When he’s done, Lester wipes the blood splatter from his mouth and fetches one of the rusted old trash cans. He drags it across the grass, sets it just right, then piles Mack’s body parts inside. His head sits on the top, like a cherry on a cake. A liberal soaking with gasoline, and Lester lights a match, tossing it in and stepping back. The flames roar, consuming Mack’s head, melting it away. It reminds Lester of a hog roast he once watched on TV. The fat popped and hissed as the hog turned on the spit, the same way Mack does now. When all is said and done, and the fire has died away, he will collect the charred bones and teeth and bury them.
The air is filled with cloying smoke and the stink of burnt pork, but Lester watches the fire dance long after the stars have come out. He doesn’t know how he got to be so clever.
Harper lies stretched out on Stu’s bed, one leg over his, listening to his breathing as he sleeps. There’s a thin sheet across them—it’s too hot in his apartment to sleep with anything heavier. The fan turns on the ceiling, chomping at the warm air.
She tries to get a fix on what’s going to happen with her and Stu. Was tonight one last fling? Or was it the beginning of a continuation? Harper closes her eyes, tries to switch off, but she can’t. The last thing she wanted to do was get into another full-on relationship. Leaving San Francisco, she’d been happy to call it a day on men for a while. Let her marriage shrink in the distance before she started looking forward to whatever was next.
But I didn’t count on meeting a guy like Stu.
Deep down he is a good person, a caring individual who’s been through the wringer just as she has. It helps that he’s good-looking, too. In a way, they’d needed each other.
Is that all it is? A relationship born of convenience?
Harper looks at him, at his chest rising and falling, at the shadow of the fan intermittently revealing his face and suspending it in shadow in the space of seconds.
No. This is more. We were meant to get together.
Morelli tasked them with getting their heads right, and she knows that none of this will help. It’ll only make matters more complicated. She’d been determined to cool it off between herself and Stu.
Lasted long, didn’t it?
Harper gets up, careful not to wake him, and hunts for her clothes. The clock says 2:00 a.m. She has to get out of there, get to her own place. Dressing in the dark, she looks at Stu and feels her stomach flutter, not only at the sight of him, but at the prospect of being with him. In that moment, Harper almost stays.
But before she can rethink it, she’s out in the street, unlocking her car.
There was no sleep to be found. Harper stops outside Albie’s apartment complex, and he climbs into the passenger seat.
“Morning.”
It’s already light at six in the morning, and Harper has her shades on. “I guess it is.”
Albie looks behind him. “No Stu?”
“Afraid not,” Harper says, putting the car into gear and starting off. “Stu Raley is otherwise indisposed. We’ll shoot over, just the two of us.”
“Okay. And if the captain asks?” Albie asks her.
“I don’t know.” Harper shrugs. “Tell him to kiss your ass?”
“Thanks. Big help.” Albie runs a hand over his face. “Listen, Harper . . . is this, like, off the record?”
“No, we arranged this yesterday.”
He shifts in his seat. “Yeah, I know that. But that was before the Queen Bitch from Satan’s Armpit came in the station and pulled half your scalp out.”
“Don’t sweat it, Albie.”
“I’m not. I’m not. Believe me. But word is Morelli suspended you,” he says. She can hear the uncertainty, the nervousness in his voice.
Harper glances sidelong at him. “It’s only half true. I’m still on the case. It’s all complicated, Albie. Just trust me. Nothing will fall on you.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
Twenty minutes later, they arrive at the residence of Hugo Escovado. Harper sits with her hands on the steering wheel, regarding the house through the windshield.
Across the road is the patrol car. “Come on, let’s get this done,” she says, climbing out.
She crosses the street, Albie in tow. The two male officers in the black-and-white get out and stretch.
“Ah! If it isn’t Weinberg and Tasker.”
Weinberg tips his hat. “Morning, Detective.”
She looks at his partner, on the other side of the car. “Feeling better now, Tasker?”
“Almost,” he says, embarrassed.
“Where d’you want us?” Weinberg asks her.
Harper thumbs in the direction of the house. “We’re going in there to talk to a suspect. I want you two fine gentlemen to wait at the door. If you hear me shout, one goes in the front door. The other goes round back.”
“Got it. You’re the boss,” Weinberg says.
Harper looks at Albie. “Don’t you say anything.”
“Was I about to?”
Esmerelda Escovado stands to one side and tells them to go on through to the living room.
Harper notices the pictures on the walls. Hugo, his parents, and what looks like a younger sister.
“I’ll just go wake him. He’s still asleep,” Esmerelda says. “Please, sit down. I won’t be a minute.”
Harper smiles. “Thank you.”
There are two sofas and a chair. Albie sits in the chair, and Harper sits on the sofa to the right. When Hugo and his mother come downstairs, they will intuitively choose to sit on the middle sofa, as it’s unoccupied—when you board a bus or train, you hunt for two free seats together. You don’t just sit right next to a stranger . . . unless that’s your thing, of course.
“Detectives, this is my son, Hugo,” Esmerelda says.
Hugo enters the living room sheepishly. “Uh . . . hi.”
Harper nods. “Morning, Hugo. Please, take a seat. I am Detective Jane Harper. That there is Detective Albie Goode. We’re with Hope’s Peak PD.”
Hugo has turned a definite shade of white. He sits down and his mother perches next to him. “Is my son in trouble?”
“Not right now,” Harper says. “Hugo, we’re investigating a very serious crime.”
The kid swallows. “Okay.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Gertie Wilson?” Harper asks him.
Realization dawns on his face. He sits forward, eyes wide. “Gertie? Has something happened to Gertie?”
Harper waves him back. “Slow it down a notch. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“About three days ago, I guess.”
“Where’s your phone?”
He digs into his sweatpants pocket for his cell phone, swipes the screen, and hands it to her. Harper walks across the room and gives it to Albie.
She stands in front of Esmerelda and Hugo. “I’ve been led to believe you and Gertie were going out?”
“Yes.”
Esmerelda looks at him. “Really? I thought you were just friends.”
Hugo shakes his head. “No, Mom. I didn’t want to say anything because, well, you know. Her being black and all.”
“Oh, Hugo! You know I am not a racist!”
He puts her hands in his. “Mom, I didn’t know how you’d react. You and Pop are pretty old-fashioned with a lot of things.”
Esmerelda’s face flushes red. “I’m very angry. Really, I am,” she says, looking up at Harper. “We came here from Mexico thirty years ago, as immigrants. We have sought acceptance from black, white, Asian . . . We are all Americans. I never gave my son any indication I would frown upon such a pairing.”
Before Harper can reply, Hugo is on point. “I know, Mom, but Maria Torres down the street introduced her black boyfriend to her parents. Half an hour later her Dad’s getting hauled downtown by the police for threatening behavior.”