The Unwilling(73)

Jason shook his head. “I have no feelings for you at all.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“Believe it or not. I don’t really care. Just stay away from this place, and keep Gibby away, too.”

“Son, please. Let’s talk about this.”

“You may not remember, but I tried that once.” Jason stood, moving in such silence not even the chains made a sound. “Guard,” he said. “We’re finished here.”





26


Chance rode shotgun in the big Cadillac, and looked for signs of the best friend he’d known for most of his life. This one seemed quieter, edgy, and unforgiving. He squinted as he drove, lines at the corners of his eyes. It seemed wrong to be in a “borrowed” car, but Gibby didn’t seem to care about that, either. He spun the wheel with ease, like it was not his mother’s car. When he nodded, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “Last time I saw Sara, she wouldn’t talk to me. This time will be different. Watch and see.”

Chance knew little of what Gibby intended, only that Tyra was the dead girl, and Sara the roommate. “What do you think she’ll tell you? I mean, best-case scenario, what are you hoping for?”

“I need information about Tyra. Where she worked. Other friends. Other boyfriends. Anything that’s not right. I need a place to start. If anyone can give that to me, it’s Sara.” He slowed the big car. “This is her street.”

“Looks expensive.”

“That’s her place, the third one down.”

Chance watched the condo as the car slid to a stop at the curb. The curtains were closed. A banged-up Mercedes was parked in the driveway.

“That’s Tyra’s car. The one she wrecked at Jason’s.”

“Does Sara have a car?”

“I don’t see it.” Gibby stepped out onto the street, and Chance followed him to the sidewalk, then up five steps to the stoop. “That doesn’t look right.” The front door stood ajar.

“Come on, man. Just ring the bell.”

But Gibby was already inside, so Chance followed him to a living room littered with empty wine bottles and dirty glasses. “That’s not right, either.” Gibby pointed at an open window, curtains stirring in the breeze. “Air conditioner is running. I can hear it. Sara!”

Gibby took the stairs two at a time, and Chance followed at his heels. The first bedroom was a mess, clothing everywhere, the bed unmade. “Tyra’s, I think.”

The second bedroom was more neatly kept, with pale, pink walls and views on to the park across the street. The bed was slept-in but empty, a pile of tiny clothes beside it. Terry cloth short shorts. A tank top. Chance picked up a framed photograph: two girls in the Mercedes, top down, one of them flashing a peace sign at whoever held the camera. “That’s her?”

“The blonde with the peace sign. The other one is Tyra.”

The blankets on the bed were thrown back, the fitted sheet pulled free at three corners. A water glass had spilled on the bedside table. The lamp was knocked over and broken. On the far side of the bed, Gibby found a wad of wet cloth balled against the second pillow. He picked it up. “It’s wet. It stinks.”

“What is it?”

Gibby dropped it on the floor, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “Something bad, some kind of chemical. I think we need to call the cops.”

“You mean your father?”

“Not my father. Not this time.”



* * *



It took Burklow twenty minutes to get there, and he came inside with a wary glance. “Your call was pretty cryptic.”

“I thought we should talk in person.”

“Tell me first why you’re here.”

His eyes flicked from Chance’s face to mine, and I answered with a shrug. “I wanted to talk to Sara.”

“I mean, why are you inside her apartment?”

“The door was open.”

“So you walked in?”

“Basically.”

“All right. Walk me through it.”

There wasn’t much, but I told him what I knew. The rumpled bed and broken lamp, the wadded-up ball of sticky, sweet-smelling cloth.

Burklow cocked an eyebrow. “Sweet-smelling, but with a burn?”

“Back of my throat, yeah.”

“What else?”

“A back window is open, too, air-conditioning running on high.”

“What did you touch?”

“The door. The banister. The rag on the bed.”

“That’s it?”

“The glass on the bedside table. I stood it upright.”

He pointed at Chance. “What about you?”

“I didn’t touch a thing.”

“Which room is Sara’s?”

“Top left.”

He glanced at the stairwell, then studied the living room for long seconds, taking in the bottles, the dirty dishes. “Why didn’t you call your father about this?”

“We’re not really talking.”

Burklow made a sound in his throat, his eyes on everything but me. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”

He examined locks at the door and window, then took the stairs up. He was back in two minutes, very cop. “Come with me.” We followed him to the front door. He checked the sidewalks and the street. “Did anyone see you come inside?”