“You’re ashing on my crime scene,” Archie said.
“Oh shit,” Susan said. “I’m sorry.” She ground her cigarette out on a piece of notebook paper, folded the paper carefully around it, and deposited the package in her purse. She was aware of Archie watching her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Instead, she looked at her hands. The skin around the small wound on her finger from the wineglass was red, like it was getting infected. “Don’t you want to ask me?”
“What?” he asked.
She lifted the finger to her mouth and sucked on it for a moment, a flash of salty skin and tinny dried blood. “If it really happened.”
He shook his head, a tiny movement, barely noticeable. “No.”
Naturally. He would be gallant about it. Susan wished she hadn’t ground out the cigarette. She wanted something to do with her hands. She fidgeted with the sash of her trench coat. “McCallum coached my Knowledge Bowl team. I quit the day before State. I was the only one who knew anything about geography.”
Archie hesitated. “This thing with Reston. I’m going to report it to the school. He shouldn’t be teaching, at the very least.”
Susan steeled herself. “I lied. I made the whole thing up.”
Archie closed his eyes sadly. “Susan, don’t do this.”
“Please, just leave it alone,” Susan begged him. “I already feel like such a fool. I’m such a fucking moron when it comes to men.” She looked Archie in the eye. “I had a crush on him. And I made the affair up. I wanted it to happen. But it didn’t.” She held his gaze, her expression pleading. “So leave it alone, okay? Seriously. I’m a fuckup. You have no idea.”
He shook his head. “Susan—”
“I made it up,” she said again.
Archie was motionless.
“Archie,” she said carefully. “Please believe me. It was all a story. I’m a liar.” She stressed each word, each syllable, wanting him to understand. “I’ve always been a liar.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
She had fucked everything up. Royally. As usual. “Don’t feel bad. I’m a lost cause.” Susan tried to smile at Archie, but felt her eyes tear. She rolled them and laughed. “My mother thinks that I just need to find a nice boy with a hybrid car.”
Archie seemed to consider this. “Good gas mileage is an important attribute in a potential mate.” He smiled gingerly at Susan and then gazed back out into the yard, where Charlene Wood had just finished her live shot. “I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll get someone to give you a ride home.”
“It’s okay. I called Ian.”
Archie stood and then turned back toward Susan. “You sure you’re okay?”
She squinted up at the blue sky. “Do you think this sunshine will ever break?”
“It’ll rain,” Archie said. “It always does.”
CHAPTER
38
A rchie was standing in the backyard with Henry and Anne when the mayor arrived with half a page of handwritten notes, ready for a press conference. Like the front yard, the backyard was mowed to within an inch of its life. It took a serious commitment to keep a lawn that manicured during the rainy season. A small ready-made aluminum shed sat in the back corner, its contents removed by police and stacked around its perimeter. A cedar fence with a lattice top ran along the property line. Archie saw the mayor spot him and head over. He was wearing a black suit and tie, and his silver hair was plastered into place. Buddy had always been able to pull off the suit and tie thing. The first words out of the mayor’s mouth when he reached Archie were, “This the guy?”
“Looks like it,” Archie said.
Buddy took a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses out of his interior coat pocket and put them on. “Where’s the girl?”
Archie glanced at Anne. “In the river, probably.”
“Shit,” the mayor said under his breath. He took a deep breath and nodded a few times, as if listening to a pep talk only he could hear. “Okay. So, let’s focus on the fact he’s off the streets.” He looked at Archie over his sunglasses. “You look like shit, Archie. Why don’t you throw some water on your face or something before we get started.”
Archie forced a smile. “Sure.” He shot a wry look at Henry and Anne and walked back into the house.
Inside McCallum’s kitchen, a voice said: “You Sheridan?”
Archie had to stop and take a few slow breaths to acclimate to the ripe odor. “Yeah,” he said.
A young black man with shoulder-length dreads, wearing a white Tyvek suit over his street clothes, sat on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs and writing on a clipboard. “I’m Lorenzo Robbins.”
“You’re with the ME’s office?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look, man, I just wanted to let you know that there are a few issues with your dead guy.”
“A few issues?” Archie asked.
Robbins shrugged and wrote something on the clipboard. “A thirty-eight isn’t a small gun,” he said.