no one had ever sung “What Are Little Girls Made Of?” to her. She swatted at it and googled how long it usually took to get a body from the coroner. The results were useless, even after she added because of murder to her search string. Could be days, could be weeks. The need to take action overcame her, and the next thing she googled was the phone number she’d been avoiding.
As her thumb hovered over the green call button, she felt that same edge to her nerves that she’d felt calling Georgia Lee’s house for the first time. Worried she’d pick up, worried she wouldn’t. Worried about everything. Coming up with worst-case scenarios and preparing herself for rejection. What she wouldn’t give for those worries now.
While Jane pondered whether she should call the detective back and if calling would mean she would sleep on a cot in a cell that night rather than a couch, someone in a Ram truck pulled into the parking lot. A handsome Black man in slim-fit jeans and a black polo shirt stepped out and greeted her.
“Jane Mooney?” He smiled and showed his badge. “Detective Hampton.” The same guy who had called and left a message.
A badge, not handcuffs. Still, her stomach dropped. More evidence that she could manifest thoughts into being.
After she got her shit together, Jane glanced around her. “Could we go somewhere?” She motioned toward the car, where Diane dozed. The last thing she needed was for Diane to wake up or Chuck to walk outside and to have to start batting away their phones documenting her imminent arrest.
Detective Hampton nodded and nudged his head to the side. They walked behind the building to a spot in the shade.
“I meant to call you back, but I . . .” She scrambled for an excuse the same way she had after any number of one-night stands she’d run into at the few lesbian bars Boston had to offer back in the day.
“Please,” he said, that gleaming smile aimed at disarming her. “Call me Benjamin.” Like they were friends and she’d forget all about the purpose of his stalking her and catching her unawares. From his message, she had pictured him as a white former military man with a flattop chasing after the bad guy. Overworked. Oversmoked. Overdrank. Always complaining about how he got no respect. Definitely didn’t work out like this guy. Didn’t smile pleasantly.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you I’m here about your father, Warren Ingram.”
“Stepfather.” Jane and Jason hadn’t gone to the wedding. Didn’t even know where they held it. Maybe at the courthouse, more likely a bar. Diane and Warren had pulled up to their apartment building in Warren’s car after a weekend away. Diane had told Jane and Jason to pack their bags. They were moving. Again.