Wherever She Goes(48)

“I asked, where’s the fire,” the guy says, and it takes me a moment to mentally snap back to him.

He’s smiling at me, friendly. A little too friendly? Maybe. It happens. It’s like sitting in a public place, trying to read a book. Some guys take that as a hint that you really need something better to do with your time. Headphones help, but in my rush to get out tonight, I left mine at home.

“Fire?” I say.

“You’re running like there’s someone on your tail. Or are you just trying to get done before dark?”

He jerks his chin up, and I see that the streetlights have come on. It’s almost nine, and dusk is falling fast.

I glance at him. He’s smiling at me again, and I don’t like the smile. No more than I like him pointing out that it’s getting dark.

I laugh. “No, I’m not afraid of the dark. Just trying to burn off a big Sunday dinner.”

I cross at the light, veering off my usual course to make a sharp left. He follows.

“You shouldn’t be out after dark in this neighborhood,” he says. “That’s just asking for trouble.”

“It’s never been a problem before,” I say.

I kick it up a notch. He does, too.

“I keep thinking I’ve seen you somewhere,” he says.

“I work downtown here.”

“No, it’s . . . Wait. I know. The news. You’re the one who said you saw the boy. That murdered chick’s kid.”

The way he says “murdered chick” makes my hackles rise. It also nudges a memory, but it flits by before I can catch it.

I take the next right, heading back. That seems to be the only way I’ll lose this guy. Except I don’t want to lead him to my front door.

Damn.

Where can I go . . . ?

Coffee. That’s the first idea that springs to mind, not surprisingly, given that I spent most of yesterday in coffee shops. There’s a twenty-four-hour diner a block from my place. I’ve been there often enough that I know most of the servers. If this guy follows me in, they’ll see my “problem” and help me shake him.

“So you think she had a kid?” he says.

I start to say yes. Then I remember what I was just thinking. Squelch my pride. Protect the boy.

“No, I made a mistake,” I say. “The woman who died didn’t have any kids.”

“How do you know that? The cops haven’t ID’d her.”

My gut freezes. Then I shrug. “That’s what they told me.”

“So the police have ID’d her?”

“They never said that. They just told me there wasn’t a boy. I was mistaken.”

I cross the road. He keeps pace.

“You’re sure?” he continues.

“Yes, I’m . . .” I trail off as I look at the guy. As I really look at him.

He’s not a jogger. He’s wearing sweatpants and sneakers, but they’re leisure pants and designer high-tops, both meant for style, not running. There’s a bulge in his waistband. The bulge of a handgun.

That’s when I remember thinking his voice sounded familiar. It is familiar. I heard it just last night, through a closet door. He’s the guy from Zodiac Five. Denis Zima’s friend.

Stay calm. Just stay calm.

I look over at him. “Are you a reporter?”

His surprise is almost comical. “Hell, no. I just remember seeing that on the news, and thinking it was a helluva thing. That chick getting bumped off for her kid. That’s what it seemed like—some sicko killed her for her little boy. Some pervert. But when I looked it up later, seeing if they found the kid, I find out the police didn’t believe you. That pissed me off. They do that sometimes, with women. They don’t believe them.”

“Well, in this case, they were correct. I was mistaken.”

“Are you sure?”

I glance at him. “What difference does it make?”

“I’m curious, okay,” he says, and there’s a faint growl to his voice, one that warns he’s just about done playing nice.

“I saw a woman with a boy,” I say. “It wasn’t the same woman. She just had a similar look—young, blond, slender.”

“And she had a son?”

“Maybe? She was with a kid. About eight or nine.”

“Eight or nine?”

I shrug. “Maybe older? I don’t have kids, so I can never tell.”

“What were they doing?”

“Hmm?”

“The chick and her kid. What were they doing when you saw them?”

I’m about to say they were on the swings—just make something up. But when I see his expression, I realize I don’t want to give anything away.

“Look,” I say. “I get it. You don’t want me to know you’re a reporter. But it’s obvious you are. No one else asks me these kind of questions.”

“Except the police.”

“Yes.”

“So the police asked you?”

I turn another corner. The diner is a block ahead. I only have to get that far.

“The police didn’t ask me much of anything,” I say. “Because they didn’t believe there was a child, and it turns out they were right. I made a mistake. An embarrassing mistake. Now, if you’ll just leave me alone please—”