The Unwilling(37)

“Sexually engaged?”

“I said it would look bad.”

Burklow stared through the side window as he’d done a million times, the tension apparent in his shoulders and jaw. Even the skin beneath his eyes was tight. “You recognized her at the scene?”

“It took a few minutes.”

“That’s why you left in such a hurry.”

“To look for Jason. To get ahead of it.” French took his eyes off the road to risk a glance at his friend. “It gets worse.”

“Not possible.”

“Gibby knows her, too.”

Burklow’s head snapped around as if he’d taken a punch. He loved Gibby like a son. They fished together, and watched football on Sundays. If Gibby needed advice, Burklow gave it. He was there when Gibby was born and the day he’d learned to drive. “Start at the beginning,” he said. “You leave something out this time, and I will fucking pound you.”

French dipped his chin, and did as Burklow asked. “There’s a rental house at Water and Tenth. There’s a bedroom upstairs…”



* * *



Inside Sara’s condominium, I poured wine, and her hands trembled as she took the glass. She sat on a white sofa in a room that was elegant and very adult. “I like your place.”

“It’s Tyra’s. She comes from money.”

It showed, I thought. Rich leathers. Real art.

Sara lit a candle, and sipped her wine. “Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Are you sure?”

“Just for a little while. Just until.”

It felt strange, the way she asked, but I knew nothing of grown women, and that made everything strange: the tasteful furniture, her readiness when I sat beside her. She took the glass from my hand, then pressed me down and spread across me like a blanket. At first, she clung tightly, but then she kissed me, and the touch of her lips was as gentle as rain. Her fingers, too, were light on my skin. They brushed my face, my chest. In time, she rose, and our shirts came off, and still the moment was hers. The eagerness remained, but she’d coiled it someplace deep: a vibration at the small of her back, a catch in her breathing. We kissed until the coil loosened, and when it did, I felt it in her breath. It came faster and hotter, and the heat was in her skin, too: her hands on my face, the press of her legs. Under shadowed eyes she pushed me down, and I knew she wanted an excuse, a reason to move and do and forget. I was a tool for her, but didn’t care. The heat was mine, too, the same catch in my breath. I closed my eyes and saw a wash of red as if the heat we shared had rolled into the room itself. Bloodred, it brightened and pulsed, and Sara’s skin was slick beneath my hands. She said, “Oh…” And I thought, Yes.

But that’s not what she meant.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…”

My eyes opened as she rolled away.

The red light was real.

Cops were in the drive.

Sara ran to the window, and for those seconds looked like something from a world I’d never really known: the giant shadows, the red light on her skin. It felt like a scene from a movie, set in a great city and starring someone larger than myself. I felt nothing but awkward. Pulling on my shirt. Looking for hers. I found it beneath a pillow, and carried it to her.

“Here, put this on.”

The curtains were diaphanous. She held a bit between two fingers. “Why are they here?”

“Come on. Get dressed.”

Outside, men crossed in front of the car lights. I got the shirt over Sara’s head; helped her with the straps that passed for sleeves.

“It’s Tyra. It has to be.”

“We don’t know anything yet.” But I actually did. The cops were named Martinez and Smith. They were murder cops. They worked with my dad.

“Don’t leave me, okay?”

My arm went around her shoulders. She was scared. We both were. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see what they want.”

At the door, Martinez and Smith were already on the top step. Their shock at seeing me would have been comical in other circumstances.

“Gibby? Jesus.” Smith spoke first, his gaze moving to Sara’s face and mine, then to my arm on her shoulder. He was a small cop with soft eyes and narrow hands.

Martinez, beside him, looked harder and crueler and cynical. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing.”

It was a kid’s response, but Martinez was like my father at his worst: the cop eyes and distrust. He glanced at Smith, and cleared his throat. “Why don’t we speak separately? Gibby, will you come with me?”

“Is this about Tyra?” I asked.

“What do you know about Tyra?”

“Only that she’s missing.”

“You know her, then? Personally?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“How do you know her?”

Smith said, “Martinez…”

But Martinez ignored the note of warning in his partner’s voice. “I said, how do you know her?”

“Come on, man. It’s Bill’s son.”

“Don’t tell me to come on! You saw her, same as me.”

I didn’t know what he meant, but thought, Tyra, first, and then that it was bad. Martinez was so hot and bothered I looked for smoke in his ears. “We have questions,” he said. “Cop questions, important ones. And I expect you to answer them right here and right now, same as your little friend.”