“Yeah,” I said. “That would make sense. Feature writer stabs detective. What possible motive could I have? Who’d believe that?”
Trimble appeared to be giving it some serious thought. “How about this? You two were having an affair. Getting it on. You’d been in the closet for years, decided to come out with him. Then Lawrence threatened to tell others, tell your wife, and you didn’t want her to find out you’re gay. That might work.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Only problem is, Lawrence didn’t die. I don’t think he’ll corroborate that story.”
Trimble smirked. “I’ll try to come up with something better. In the meantime, why don’t you stop being such a smartass and be a bit more cooperative so I’m not pressed to think of scenarios that end up with you being dead.”
I glanced at the clock on the dash. A couple of minutes past one. I found myself looking at it every few seconds. I didn’t want Trimble failing to check in with Bullock on time.
I couldn’t see down by the gas pedal, but I had the feeling the barrel of the gun I’d taken from Lawrence’s car was poking out below the hem of my Gap khakis. Even if I could get hold of my gun, was this the time to use it? Let’s say I could somehow stop Trimble, would that get me any closer to rescuing Angie? Especially if it meant he couldn’t make his checkin call? For all I cared, Trimble and Bullock and Blondie and Pockmark could all walk away free and clear, with their drugs or without, so long as I was able to take Angie home with me.
“The thing is,” Trimble said, after we’d driven several miles without saying a word to one another, “I feel badly about Lawrence. I honestly do. He was a good cop, a good partner. But he was such a fucking idealist, so holier-than-thou. Always believed in playing by the rules, doing things by the book. Didn’t seem to understand that no one else was playing by the rules, that cops get shafted from every corner. They send you out to clean up everybody’s shit, put your life on the line, for a joke of a salary, and then you put your toe over that line the tiniest bit and they pull the rug out from under you. Lawrence didn’t understand that you had to bend the rules, not a lot, just a bit, to make the job work in your favor. I still got a great record, I got loads of collars, I’ve got commendations. I’ve put a lot of bad people behind bars.”
“I’m moved,” I said.
I could feel the gun slip further from its flimsy masking-tape harness. Too bad Lawrence’s glove compartment hadn’t contained duct tape.
“Never mind,” Trimble said. “Let’s just do this.”
And we sat quietly for the next ten minutes. As signs appeared for Oakwood, Trimble said, “It’ll be coming up soon, just another couple of exits.”
Trimble told me where to get off. We drove through the so-called downtown of Delton, then north, through a neighborhood of small, post–Second World War houses. We came upon a two-story brick house, and even in the darkness, I could see the paint peeling off the window frames, the sag in the roof. There was an old Volvo in the driveway.
“Kill the lights before you turn into the drive,” Trimble said, and I did.
I stopped the car, turned the key back, and felt the gun slip from my ankle to the floor.
“We’re going to go straight in,” Trimble said. “Then right up the stairs, to his bedroom. I don’t think he’s got any kids. Don’t see any tricycles or bikes around.”
“He doesn’t have kids,” I said.
“How do you know that?”
“He told me. I interviewed him for a story.”
Trimble almost looked impressed. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Okay, let’s be very quiet.”
With my foot, I shifted the gun to the right of the accelerator, down behind the police communication equipment. If Trimble made me drive back, there was no chance he’d see it down there.
“Wait,” I said. “It’s 1:27. Depending on what happens once we get inside, you’re not going to be able to call Bullock. So check in with him now.”
Trimble sighed, dug out his cell, punched in some numbers. “It’s me,” he said. “Just checking in, everything’s fine, we just got to Mayhew’s place. I’ll talk to you at two.” He looked at me as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Out,” he said, and we opened our doors at the same time. I was afraid the inside dome light would make the gun visible, but it remained hidden in shadow. We walked toward the front door, gravel crunching under our shoes. Trimble mounted the steps to the front door ahead of me, opened the aluminum screen door, then tried the knob on the main door.
It turned.
“What an idiot,” Trimble whispered. “These people move to the suburbs, they think they’re going to be safe.”